by William King
With the claw that tipped one of his four arms, N’Kari drew the symbol of Tzeentch in the ground, digging out channels with the talons of his fingers. By the time he had finished the sacrifice the channels were filled with blood. With a word he set the blood alight and with another twist of his magic he sent the scent drifting through the hole his ritual had punched in the fabric of reality and downwards into the uppermost Hells.
He let his spirit drift along behind it, following strange paths into the realms of Chaos that were his natural home. For a moment he was almost overcome with nostalgia. He considered giving up his quest for vengeance and returning to this malleable reality that would respond to his every perverse whim. It was a temptation, and as a servant of Slaanesh he felt almost obligated to give in to it, but he resisted, not least because this was a place where he needed all his wits about him.
The dark miracle of the burning blood had attracted the attention of something and in this place, it was massive and powerful. N’Kari recognised it for what it was immediately, an old enemy and an old ally, a potent servant of the Changer of Ways, the daemon god Tzeentch. It sensed his presence and approached warily, as if it suspected a trap. Under the circumstances N’Kari could hardly blame it for this. He made the signs and ritual gestures that among their kind showed that he wished a truce and that he had come with offerings. The Lord of Change responded in kind and soon they were in discussions.
By the end of the negotiations, N’Kari was well pleased with the outcome. He had gained a potent ally and in return he had given up very little that meant anything to him. All he had to do was provide the Lord of Change with a way into this world and the souls of several scores of elves to devour. He did not care about that. They were not his souls.
He sent his spirit hurtling back to mortal reality. He had other rituals to perform, other mighty allies to gather. By the time he was finished he would have a force the likes of which had not been seen since the time of Aenarion. They would respond to his summons. They would come to this world. They would kill and maim and destroy if not exactly in obedience to his commands then at least in accordance with his plans.
‘There is no need to be nervous,’ said Teclis. ‘They are not going to find anything wrong with you.’
‘I am not nervous,’ said Tyrion. In truth his brother looked more nervous than he felt. Tyrion had come to terms with the fact that he was going to be tested. Whatever the results were, he would deal with them.
An acolyte entered the cell and gestured for Tyrion to follow him. He bowed to the priest and clasped Teclis by the arm after the fashion of a comrade.
‘Good luck!’ Teclis said. He looked very young and very vulnerable and Tyrion could see that he was scared.
‘And to you,’ he replied.
The priest led him deeper into the temple. They came to an archway guarded by warriors of the Phoenix Guard, who gestured that the acolyte should come no further. Tyrion nodded and walked through the archway. Another priest led him to a robing chamber. His clothes were taken from him. The priest indicated a pool that was obviously fed from a bubbling hot spring.
‘Purify yourself,’ he said. Tyrion walked down into the water. It was hot, almost unpleasantly so, and had a faint sulphurous stink. He washed himself and emerged from the pool.
The priest waited, arms outstretched holding a simple robe with a belt of cloth. Tyrion took it and put it on. It smelled faintly of incense. He noticed that a small corner of the cuff had been patched.
The priest led him deeper into the temple. Slowly the downward sloping corridors of the building gave way to the walls of a cavern. He was deep beneath the earth. Lanterns lit the way. He passed walls carved with glorious scenes from the life of Aenarion. Here he was passing through the Sacred Flame. There he defeated hordes of Chaos monsters.
As he strode deeper into the caves it came to Tyrion that all of this had happened not far from here. He had a sense of passing backwards into history as he walked. This was a holy place and the power of the gods was strong here.
The priest brought him at last into a large cave far beneath the ziggurat, lit by flickering flames that surged and roared from a great pit. Enormous statues inhabited shadowy alcoves. A great altar flanked each side of the volcanic maw. It looked like a bridge that had been broken. It came to Tyrion that during the ritual in which the Phoenix King ascended he would pass from one of those altars to the other. This was the deepest and most sacred shrine on the island. He was closer to the presence of a god than he had ever been.
A group of masked elves waited there. They indicated that he should disrobe. They walked around him and inspected him minutely.
‘No blemishes,’ said one.
‘No stigmata of Chaos,’ said another.
‘No visible taint,’ said the third.
They chanted together and a glow gathered around each of them and then to Tyrion as the spell took effect. He felt tendrils of magical power pass through him, aware of it in the elven way even if he was not aware of what they were doing.
‘There is no taint in this one,’ said the first masked figure.
‘There is no taint,’ said the second.
‘There is no taint,’ said the third. The flames suddenly surged and roared and it seemed to Tyrion that they twisted for a moment into a gigantic robed figure. The eyes of the priests suddenly glowed, mirroring the dancing flames. Their voices became clearer, more distinct and far less elven. They seemed filled with a transcendent presence that even Tyrion could sense. He wondered if they were about to make the sort of prophesy that his father had talked about.
‘This one will bear the weapons of a Phoenix King,’ said first.
‘This one will wear the armour of a Phoenix King,’ said the second.
‘Weapons and armour both,’ said the third.
‘Pass from this place and walk free, Blood of Aenarion,’ they said in unison. The flaring flames died down. The sense of god-like presence vanished.
‘I am not cursed,’ said Tyrion. His voice sounded loud and awkward.
‘All of the Blood bear Aenarion’s curse, even if only to pass it on to their children. You do not bear the taint of evil and Chaos,’ said the second priest. He felt sure from her voice that she was female. She sounded tired now and certainly nothing more than mortal.
‘Yet,’ said the third.
‘You are pure in the gaze of Asuryan. Pass on into the Light of his Flame,’ said the first. Tyrion walked out through the exit and took a flight of stairs upwards. He emerged onto a ledge that looked out onto the sea. The sunlight seemed blinding after the gloom of the caves. Gulls fluttered away from him and came to rest on a great stone banister.
He smiled. He had passed the test. He would have a life among the elves. And he would bear the weapons and armour of a Phoenix King, if they were correct.
What did they mean by that? Was he to be Phoenix King? Or did they simply mean he would wear gear given to him by a Phoenix King and be a White Lion like Korhien? In any case, it did not seem like a bad destiny.
He stood a little taller and it came to him that he had not even felt the weight of the knowledge of doom pressing down on his soul until it was removed. He laughed out loud and performed a cartwheel on the ledge. He felt fairly certain it had never been used for that purpose before.
He looked up at the sun, and then he wondered what was happening to his brother back down there in the gloom.
The old, patched robe was scratchy and uncomfortable on Teclis’s skin. The air was close, humid and warm. There was a sulphur stink in the air, doubtless from the volcanic springs deep below this place. The carvings on the walls were ominous, disturbing scenes from the life of Aenarion, battle and warfare and bloodshed.
Teclis felt like a prisoner forced to walk a path of doom to his own execution. He did not like this place. He did not like the reason he was here. He did not like being this deep underground.
He felt like he had to force air into his weak lungs. He was h
aving difficulty breathing. The walls pressed down on him. The weight of old earth was heavy. At the same time he was uncomfortably aware that all it would take would be for the ancient volcanoes below this place to stir into life and those walls could easily fall in on him. Or hot lava could come gushing up from the depths and flood these corridors, burning him alive. If the ancient philosophers were right though, he told himself, that would not happen. The poison breath of the volcano would kill him first. It was not a reassuring thought.
He was aware of the enormous flows of magical energy around him. This entire site was a nexus of enormous power, of a very specific, sacred kind. This temple was not just located on a fault line in the earth’s crust but on a fault line on the surface of the universe. The god or extra-dimensional entity or whatever Asuryan was could reach into the world of mortals here.
Aenarion had made his ascension here for a reason. This was the only place in the world where he could be invested with Asuryan’s blessing. There must be other places in the world like this, he thought, where other Powers could reach in.
Vaul’s Anvil would be one, which would explain why so many artefacts had been made there. It was a certainty that the Chaos Wastes must be like this for the daemon gods. There must be other shrines where elf, human and dwarf gods could touch the world. There must also be ways in which that magical energy could be tapped, if only a wizard could find a way.
The sudden insight lifted Teclis out of himself for a moment, and took away his fear and uncertainty. If he could only find a way to do that... It was a blasphemous thought but one that came naturally to him.
The fear returned, redoubled as the priest led him into a dimly lit cave where three masked and shadowy figures waited. He knew he had reached the shrine itself. Titanic statues of all the old elf gods were suddenly visible as flames leapt from the great central pit. They vanished back into shadow as the fire died down.
A glance told him that the three were all wizards of great power but the most potent presence by far dwelled within that pit flanked by twin altars. He walked towards the priests. Their hands moved in what might have been a blessing but which instinct told him was the beginning of a divinatory spell.
‘Disrobe,’ the first told him. He did so slowly and uncomfortably, aware of how weak and unfit his body must look to them. He coughed, in spite of all his efforts not to. He did not want to show weakness here of all places. He felt sure that they would hold it against him. They were elves and elves were like that.
The three circled around him, inspecting him minutely. He thought he sensed their contempt and their mockery. It took all his strength of will to avoid covering his private parts with his hands.
‘No blemishes,’ said one. ‘But he is very infirm. His muscles are wasted.’
Teclis felt ashamed of himself. He knew he had been judged and found wanting.
‘No stigmata of Chaos,’ said another. ‘He may not live. His lungs are weak.’
That comment made him angry. He was well aware of how precarious his grasp on life was. He did not need these three to rub his face in it. Who were they to pass judgement on him?
Presumably very well qualified indeed, the calmer and more sardonic part of his mind observed. Otherwise they would not be here.
‘No visible taint,’ said the third. ‘It is not Chaos that has made him this way. If he is cursed it is with ill-health.’
The three stopped and looked at each other and began to commune as if he were not present. ‘It is too early to pass judgment on that,’ said the first.
‘I concur. With such a one as this the taint will not be visible. It will be spiritual and connected with power,’ said the second.
‘I stand corrected,’ said the third. ‘Let us proceed.’
The three of them began to work a ritual magic of great power and sophistication. Teclis watched fascinated as they wove the spell. It was divinatory magic of awesome complexity. He followed every part of the weave even if he did not understand all of its functions.
If he had possessed any doubts about the skill of these wizards, their ability to work this spell would have removed them. It was part ward, to contain any inimical magic that might be unleashed, and part revelatory spell designed to inspect his body and soul for the effects of the curse and the taint of Chaos.
The number of wizards present had been carefully calculated. No single mage could stand against three wizards of such skill. Even if he was tainted, and had been fully trained, there was nothing he could do here against the three of them. And he was not a fully trained wizard, merely a sixteen year-old elf with some stolen scraps of knowledge.
He felt the spell invade his form, passing along nerves and blood vessels, touching chakras and soul lines. He felt tiny flares of energy within his body respond, blazing up like a stoked furnace.
‘He has the Art,’ said the first.
‘He has worked magic,’ said the second.
‘Interesting,’ said the third.
‘If he lives this one will be mighty indeed,’ said the second.
‘The seeds of greatness are in him.’ Suddenly a huge jet of flame erupted from the pit. Gigantic plumes of molten magma formed themselves into the image of a huge, robed figure. Flames flickered in the eyes of the priests. Teclis saw the lines of force connecting them to the thing in the pit.
Teclis realised that the spell had joined not just the mages and himself. It had joined the mages at least in part to the power this shrine was sacred to. They were receiving wisdom from somewhere outside of normal space and time.
‘He sees us. He senses the presence of the god,’ said the third.
‘Mighty indeed,’ said the first. ‘And perhaps wise.’
‘This one will commune with ghosts,’ said the second.
‘This one will bear a crown,’ said the second. Her voice was altered. It seemed as if something else was speaking through her. ‘And a staff.’
‘And confront the greatest daemons,’ said the first. His voice sounded exactly the same as his comrades now.
‘And stand at the centre of creation.’
‘And face the Ender of Worlds.’
‘And fight against his own blood,’ said the third.
‘Against his own blood,’ all three of them said in one terrible voice. Then all of them slumped, like puppets whose strings had been cut, and the spell ended abruptly. The power went suddenly out of them, and they seemed less like threatening and mighty wizards and more like soul-weary ancient elves.
All of them looked at each other as if shocked, and Teclis wondered what they had seen, what visions of his future had passed through their mind. Fight against his own blood? Did they mean that he was to fight Tyrion? Surely that was not possible. It was something he would not do. He wanted to demand answers from them, but the part of him that was a wizard already knew that they would not answer and he could not compel them.
‘There is no taint in this one,’ said the first masked figure.
‘There is no taint,’ said the second.
‘There is no taint,’ said the third.
‘Pass from this place and walk free, Blood of Aenarion.’ All three of them spoke in unison. Weak, and sick at heart, Teclis limped up the stairs. It took him a very long time to reach the light of day emerging out onto a stone ledge. The smell of the sea assaulted his nostrils and made him feel sick.
Tyrion waited there for him. His heart started to pound. His head started to spin.
‘I passed,’ said Teclis and collapsed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-seven
By the light of the two moons, through the curtain of pouring rain, N’Kari looked upon the Shrine of Asuryan and gloated. The portal shimmered closed behind him as the last of his followers emerged from its glowing surface. Ahead of him, the misty outlines of a huge ziggurat were visible through the gloom.
N’Kari studied the walls with eyes that saw more than light. He inspected the great patterns of magic swirling around the shrine. Potent spells woven
by great mages in the days of high magic were there, but they were old. There were areas where Time’s endless entropy had frayed them. There were places where the physical foci had gone and the spells were worn so thin that they were vulnerable.
He looked at them, seeing the patterns of magic superimposed on his vision of the world. He saw the souls of his own army, purple and sickly green cultists, bright blood-red Khornate daemons, lilac and lime for the Slaanesh daemons. He saw the sun-gold souls of the elven defenders.
His current force numbered in thousands with scores of daemons. They would have troubles of their own on the sacred soil within the shrine. Its very purity would make it difficult for them to maintain their present forms in the material world. Still, what was that to him. They would serve his purposes anyway. He knew he could maintain his own form even down there. He was still imbued with the energy he had stolen in the Vortex.
He gestured with his great claw. His followers responded. Sticks of bone thrashed drums skinned with elf flesh. Flutes carved from the thighbones of still-living maidens wailed dire tunes. Brazen war-horns sounded cacophonously. The stormy weather did not trouble his force. They revelled in it.
He was going to need all of his magic and all his followers to achieve his goal. The Shrine of Asuryan was a place where something akin to his kind and yet opposed to them made contact with this world, communicating with its followers, feeding off their worship, touching this plane with its magic. It was a mighty enemy.
It would oppose him every step of the way once he stepped on its sacred ground. More to the point it had the strength to oppose him, could cause him great pain, banish his daemon followers, twist the minds and destroy the bodies of his mortal worshippers. The core of this place was protected by spell walls that would make it difficult to work magic until he was within them.
