by Gav Thorpe
It was strange also that while he did not regret a single druchii life lost in service to his claim, Malekith found it harder to contemplate the losses of the asur. His own folk were driven by greed and revenge, base desires that hung on the cloak of Malekith’s quest for justice. In contrast, the asur’s stubbornness had been a constant vexation to him, their blindness to his natural right and authority an affront, but all the same his hatred for their weak society and hand-wringing rulers had been tempered by respect for their tenacity in defending such a flawed civilisation.
A shadow passed over him and he looked up to see Imrik descending on his dragon. The prince left his monstrous steed on the broken ground between walls three and four and crossed the bloodied rubble with long strides.
‘The dead should not be left to suffer such outrage,’ the prince snapped, waving a hand towards the beasts devouring the corpse banquet.
‘What would you have me do?’ Malekith asked, knowing that it was too early in the alliance to simply dismiss the prince’s squeamish concerns. ‘Their souls are in Mirai now and the mortal remains behind make good fodder for my beasts.’
‘Bury them, or at least make a pyre to mark their sacrifice.’
‘An interesting idea,’ replied Malekith, warming to the notion. ‘The stones of Eagle Gate would make a fitting mausoleum and monument to those who died here. It is a shame that we do not have time to tarry to raise such an edifice. A pyre perhaps would serve better, and its pall would mask our advance from prying eyes.’
To make his point, Malekith gestured towards the cloudy skies, where the silhouettes of great eagles and the glitter of phoenix wings betrayed the avian allies of their foes. Imrik glanced up and shrugged.
‘My dragons will teach them to be more circumspect.’
‘Our dragons would be better employed securing the eastern end of the pass, until my vanguard arrives.’
Imrik considered this, not looking at Malekith, obviously caught between the logic of the Witch King’s declaration and a desire to defy his will brought about by long centuries of stubborn defiance. No doubt the need to feel on an equal footing with his former foe also weighed on the Caledorian’s thoughts. In the end Imrik’s military sense prevailed and he nodded.
‘The Ellyrians will desire to make a counter-attack. We shall dissuade them,’ he said. ‘Who is to lead your vanguard? It will be a risky position, for surely Tyrion will bring his whole force to bear upon our advance.’
‘Riskier still considering I have no intention of following them along Eagle Pass.’ Malekith laughed at Imrik’s confusion. ‘Your people are driven constantly by history, yet forever miss its lessons. I would no more march directly into confrontation with Tyrion than I would lay aside my shield in battle. I know that his bravery cannot be questioned and his sword arm is strong, but let us see whether this upstart who claims the blood of Aenarion can wield an army with the same skill as his blade.’
‘You will march north, and attack Chrace?’
‘We will, Imrik,’ corrected Malekith.
Imrik said nothing, fingers toying with the hilt of his sword.
‘Speak, or depart, but cease your vacillation,’ said Malekith.
‘When this is done, when we have won this war and you rule Ulthuan, what then?’
‘Grief, strife and war,’ Malekith answered plainly. ‘I do not promise to end suffering, but under my leadership we will prevail against the adversity that is to come. I offer nothing but victory, Imrik, bear no misunderstanding in this matter. Should Tyrion be victorious, the elven race is doomed.’
‘Perhaps it is simply the sealing of a doom that began long ago, and we should resist it no longer.’
‘Feel free to end your own life if you desire,’ said Malekith, turning away. ‘Just leave me your dragons.’
THIRTEEN
The Tyrant Shamed
‘My king.’
Kouran’s quiet warning drew Malekith’s attention away from the map he was studying with his generals. They stood just out of the shadow cast by the toppled fourth wall, marshalling the columns of druchii moving through the fortress while harpies nearby picked at the corpses buried in the rubble. The captain’s gaze guided Malekith’s eye to a figure standing beneath the arch of a gatehouse a short distance away.
Malus Darkblade was a forlorn figure, almost wraith-like in his pale nakedness. All that protected his dignity was the tattered remnant of a cloak, still smeared with the blood of the corpse it had been torn from. Around his neck hung his signature heavy talisman and in his hand he still bore the warpsword of Khaine, but save for these accoutrements his battlegear had disappeared.
He pushed himself away from the stone and tottered forwards a few steps, drawing the attention of the other druchii nearby. The whispers began a heartbeat later, subtle at first, but Naggarothi had never been known to hide their cruel humour and soon their taunts and jibes followed Darkblade across the ruin.
His bared flesh was marred with small cuts and bruises amongst older scars, and in places there were puncture wounds that looked as though his bones had split the skin, though he moved without any sign of physical pain. A particularly dramatic slash of lacerated flesh stretched from navel to throat, white in the morning light. Malus’s eyes seemed darker and more sunken than usual, bloodshot and rimmed with the shadow of fatigue. Not all the blood was his; his skin was marked with bloody handprints and other smears.
Ignoring the sharp stones underfoot, Malus came directly towards Malekith. The Witch King eyed the warpsword in Darkblade’s hand, the enchantment within the blade a blaze of colour in his magical sight. Numbered amongst the few weapons that could easily penetrate the armour of midnight, the warpsword was one of the reasons Malus had risen to the top of Hag Graef in a comparatively short time. Its true origins remained a mystery to Malekith, but knowing that Malus possessed such a weapon had sometimes been a source of some concern to the Witch King. He doubted whether Malus would ever dare test the magical sword against Urithain, but there was a crazed look in the Tyrant’s eye as he approached and Kouran moved forward, Crimson Death at the ready.
Malus stopped about two dozen paces away. He seemed oblivious to the sneering remarks of the other elves at hand, gaze focused on Malekith. He swayed slightly, one eye twitching. The Witch King saw the Tyrant flexing his fingers on the grip of the warpsword and moved his hand to the hilt of Urithain.
‘You are alive,’ said Malekith, looking the haggard figure up and down. ‘Mostly.’
A degree of focus returned to Malus’s gaze and a frown creased his brow. He turned to glare at the other elves that were drifting closer to witness what transpired next, before concentrating on the Witch King.
‘Mostly alive, yes, your majesty,’ he said, bowing with a flourish. He lowered to one knee, the point of the warpsword in the ground, head bowed against the hiltstone. ‘My apologies, Lord Malekith, for my tardiness in reporting for my next commands. I was otherwise engaged during yesterday’s triumph and could not share your victory.’
Malekith paced around Malus, who kept his eye on the Witch King for as long as possible until he was behind the Tyrant of Hag Graef. The king stopped behind Darkblade, noting the fresh cuts upon his back.
‘Tell me, dear Malus, what matters of such import took your insightful counsel from my ears last night?’
Darkblade did not reply immediately, his head turning left and right in an effort to catch a glimpse of his tormentor. He sighed, long and languorous. ‘Alas, our revered king, I was so caught up by Khaine’s thirst that I pursued the enemy far beyond reasonable strategy and have only this dawn returned.’
‘You were overwhelmed with bloodlust?’ said Malekith, remaining behind Malus.
‘That is true, your majesty.’
‘And you pursued the enemy so vigorously that it took the night to return?’
‘Apparently so, your majesty.’
‘And which enemies did you pursue?’
‘The traitors that held Eagle
Gate, your majesty.’
‘Be more specific, dear Malus. Which of the traitorous enemy did you pursue?’
‘I believe they were Ellyrians, your majesty,’ interjected Drusala, emerging from the crowd to Malekith’s left. Malus stood up and faced the sorceress, quickly hiding a moment of confusion behind an indifferent mask.
‘That would make sense,’ said the Darkblade. ‘They fled towards Ellyrion.’
‘And so furious was your pursuit that you abandoned your cold one? Spite, isn’t it?’ asked the Witch King.
‘In the melee before the gate was breached I was pulled from my saddle,’ admitted Malus. ‘I lost my mount and hope that one of my knights has recovered him and he awaits me in the camp of my household.’
‘And your clothes and armour?’
Malus looked down at himself, as if realising his nudity for the first time. His gaze moved back to the Witch King and then to Drusala, and then around the gathered crowd who awaited his reply with unconcealed smirks and leering.
‘Discarded, your majesty.’ Malus looked at Malekith directly, daring him to gainsay a word of his testimony. Malekith had no idea what had happened and it was clear that only torture would loosen the Tyrant’s lips.
‘Discarded? In battle?’
‘Forgive me, your majesty, for I was foolish and to heighten my battle prowess I imbibed some of the witch brew of Khaine before the fighting began. Just a mouthful, of course. Just enough to strengthen my sword arm for a long day of bloodletting. I did not realise how delayed its effects might be and in my Khaine-blessed rage to get at the Ellyrians I stripped off my armour which had been weighing me down, suffering as it had much damage during the fray so that many straps and buckles were broken and its efficacy much reduced.’
This was greeted with harsh laughter from much of the crowd, and shouts of derision. Malus rounded on the watchers with the warpsword raised. Kouran was about to take another step but Malekith gestured for him to remain where he was.
‘You laugh, who allowed the enemies of our king to retreat without harassment?’ Malus railed, spittle flying in his false indignity, eyes wide. ‘You would let them rally and fight again, their resistance, their existence, an affront to our ruler? Smirk if you dare, those that were less than worthy.’
Malekith silenced the audience with a gesture and Malus’s attention returned to him.
‘You threw off your wargear so that you could pursue the enemy with more speed?’ The Witch King shook his head, trying to decide if he was entertained or outraged by such an obvious lie.
‘Yes, your majesty, it is just as you say. He fell to his knee once more, a fist clasped to his chest. ‘I feel so ashamed, but there was nothing I could do to stop myself. I understand now why Hellebron and her bloody sisters wear so little.’
It took all of Malekith’s will to quench the laugh that rose from his gut. He knew that he should have Kouran take off the treacherous dog’s head there and then, but if lying was to be a capital crime under his rule he would have no subjects left. It was hard to see to what benefit Malus’s current display was turned. There was no advantage to Malus being absent for the night – all of the most powerful druchii had been in camp with Malekith, so no collusion had been possible. There was a chance that he had conspired with agents of the asur, perhaps seeking to make a common foe of Malekith, but Malus was despised across Ulthuan almost as much as his king. Tyrion did not have the benefit of Imrik’s flexible morality and Malekith had ensured there would be no politicking from the Phoenix King, Finubar.
‘You vouch for this account?’ he snapped, turning his wrath on Drusala. She met his infernal gaze without flinching, her face set in an expression of sincere attention. Her part in this worried Malekith more. She was Morathi’s creature, no doubt, and if the queen was truly breaking bonds with Malekith the Tyrant of Hag Graef would make a well-positioned ally. Though the host of Hag Graef had been badly mauled in the three assaults upon Eagle Gate, if they were to combine with the army of Ghrond Malekith’s resources would be outmatched, in the short term at least. ‘How can you be so certain of friend Malus’s movements?’
‘He perhaps does not remember it, but he came to me last night, in a battle-fever, confessing what had happened and seeking my advice.’ Malekith could not see Malus’s face to see any reaction this stirred. Drusala approached, holding a bloodstained cloth in outstretched hands. ‘He gave this to me, asking if I would present it on his behalf. Malus thought it terribly important, although I must confess my ignorance.’
She let the wind unfurl what she held, revealing a torn banner of light blue and white, with a prancing horse in gold thread stained with blood. The remains of a device of spread wings in silver could be seen beneath the grime.
‘The banner of Eagle Gate,’ said Kouran, stepping up to take the trophy from Drusala. He looked at Malus. ‘The Ellyrians tried to escape with it?’
Malus tried not to look surprised, and failed miserably. He addressed his answer to Malekith. ‘I have no reason to doubt the lady of Ghrond’s account, your majesty, though my recollection of events before the sun rose this morning are… hazy.’
It was impossible to believe that they were telling the truth, but the threadbare nature of the story being woven by Drusala and Malus was enough for Malekith to believe it had not been prefabricated. They were extemporising, to what end Malekith did not know, but there was no sign of former conspiracy. Malekith was hardened to the fact that most of his subjects that did not hate him lusted after his position, and to consider every scheme a direct and immediate threat would have turned him into a paranoid lunatic many millennia ago. It also meant that the druchii were very adept at hiding their lies, so the obvious subterfuge confused him.
He gestured for Kouran to join him.
‘What do you wish to do with these liars, my king?’ asked the captain.
‘You think their story lacks merit?’
‘Barely a word they have spoken is truth,’ Kouran answered with a shake of the head, ‘but I can offer no proof to discount their version of events. Malus was pulled from Spite during the battle and then disappeared, that much I witnessed myself. He is not a coward, so I do not think he fled the fighting. What happened next, only Malus can tell us. Shall I summon your torturers?’
‘I think not,’ said Malekith. ‘The day is too fraught to make any bold moves. Malus is always scheming about something, and I am sure Drusala has her own agenda, but it serves no purpose to create turbulence on the day after our greatest victory. I have allies now,’ he waved a hand towards the dragons on the peaks, ‘and should Imrik sense disquiet in my camp, the hint of division between my armies, I think he would reconsider which side he has taken.’
‘We could slay them, my king, just to be sure,’ suggested Kouran, running the fingers of his right hand along the flat of his halberd’s blade. ‘No mess, just a swift death.’
‘Malus and Drusala both know that I need their warriors if I am to capitalise on the surprise of Imrik’s turning and our victory here. I have a far better plan.’
‘Friend Malus,’ said Malekith, turning back to the Tyrant, motioning for him to stand. ‘I must admonish you for your tardiness and appearance. It smacks of disrespect to turn up late to my council wearing nothing but an asur shroud.’ Malus clenched his jaw and the tip of the warpsword in his hand rose a little, like the tail of a scorpion moving before the strike. ‘Let the humiliation you have felt coming to kneel before me and my subjects be a lesson to keep good manner about you at all times. As for the reasons for your dishevelled look and late coming, I am impressed by your persistence. It is that sort of attitude that will be required to defeat the Ellyrians.’
‘The Ellyrians, your majesty? What of them?’
‘Fast, mounted, never staying in the same place. An elusive foe, but no match for one with your stubbornness, am I right?’
‘No match at all, your majesty,’ said Malus, taken aback. ‘I will bring the Ellyrians to battle and crush them.�
�
‘Very good, Malus,’ said Malekith. ‘I am sure you require to make preparations. Your army shall be the vanguard – have them take supplies for the march to Ellyrion and then lead them east.’
Malus said nothing for several heartbeats, eyes flicking between the king and Kouran, and then to the crowd, who were starting to disperse. His eyes narrowed and nostrils flared, but he simply accepted the command with a deep bow.
‘And Malus,’ said the Witch King as the seething Darkblade turned to leave, ‘try to keep your armour on next time.’
FOURTEEN
Chracian War
Of the ten kingdoms, Malekith hated Chrace the most. In his mortal years he had found it a joyless, backward region ruled by peasant-princes and ignorance. When he had sought to claim Ulthuan’s throne it had been Chracian hunters that had saved Imrik from Morathi’s assassins – ever after honoured as the White Lions of the king’s bodyguard – and it had been the Chracians that had stubbornly refused to bow to Malekith’s rule despite every invasion and calamity he had set upon them. In short, the Chracians were far too stupid to realise when they were beaten, scrapping to the last breath for a mountainous wilderness that had nothing to recommend itself except for a certain savage beauty.
The rain rattled from Sulekh’s scales and hissed into steam where it hit the Witch King’s armour. Rivers cascaded down the mountain slopes, swelled to bursting from the spring deluge. The low clouds clung to the peaks like a shroud, swathing the pass in a thick haze. Malekith’s army picked their way down a slope strewn with boulders and fallen trees, a winding column of black that disappeared into the grey mist.
Closing his eyes, the Witch King felt the bubbling winds of magic washing over the Annulii. With the circlet, he could see every slender strand, the smallest ebb and eddy of mystical energy. He searched for disturbances hidden to normal eyes, seeking the telltale swell and whirl of living things. Giant eagles nested in the heights of the peaks; mountain goats bounded up the slopes in large herds, gorging themselves on grass revealed by the recent thaw; a bear ambled from its cave seeking food; the trees were delicate slivers of life burrowing deep into the soil.
