The Curse of Khaine

by Gav Thorpe

  Morathi’s incantation was reaching its crescendo. Her voice was a wail, her body shuddering, the coils of dark magic thickening and strengthening as they whirled around the throne room.

  Reaching out his hands, Malekith felt the slick touch of the magic on his iron skin. The circlet gleamed on his brow and filled his mind with ice as the Witch King grasped and manipulated the formless energy with his will, shaping it, turning its convoluted waves into a rhythmically pulsing cloud.

  ‘Now!’ screamed Morathi, her staff blazing.

  Malekith flung the dark magic up, spearing its energies through the palace of Aenarion. He could feel the other columns of power erupting across his kingdom, pillars of pure magical energy roaring up into the heavens.

  Malekith strode to an iron balcony adjoining the chamber, Morathi hurrying after him. He turned his flaming gaze to the east and saw the ravening energies gathering across the mountaintops.

  ‘It is done,’ said Morathi.

  She pointed high into the heavens, to the north. Lights burned in the sky, silhouetting the horizon with a rainbow of colours that were constantly shifting. The magical aurora flickered, spitting bolts of energy to the ground and up towards the disappearing stars.

  Malekith could see through the anarchy of shape and colour: towering spires of crystal and rivers of blood; cliffs with screaming skull-like faces and forests of waving tentacles; castles of bronze and a huge dilapidated mansion; plains covered with splintered bones and white beaches rippled by purple waters; clouds of flies and miniature suns that glared with cyclopean eyes.

  And he heard the roaring and the howls, the screaming and the growls. Marching and slithering, swooping and leaping, a host of daemons poured forth.

  ‘The Realm of Chaos opens,’ he rasped, feeling triumphant. ‘My legions awake!’

  ‘No!’ screamed Morathi.

  Malekith felt it too, a presence he had not known for more than a thousand years. The Dragontamer had returned. The Witch King did not know how, but he would not be defeated so easily. He poured out all of his scorn and hatred, looking to wrench control of the vortex from the elf who had betrayed his father. Morathi sensed what he was doing and added her own sorcery, seeking to overcome the Dragontamer’s spell.

  The two waves of magic clashed within the vortex, detonating with a blaze of multicoloured light that swept away the storm, converting both high and dark magic into a huge detonation. Malekith felt it as a shockwave that pulsed across Ulthuan, flattening trees and toppling towers. He sensed the mountains lurching as the vortex spun again.

  He felt something else too, like the world was tipping on its axis. The magic unleashed rocked Ulthuan, ripping earth and sky with its power. A crack appeared in the city wall of Anlec as a huge fissure opened up in the ground to the north. Roofs collapsed and walls toppled as Anlec convulsed. Everywhere across Nagarythe the dark magic earthed itself, mighty spires of rock erupting from the ground while huge pits and crevasses dropped down.

  ‘What is that noise?’ said Morathi, looking to the north.

  Malekith turned, gripping the rail of the balcony tight as the palace swayed on its foundations, turrets and towers crashing down onto the buildings below in a flurry of broken stone and tiles.

  To the north was a wall of white. It looked like fog at first, a bank of cloud swiftly approaching from the north-west. It brought an odd hissing, which deepened as the cloud came closer.

  Malekith felt a moment of dread as he realised it was not a cloud that approached, but a wall of water. As though the ocean had heaved up itself in protest, a tidal wave stretched across the horizon, shining in the moonlight, as high as the tallest tower of Anlec.

  ‘No,’ said the Phoenix King. ‘I forbid it. I stand at the moment of achieving my dreams and you would throw it all away on the vacuous whim of a goddess. I will hunt down Tyrion and slay him and Ulthuan will rejoice and forever praise my name.’

  ‘As you command, your majesty,’ Teclis said with a bow. As the mage left Malekith knew well that his nephew could not be trusted and considered whether this was the time he had finally outlived his usefulness. For the moment the Phoenix King’s alliance was too fragile, the battle in Saphery still finely balanced. Soon, though, Malekith thought, Teclis would no longer be required and his insane scheme to destroy the Dragontamer’s vortex would prove a useful story to cover his removal.

  Despite every effort on the part of Malekith, Tyrion flatly refused to meet his rival in battle. Every passing day brought fresh news of the pretender’s host growing or some defeat of Malekith’s forces, yet the Phoenix King would not countenance Teclis’s plan.

  Matters were brought to a head as the Phoenix King gave the order to break camp not far from the Tower of Hoeth, at least a dozen leagues from the closest of Tyrion’s armies. At first light Imrik called upon the king and asked that he summon Teclis and Alarielle to hear what the prince had to say. Imrik was a picture of agitation, pacing the rugs back and forth as he waited for the Everqueen and mage to arrive. Malekith studied him closely, wondering what might have brought about such a disturbed disposition.

  Eventually the others joined Imrik and Malekith and the prince was free to speak his news.

  ‘The Shadow of Khaine is growing,’ said the prince, fists balled in front of him. ‘For a time now there have been missing sentries, bodies found slain in their sleep. We thought it was assassins employed by Morathi but I have now seen the truth for myself.’

  The prince shuddered and poured himself water. He downed the goblet and waited a second before continuing, haunted eyes moving from one companion to the next.

  ‘Marendri, my own cousin, who swore allegiance to you at Eagle Gate, has broken faith with us and attempted to desert last night.’ Imrik shook his head. ‘A more loyal warrior you would not have found in all of my kingdom, as close to me as fabled Thyrinor was to Caledor the First. He slit the throats of his brothers, all three, and only a chance encounter with the sentries revealed his crime. His tent was next to mine! My own kin, close at hand for counsel and comfort, poised to drive the dagger deepest into our heart. I heard the fighting and confronted him. A wild beast I saw, with blood-red eyes and foaming mouth. He spoke in curses of blood and I ended him quickly, mercifully so.’

  Shuddering, Imrik turned away, the goblet falling from his trembling grasp. Alarielle addressed Malekith while Teclis moved to comfort the dragon prince.

  ‘We have striven in every way we can, but we cannot fight this. Khaine feeds on death and war – we must seek an end to this slow execution.’

  ‘You have spoken to Teclis?’ Malekith asked. He did not wait for answer – it was clear the mage had colluded with the Everqueen despite Malekith’s orders. ‘It is madness, for which I was damned for a seeming eternity.’

  ‘What would you give for victory?’ asked Alarielle, stepping closer. She laid a hand on Malekith’s, her touch warm yet also cooling the fires inside the Phoenix King. ‘Would you give your life?’

  Malekith considered this and nodded. ‘I stepped into the flame of Asuryan and did not know if I would survive.’

  ‘Would you see countless dead on the battlefields of Ulthuan?’

  ‘You know my legacy as well as any. Countless already are the lives I have expended in my quest to rule.’

  ‘Would you be willing to lose everything? Would you give up your claim to save our people?’

  Malekith found no ready answer to this question. He withdrew his hand from Alarielle’s grasp and stood up, turning his back on her.

  ‘I would see no other as Phoenix King while I live.’

  ‘Yet if you continue to face Tyrion as you do, you will lose the war and Tyrion will prevail. What you once condoned out of spite, you will not do now for justice?’

  ‘Justice? Where was justice these last six thousand years?’ Malekith whirled around and glared at the Everqueen. Unknowingly reliving the act of rage that had propelled his father to the Sword of Khaine, the Phoenix King snatched up his thr
one and heaved it over his head. With a wordless shout, he dashed it to the ground, smashing it into pieces. ‘No more!’ he roared. ‘This is a price too heavy for me to pay!’

  Fire burst from his armour as he staggered away, fending off Alarielle’s attention with an outstretched hand. Malekith’s gaze next fell upon the banner of Nagarythe in its stand behind where the throne had been, woven with silver thread and inlaid with pearls and diamonds. He grabbed the haft of the banner and lifted it clear, ready to snap it across his knee.

  ‘Your majesty!’ Teclis’s stern words cut through the anger that threatened to swallow Malekith, water splashed on embers. ‘We will not fail.’

  ‘If we do,’ croaked the Phoenix King, ‘none will survive to know it.’

  There was a long silence and none of the elves would look at each other.

  ‘Do we proceed with Teclis’s plan to unfurl the winds of magic and anchor them in mortal form?’ Alarielle asked. ‘We must be unanimous.’

  ‘Better to die in glory than live enslaved,’ said Imrik, his sorrow now replaced with a vengeful expression. The words might have come from Malekith himself in another time.

  The Phoenix King replaced the banner of Nagarythe, the flames of his body dimming.

  ‘When Ulthuan sinks, what becomes of our people?’ he asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

  ‘They become free,’ said Teclis. ‘Free from the touch of Chaos, free from the Shadow of Khaine, free to live out their lives in sanctuary. Lileath has shown me this.’

  ‘Athel Loren will welcome us,’ said Alarielle. ‘It always has.’

  ‘Make your preparations, nephew,’ Malekith said, his voice gaining confidence as he acknowledged the inevitability of the decision. ‘The gods demand a battle the like of which they have not seen for many ages. Rule of the elves is not high enough stakes for such a cataclysm, so let us again fight for the future of the world!’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The Final Battle

  On the Isle of the Dead was the fate of the world to be decided, at the very heart of the vortex raised by Caledor Dragontamer. Astride Seraphon, Malekith held the centre of the line, surrounded by warriors from ten kingdoms and further afield, all drawn together in his cause.

  The air crackled with the whirl of magic, condensed into its rawest form by the eight lodestones that formed a circle at the very centre of the isle. A loremaster stood at each sparkling stone, though the monolith for the Wind of Shyish was dull and lifeless, its power stolen by Nagash.

  Teclis sat atop his shadow steed to Malekith’s right, sword in hand, expression pensive. To the left Alarielle and her asrai followers guarded the approach to the inner stones, bows at the ready.

  ‘Protect the loremasters – that is all that matters,’ Teclis shouted up to the Phoenix King. ‘Do not let Tyrion’s forces break through. It is as when the vortex was made and Aenarion fought as the shield of the Dragontamer.’

  ‘I know the strategy, nephew, and have no need of another of your history lessons,’ Malekith replied. He felt calm, committed now to a course of action from which there could only be two simple outcomes. He would be victorious or he would be dead. It was strangely reassuring to have such clarity of purpose. ‘Just mind your own deeds, and I will see to mine.’

  The Phoenix King drew Asuryath and a great cheer rose up from his assembled army as the splinter of light shone against the multicoloured sky.

  ‘I was expecting more of them,’ the king commented, as Tyrion’s army approached. It seemed if anything that the Dragon of Cothique was slightly outnumbered. Blood-frenzied hags and vicious corsairs led the attack while companies of bows filled the air with barbed shafts and phalanxes of spears moved to the flanks. Malekith’s force arrayed in deep ranks to await the assault, their banners flying colours from all of the kingdoms of Ulthuan.

  Tyrion himself could be seen at the centre of the line, a golden figure amongst red and black. He raised the Sword of Khaine and a hush fell across the island, the sight of the Widowmaker causing even the bravest heart to flutter for a moment. Malekith felt the vortex churning around Tyrion. At first he thought it was the sorcery of Morathi, but he sensed his mother’s presence elsewhere. It was tempting to seek her out, to rend her limb from limb for her betrayal, but the cautioning words of Teclis held Malekith to his task. If she survived the battle vengeance would come later.

  Whatever enchantment was being wrought by Tyrion, its energy flowed over the Isle of the Dead and into the sea, causing the waves to boil, washing deep spume upon the shores. There was movement in the waves, figures approaching from the waters.

  Lurching and staggering, the dead of the seas answered the summons of Khaine. Bidden to the Isle of the Dead, the restless corpses of thousands forged out of the sea, some less than a day in their watery graves, others seaweed-clad skeletons who had fallen in millennia past.

  Dismay flowed through Malekith’s army as these unearthly reinforcements followed after Tyrion’s host, their ghastly moaning and groans a bass background to the shriller war cries and wails of the Khainites.

  ‘No retreat!’ Malekith bellowed, brandishing his blade again.

  There was little strategy and Malekith charged into the heart of the enemy with his black dragon, cutting to the left and right with Asuryan’s holy blade, leaving corpses wreathed in white fire behind him.

  He knew little enough of the unbinding ceremony, but could feel the vortex loosening around him. He tried to concentrate on the foes in front and behind, urging Seraphon deeper into the fray to slick her claws and fangs with the blood of the enemy.

  Time lost meaning. Around Malekith the battle raged, physical and magical, and the skies whirled with skycutters and griffons, mages on shining platforms and roaring manticores. He paid little heed to anything else and cut down hydras and elves, charioteers and cold ones with equal cold ferocity.

  He was dimly aware of bright fire and screams when Imrik’s last surviving dragons charged the flank of Tyrion’s army, slaying with dragonfire and claw. The stench of saltwater and decay washed over him and he saw that the dead of the seas had reached the battle line. Some fought with their weapons, broken shields and rusted swords, others had clawed hands and wide maws filled with needle-like fangs like some deepwater fish.

  He hewed down reanimated corpses to the left and right, though around him his followers were unsettled by the assault of the dead and began to give ground. Not wishing to become isolated, the Phoenix King was forced to back away, and in the break this granted him he saw why the dead had caused so much consternation.

  At their head marched five figures, resurrected from their tombs upon the Isle of the Dead. In regal cloaks and armour, with swords and shields and necklaces and bangles about their mouldering bones, five dire warriors led the charge of the undead.

  The Phoenix Kings of ages past.

  Five alone of the ten, whose bodies had been interred in the mausoleums upon the water’s edge. Finubar was there, though less than three years dead his body rendered to gleaming bones by the magic of the vortex. After him came others, glowing with fey light, eyeless sockets gleaming with magic. Confronted by the kings of times past the host of Malekith drew back, bending before the advance of the undead like the bow wave of a ship.

  Malekith saw that Tyrion’s forces were gathering again for a fresh attack in the wake of the undead advance. Knights and griffon riders were set ready to charge, while Tiranocii chariots mustered to force any breakthrough.

  Looking on Finubar’s skeletal features Malekith was filled with a loathing born not of horror but anger. Arrayed before him were five of his worst foes, who had thwarted him in life and now their bones were beholden to a brain-addled slave of Khaine. Their weakness sickened Malekith and he rose up in Seraphon’s throne-saddle in disgust.

  The vortex was like an unchained beast around him, bucking at the lodestones to tug free, smashing into the ground and whirling into the air in a storm of sparks and clouds. His simplest thought caused ri
pples to eddy out into the maelstrom. Shaped by his hatred of the dead kings pressing towards him, the vortex responded, gathering in his body, fizzing along fingers and limbs.

  Infused with magical power, Malekith burst into flame, his armour burning white, Asuryath like a lick of fire in his hand. And in that moment Malekith understood his destiny and accepted who he was.

  Asuryan reborn.

  Malekith’s laughter echoed across the battlefield.

  ‘Kings of Ulthuan!’ the Phoenix King spat the words as a curse. ‘You are usurpers and thieves. You owe me a debt. In my name, and in that of my father, I call upon you to repay it now!’

  The magic was too much to control and Malekith had to give vent to his righteous wrath. He thrust Asuryath towards the oncoming host of the dead and white fire sprang from the blade to create a ball of blazing destruction. The bones of the dead kings shattered at the impact of his magical missile, scattered to the winds as ash. As it screamed through the ranks of the undead the fire took on a shape, becoming the image of an elf.

  Of Finubar, as he had been in life.

  Though the fire burned out quickly, leaving a ring of charred corpses on the ground where it had stopped, the gleaming figure of Finubar remained where the bolt had exploded, glowing with white light. Drawing an ethereal blade, the shade of Finubar charged into the foe.

  ‘Spirits of the fallen kings, answer me now!’

  Malekith hurled another fireball, which coalesced into the image of Bel-Hathor. From his fiery birth the Phoenix King known as the Sage strode forth unleashing blasts of power from his fingertips, eyes ablaze with magical energy. Eight more times Malekith cast the incantation and eight more times the spirits of the Phoenix Kings past answered his summons, appearing in coronas of white fire, reborn by the power of Asuryan, the Phoenix of the Gods.

  All came that were bidden, whether warrior like Tethlis and Caledor and his son, or magic-weaver like Caradryel the Peacemaker and Bel-Korhadris the Scholar-King. Only one king did Malekith not call upon, and one king alone that had no debt to settle. Aenarion’s spirit remained unsummoned, wherever it had departed.