The Curse of Khaine

by Gav Thorpe

  Something caught Malekith’s eye. It was a movement, or rather a lack of it, a space where there should have been something but was not. With mortal eyes he watched the patrols of the Naggarothi pacing around the limits of the camp, but with his magical sense, enhanced by the Circlet of Iron, he felt the twisting of the winds of magic, creating a swiftly-moving pocket, a void that passed between the sentries without notice.

  The shadow that was not a shadow quickly negotiated the gates and ruins, coming to the foot of the tower unheralded. There was a flutter of shadow magic dispersing and a moment later a figure hooded and cloaked in grey appeared at the ruined door of the tower, stepping over the threshold before any other bore witness to the arrival.

  ‘He is here,’ said Malekith, turning back to Imrik.

  The Caledorian prince looked towards the door, where a few moments later the cowled newcomer appeared. He threw back his hood to reveal an almost painfully thin face, gaunt to the point of wasted, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. A quivering hand removed a small phial from a pouch at his belt and the blue contents were quickly imbibed. The elf closed his eyes and breathed out a long sigh. When he opened his eyes again some colour and vigour had returned and his gaze was alert, flicking between Malekith and Imrik.

  He cast the cloak over one of the chairs, revealing white robes beneath an outer mantel of twilight blue that seemed to contain pinpricks of star light that waxed and waned as the elf moved to the table and poured the wine into the two glasses. Magical sigils gleamed in the cloak of stars, dappling the floor with gold and red.

  ‘Teclis,’ said Imrik, instinctively taking the goblet of wine as it was handed to him by the mage. ‘How? How are you here?’

  ‘By great effort,’ the High Loremaster replied. ‘And I cannot remain long. I must be at my brother’s camp by dusk two days hence.’

  ‘He is so close at hand?’ said Imrik, shocked. ‘Two days’ march from here?’

  ‘Relax, Imrik, the steed of shadows bears me across Ulthuan faster than any mortal horse. Tyrion remains in Lothern,’ the mage assured them. He took a long draught of wine and smiled. ‘Events continue to pass as Lileath prophesied, and to each will come the allotted role. The gods will come again, in mortal form, and by their presence we will be delivered from Chaos and the Rhana Dandra.’

  ‘The more you speak,’ the Witch King said, ‘the more I am convinced that you have taken council with my mother, who imagines that she is Hekarti reborn.’

  ‘And perhaps she is,’ Teclis replied. ‘Perhaps she always was. Is it so hard to believe? We know Isha and Kurnous dwell in Athel Loren.’

  ‘You hold that our gods walk amongst us?’

  ‘Not all of them, but enough. The cycle of history has a momentum that overwhelms even kings. Willingly or not, we will repeat that cycle in mimicry of those who came before. What is the Rhana Dandra, if not the echo of our gods’ last battle?’

  ‘I am Nethu,’ said Imrik, referring to the Keeper of the Last Door, Guardian of the Underworld, his whispered words spoken in sudden awareness of a hidden truth. ‘I have opened a door that should have remained closed.’

  ‘Say rather that you have opened the path to the flame,’ Teclis corrected. ‘But yes, the comparison is otherwise apt. Nethu’s actions, though a betrayal, prevented disaster, and so have yours.’

  Malekith considered this, alarmed by what he saw as Teclis’s intent. He would no more be the vessel for a god than he would a daemon, and certainly not one whose mantle he had so casually assumed for purely political gain. When he spoke, his discontent was plain to hear. ‘It is your contention, then, that I am to play the role of Khaine?’

  ‘No, your path is not Khaine’s. You have worn his persona as a cloak only when it has suited you.’

  ‘Then whom?’ the Witch King demanded, casting through the candidates in his mind: Malus, Hellebron, Tullaris? ‘Who else is fit to bear the mantle of the Destroyer?’

  ‘Khaine is not yet come. You know the stories – though he began the war of the gods, it was long before he showed his hand. At present he slumbers trifurcated, trapped in prisons of blood, soul and steel. Only when these three are one will he awaken. Your path lies elsewhere.’

  Malekith’s reply was forestalled by a screech from outside, the shriek of a harpy. He glanced at the window and saw the creature flash past, perhaps chasing a bat or night bird.

  ‘There is only one god that can aid us,’ Teclis said. ‘Your father called upon him and laid down his life in supplication to protect his people.’

  ‘Asuryan?’ Malekith’s laugh was like rusted blades on stone. ‘The one that made me into this… this abomination?’

  ‘The all-seeing king of the gods, patron of Aenarion,’ Teclis continued quietly.

  ‘My father would have better spent his time taking up the Widowmaker first than entreating the all-knowing, patronising Asuryan! If he had, perhaps he would not have seen his wife die.’

  ‘And you would not exist,’ Teclis replied with a sly chuckle. ‘Is that what you really want? No. You must do as your father did. The other kings were frauds, you know this. Protected by the spells of their mages they lived, but you must die to be reborn.’

  ‘Impossible!’ Malekith’s shout echoed long in the bare-walled chamber. The mention of stepping back into the flames caused a pain deep inside Malekith to flare into life. Teclis was right in one respect – death would be certain.

  ‘No, it is the truth.’ Teclis’s voice was still calm. ‘That is why almost all succumbed to madness. It was the price of that betrayal.’

  ‘Leave, both of you!’ Malekith snarled. ‘Before I forget the services you have rendered, and let my Black Guard amuse themselves with your bones.’

  Imrik looked as though he would argue but thought better of it, slamming his goblet on the table before departing with clenched fists and hunched shoulders. Teclis waited a while longer, eyeing Malekith carefully. They did not speak a further word but the look they shared conveyed a whole conversation – warning and counter-warning that they were both unleashing forces on the edge of comprehension and that the other would do well to remember the follies of the past.

  Confident that his purpose was understood, Teclis wrapped himself about with his cloak and drew in the power of Ulgu to shield himself from perception, becoming one with the Wind of Shadow.

  TWELVE

  Servants to a Higher Cause

  Eagle Pass made for a strange scene the following morning. Malekith had sent command to his minions that no hostile act was to be perpetrated against any son or daughter of Caledor and for the dark hours that decree had been obeyed, doubtless in no small part to Kouran’s vigilance and the patrols of the Black Guard. Overnight the druchii and Caledorians had made their camps, the former amongst the ruins of the stronghold that had thwarted them so often, the latter on the higher slopes of the mountains. Dusk had swiftly laid a dark cloak over the aftermath of the day before, but as the dragons basked in the rising sun the full horror of what had occurred was laid bare.

  Not a tower stood, and not a stretch of wall for more than thirty paces. The white stones were blackened, drifts of ash made of the bodies of the defenders piled high by the prevailing wind. Amongst the charred remnants were contorted, skin-sloughed remains of those that had succumbed to the breath of the black dragons. In other places the fortifications were coated with dried blood, splashed across the pale stones like the creation of some insane artist dedicated to Khaine’s labours. Harpies, hydras and black dragons scavenged on the piles of corpses, gulping down the carrion feast as if there were not enough to last the day, though the piles of bodies were in places dozens deep.

  Malekith had not slept – it was rare that his tormented dreams granted him any peace – and had paced the ruins trying to feel a sense of accomplishment. It had eluded him throughout the slaughter and it eluded him still as the magnitude of the carnage was revealed. He considered his words to Imrik the day before and realised that the Caledorian’s experien
ce was far different from his own. For Malekith, the choice to do what was right, what was needed, had been no less difficult, but the moment of action had been far less public.

  It was the day before Bel Shanaar and Malekith were due to leave Tor Anroc for the council upon the Isle of Flame when the Phoenix King commanded the prince of Nagarythe to attend him in his throne room. Malekith walked quickly to the audience chamber, his instinct for intrigue curious as to what the Phoenix King had to say.

  ‘I have been thinking deep upon your words,’ Bel Shanaar proclaimed.

  ‘I am pleased to hear that,’ said Malekith. ‘May I ask what the nature of your thoughts has been?’

  ‘I will put your idea to the princes,’ said Bel Shanaar. ‘A single army drawn from all kingdoms will prosecute this war against the vile cults.’

  ‘I am glad that you agree with my reasoning,’ said Malekith, wondering why Bel Shanaar had brought him here to tell him what he already knew.

  ‘I have also been giving much thought to who is best qualified to lead this army,’ said Bel Shanaar, and Malekith’s heart skipped a beat in anticipation.

  ‘I would be honoured,’ said the prince of Nagarythe.

  Bel Shanaar opened his mouth to say something but then closed it again, a confused frown upon his brow.

  ‘You misunderstand me,’ the Phoenix King then said. ‘I will nominate Imrik to be my chosen general.’

  Malekith stood in stunned silence, left speechless by the Phoenix King’s announcement.

  ‘Imrik?’ he said eventually.

  ‘Why not?’ said Bel Shanaar. ‘He is a fine general, and Caledor is the most stable of all the realms at the current time. He is well-respected amongst the other princes. Yes, he will make a good choice.’

  ‘And why do you tell me this?’ snapped Malekith. ‘Perhaps you seek to mock me!’

  ‘Mock you?’ said Bel Shanaar, taken aback. ‘I am telling you this so that you will speak in favour of my decision. I know that you have much influence and your word will lend great weight to Imrik’s authority.’

  ‘You would raise up the grandson of Caledor over the son of Aenarion?’ said Malekith. ‘Have I not forged new kingdoms across the world at the head of armies? If not my bloodline, then my achievements must qualify me above all others.’

  ‘I am sorry that you feel this way, Malekith,’ said Bel Shanaar, unabashed. ‘The council will endorse my choice, you would do well to align yourself with me.’

  At this, Malekith’s frayed temper snapped utterly.

  ‘Align myself to you?’ he snarled. ‘The hunter does not align himself to his hound! The master does not align himself to his servant!’

  ‘Choose your next words carefully, Malekith!’ warned the Phoenix King. ‘Remember who it is that you address!’

  The Naggarothi prince mastered his anger, biting back further retorts.

  ‘I trust that my protest has been recognised,’ he said with effort. ‘I urge you to reconsider your decision.’

  ‘You are free to speak your mind at the council,’ said Bel Shanaar. ‘It is your right to argue against Imrik, and to put forward yourself as candidate. We shall let the princes decide.’

  Malekith said nothing more, but bowed stiffly and left, silently seething.

  In the corridor around the corner from Bel Shanaar’s main chambers Palthrain stood with a tray upon which were stood a silver ewer and goblet, and a plate of cured meats and bread. Palthrain passed him the tray but Malekith’s hands were shaking and the chamberlain quickly retrieved it.

  Malekith took deep breaths, trying to calm himself as if summoning the power for a difficult spell. Ignoring the purposefully blank expression of Palthrain, the prince took the tray once more, now in control of his body.

  ‘Are you sure this will work?’ demanded Malekith. ‘It must be final!’

  ‘It is used in certain practices of the Khainites, to numb the senses,’ Palthrain replied. ‘In small doses it will render its victim incapable for several hours. With the amount I have put in the wine, it will be fatal. At first he will be paralysed. Then his breathing will become difficult as his lungs freeze, and then he will fall into a coma and pass away.’

  ‘No pain?’ said Malekith.

  ‘Not that I am aware of, highness,’ said Palthrain.

  ‘What a pity,’ said Malekith.

  The Naggarothi prince walked down the passageway to Bel Shanaar’s chambers, forcing himself to stride slowly so as not to garner attention. He knocked at the door and waited for Bel Shanaar’s call for him to enter.

  The Phoenix King was sitting at a writing desk, no doubt penning corrections to his speech for the council.

  ‘Malekith?’ he said, startled.

  ‘Forgive the intrusion, your majesty,’ said Malekith with a low bow. He stepped across the room and placed the tray on the desk.

  ‘Why are you here?’ asked Bel Shanaar. ‘Where’s Palthrain?’

  ‘I apologise for waylaying him, majesty,’ said Malekith. ‘I wished to bring you your wine as a peace offering.’

  ‘Peace offering?’

  ‘I wholeheartedly wish to offer my apologies,’ replied Malekith, pouring the poisoned wine into the goblet. ‘I spoke out of misplaced anger earlier, and I caused great offence. My anger is not with you, though it might have seemed that way. I have endeavoured to earn your trust and to be a loyal subject, and it is my failings not yours that have led you to choose Imrik. I will be happy to support your choice.’

  The prince passed the cup to Bel Shanaar, his face a mask of politeness. The Phoenix King frowned and for a moment Malekith feared that he suspected something. The Phoenix King took the goblet however, and placed it on the desk.

  ‘Your apology is accepted,’ said Bel Shanaar. ‘I do trust you, my friend, but you have personal concerns that far outweigh any duty to me. I choose Imrik not just on ability, but on the fact that I would have you address the problems of your kingdom without distraction. I would have you direct your energies solely to restoring your rule, not pandering to the whims of other kingdoms.’

  The goblet remained on the desk.

  ‘Your consideration heartens me greatly,’ said Malekith, keeping his eyes fixed firmly upon the Phoenix King lest he dart a betraying glance towards the wine.

  ‘You will offer your support in the council?’ Bel Shanaar asked, finally lifting the cup to his lips and taking a mouthful of the wine.

  It was not enough for the poison to work and the prince silently willed Bel Shanaar to drink more.

  ‘When the debate rages, none will argue harder than I,’ said Malekith with a smile.

  Bel Shanaar nodded and took another sip of wine.

  ‘If that is all, then I wish you a fair evening and look forward to sailing with you in the morning,’ said Bel Shanaar with a polite nod.

  Malekith stood there watching for some sign of the poison’s effect.

  ‘What are you staring at?’ asked the Phoenix King.

  ‘Is the wine not to your satisfaction?’ said the prince, taking a step closer.

  ‘I am not thirsty,’ said Bel Shanaar, placing the goblet back on the desk.

  Malekith twisted and picked up the goblet and sniffed it.

  ‘It is very fine wine, majesty,’ he said.

  ‘I am sure it is, Malekith,’ said Bel Shanaar, pursing his lips. His voice became more insistent. ‘However, I feel a little sleepy all of a sudden. I shall retire for the night and see you in the morning.’

  Stifling a frustrated shout, Malekith lunged forwards and seized Bel Shanaar by the throat. The Phoenix King’s eyes widened with terror as Malekith forced open Bel Shanaar’s mouth and emptied in the contents of the goblet. The goblet tumbled from the prince’s fingertips and spilt a cascade of red droplets over the white boards of the floor.

  Clamping one hand over the Phoenix King’s nose and mouth and dragging his head back by his hair, Malekith choked the king until he swallowed the deadly draught. He then released his grip and st
epped back to watch his future unfold.

  ‘What have you–’ panted Bel Shanaar, clawing at his throat and chest.

  Malekith lifted the parchment from the desk. As he had suspected, it was a draft of the Phoenix King’s speech for the council. Thinking it better that no evidence of Bel Shanaar’s support for Imrik was found, he crossed the room and tossed it into the fire burning in the grate. Turning, he saw that there was still life in Bel Shanaar’s bulging eyes.

  Malekith padded forwards until he was very close, and bent towards the dying elf’s ear.

  ‘You brought this upon yourself,’ the prince hissed.

  With a last gurgle, Bel Shanaar died, his face purple, his tongue lolling from his mouth. Malekith stood for a while, absent-mindedly looking at the contorted face, not quite believing that it was almost over.

  ‘Well, I have to leave you now,’ he said at last, affectionately patting the Phoenix King’s head. ‘I have a throne to claim.’

  Kings and princes, all had thought to rob Malekith of his rightful inheritance and they all had been sent to the underworld of Mirai for their efforts. Malekith had some respect for Imrik for the simple fact that he had been able to break the cycle of history, realising that his future was beside the true Phoenix King, not against him. If only his forefathers had been so astute the carnage and waste of elven lives would have been avoided.

  Malekith turned away from the evidence of the battle, wondering why he was so preoccupied with thoughts of death and the countless lives sacrificed in endless battle for possession of Ulthuan. It was a recent phenomenon, this train of thought, having grown in frequency in the couple of centuries since his defeat at Finuval Plain and his escape through the Realm of Chaos. Perhaps back then he had sensed the rising tide of Chaos that had engulfed the world and it had nagged at his thoughts.