by Gav Thorpe
In the larger towns, the carnage was even worse. Squares and plazas were choked with the dead, from newborn to elder. The cobbles were stained red with blood, the walls daubed with gore in the shape of Khaine’s runes. Caledor despatched Carathril and several other messengers back to Yvresse, to seek out priests and priestesses of Ereth Khial to come and make proper preparation of the dead. Caledor did not envy them the task, and knew that many years hence the survivors of Cothique would still be burying their dead.
For several days they marched, and met no resistance. Here and there they came across stunned survivors who had hidden in caves and woods. Some had buried themselves beneath the mounds of the dead to avoid the murderous attention of the druchii. They described the orgies of bloodletting that had swept across the kingdom since the turn of spring. Whole villages had been cut down as the druchii had rampaged through the woods and fields.
It was senseless, even for the atrocities of Khainites; slaying for its own sake.
As more days passed, it became clear that the druchii had not long abandoned Cothique. Further north there were more refugees, first in their dozens, then the hundreds, coming down from the high mountains. Caledor’s host joined with Finudel and Thyriol’s army, who brought with them more than three thousand more elves who had fled the massacre.
‘They have been recalled to Nagarythe,’ said Thyriol. ‘To what purpose, I do not know.’
‘Why such slaughter?’ asked Athielle, who remained stern-faced despite the horrors encountered.
‘Rage,’ replied Thyriol. ‘The Khainites struck out in blind rage, perhaps angered by the call back to Nagarythe. Knowing they were going to leave, they resolved to kill as many as possible before they went.’
The grim news did not cease. They came to Anirain, the capital, and found it a burned husk, the walls cast down, every building razed nearly to the foundations. The tangled mass of bodies in every home and shop, every tower and palace gave testament to what had happened; locked inside by the Khainites, more than ten thousand elves had been burned alive as their city was put to the torch. Such was the charnel stench that the army was forced to move away; desertions amongst the companies increased significantly as distraught elves fled back to their homes in their hundreds.
Caledor’s mood matched the devastation that surrounded him. Eight days earlier he had found a glimmer of optimism, a seed of hope that might be nurtured into victory. Such thoughts were far from his mind as he watched soldiers with scarves wrapped across their faces carrying the dead from the ruins; a labour that seemed like it would take an age.
His anger was spent. There was no ire left for those who had committed such slaughter, its scale too vast to comprehend, its evil too dark to contemplate. Caledor took himself away from the army and with Maedrethnir flew up into the mountains. Asking leave of the dragon, he found a quiet mountain lake and sat at its rim, staring at his reflection.
He wept for the whole night. From sunset to sunrise, Caledor gave vent to the grief that had built within him for thirteen years. He shed tears for the dead, for his cousin Thyrinor and the thousands of others whose lives had been claimed. He cried for his son, for a world he would grow into that allowed such things to pass. And at the last, the Phoenix King of the elves wept for himself, out of pity and weakness and raw despair.
When the sun rose, he gathered his thoughts and flew back to his army. The world had not ended and the druchii had not yet won. The withdrawal of the army from Cothique clearly signalled some new shift in the war; one for which Caledor was determined to be prepared.
The lamenting of the prisoners rebounded from the rough stone walls, moans and wails of misery amplified by the great dungeon in which they were chained. Several black-robed elves stood over the captives with curved daggers in hand, the blades shining with grim runes.
In one wall a cell housed a furnace, its coals kept hot by a bellows worked by two scar-backed slaves. Beside the forge stood Hotek in his full panoply, the Hammer of Vaul in hand, a sheaf of parchments in the other. He studied his notes as Morathi swept into the room followed by three sorceresses. Behind them came more slaves, their eyes put out so they could not see the burden they carried.
On a bier strapped to the bent backs of the elves rode Malekith. His wasted form was propped up by silk cushions, a blood-flecked sheet across him to hide his ravaged body. His eyes stared from a mask of blackened flesh, and the prisoners’ wailing increased in volume at the hideous sight. At Morathi’s command, the slaves lowered the prince’s seat in the centre of the chamber before being driven out of the dungeon by the lashes of their overseer.
‘He will need to stand,’ said Hotek, glancing with dead eyes at the reclining prince.
‘I cannot,’ whispered Malekith. ‘The flames took my strength from me.’
‘Not for much longer,’ said the priest of Vaul with a sly smile. ‘Soon you will be stronger than ever.’
‘I will give you the strength,’ said Morathi.
She strode up to one of the prisoners and grabbed her long hair, dragging the bedraggled elf to her feet. With her other hand, Morathi gestured to the acolyte beside her and received the adept’s dagger.
The sorceress-queen began an incantation, the words harsh, spat from reddened lips like curses. The prisoner writhed weakly in her grasp, eyes roaming the dungeon for escape. With a quick gesture, Morathi drew the dagger across her captive’s throat and handed it back to the acolyte. Holding up the drooping corpse by the hair, she cupped her free hand and filled it with blood gushing from the wound. This she swallowed, smearing her face with crimson.
A tenebrous presence coalesced around the dead girl, snakes of shadow coiling about her, probing the open wound in her throat. Morathi dragged the body across to Malekith, leaving a trail of blood on the bare stone floor. The shadow-creature followed, tendrils drifting as it did so, seeking the life fluid it craved.
‘Drink,’ said Morathi, using her hand again to catch some of the blood, holding it to Malekith’s lipless mouth. He lapped at the red liquid like an animal, painfully gulping it down.
The shadow slithered along Morathi’s arm, tinged with droplets of blood, sliding across her shoulders to rear up beside Malekith. The formless thing wavered for a moment, dabbing its incorporeal limbs at the blood on the prince’s fleshless chin. When these drops were gone, it contracted, sliding into his open mouth.
Malekith gasped and shuddered, rocking left and right on the bier. His lidless eyes stared at his mother as clenched fists beat at his side. With another rattling hiss, the prince slumped back, fingers twitching. He lay motionless for a moment.
Malekith’s quiet laugh silenced the plaintive noises of the prisoners, chilling their hearts. With deliberate care, the prince sat up, pushing aside the bloodstained sheet.
‘Life from life,’ he said, some of the timbre returned to his voice.
‘It is fleeting,’ warned Morathi, taking her son’s offered hand.
He swung one leg from the bier and then the other. With his mother’s support, Malekith stood, swaying uncertainly. Morathi released her grip and stepped back. The prince took a faltering step, and another, all the while his haunting chuckle echoing from the walls. As his strength returned, he straightened and turned to face Hotek.
‘I am ready.’
The priest nodded and signalled to his attendants. Each of them carried a piece of blackened metal, curved and rune-encrusted. Some were recognisable: breastplate, vambraces, gorget, gauntlets. Others seemed utterly alien, strangely shaped, trailing sheets of black mail or fixed with awkwardly angled hinges.
The first piece was put into the furnace. The slaves were whipped to increase their labours at the bellows. Muttering prayers to Vaul, Hotek fanned the flames with magic, until they burned white-hot. Reaching his bare hand into the fires, he retrieved the piece of armour. Impervious to the heat, he carried it to Malekith, who watched the proceedings with the remains of his brow knotted in concentration.
‘This w
ill burn,’ said Hotek.
Malekith’s reply was a shrill laugh, tinged with madness.
‘I can burn no more,’ whispered the prince. ‘Do it!’
An acolyte brought forwards a smoking rivet in a pair of tongs. Hotek and his assistant crouched, the priest placing the hot piece of metal against Malekith’s flesh with a hiss of vapour. Malekith giggled.
‘Now,’ said Hotek.
The acolyte pushed the rivet into place. With a few whispered words of enchantment, Hotek struck lightly with the Hammer of Vaul, tapping the hot rivet through its prepared hole and into the bone of Malekith.
The prince snarled with pain, and swayed for a moment. He wished he could close his eyes. Instead he set his mind aside, going to the place he had created for himself in the cold depths of his thoughts.
He pictured himself on a golden throne, wearing his father’s armour. Prince after prince came forwards, kneeling to kiss his booted feet while a chorus of maidens sang Malekith’s praises. The sun shone down upon the ceremony, casting stark shadows. In a nearby cage something insubstantial writhed; the shade of Bel Shanaar brought back from Mirai to witness the coronation of the true Phoenix King.
With a start, Malekith was dragged back to reality. Two bodies lay at his feet. His body burned with fresh fire, but it was no more than he had grown used to. Acolytes moved around him, painting blood from the sacrifices into the runes carved upon the pieces of armour put in place, following each curl and line with brushes made of elven hair.
His lower legs and feet were clad in the smoking black iron. He did not remember lifting his feet, but realised he must have done so. He could feel the rivets hammered into heel and toe and laughed at the thought of being shod like a warhorse.
There was chanting. His mother looked on silently, but her adepts’ words swished around the chamber, verses overlapping, creating an arrhythmic harmony of magic. More rivets were driven into the scrawny flesh of his thighs, and links were riveted into place through the sides of his knees.
The pain was becoming too intense again as more of the hot metal was placed against his flesh. It was a physical pain, nothing like the soul-searing agony of Asuryan’s blessing, but it was pain nonetheless and he retreated from it.
A thousand white doves flew into the blue skies to mark his ascension to rulership, while a thousand clarions rang out his tribute.
When next he perceived clearly what was happening, he was clad from foot to neck in the armour. Every part of him trembled. He could feel the energy of the spirit he had consumed slipping away.
‘Too soon,’ he muttered. ‘I am falling.’
Morathi hurriedly beckoned to an adept, who sacrificed another captive and brought the blood to Malekith in a cup of ancient silver. Malekith took the cup and then stopped. He realised he had not held a thing for more than a decade. He examined the fingers of his new hand, each perfectly articulated. He recognised the dwarf-work that inspired the design and smiled to himself. Even now, his great adventures of the past were still bearing fruit.
Drinking the blood, enjoying the flex of the armoured arm as if it were his own flesh, he dropped into pleasant memory; sharing a goblet of wine with his good friend, the High King Snorri Whitebeard.
He remembered the old dwarf’s confused expression. The taste of elven wine was nothing like the brewing of the dwarfs. Snorri had gulped down the glass in one draught. Malekith poured him another and told him to savour it, to let it roll across his tongue and moisten the inside of his cheeks. Always ready to try something new, the High King did as was suggested, making great exhibition of swishing the liquid in and out of his cheeks. He tossed back his head and gargled, making Malekith laugh with surprise.
Smacking his lips, Snorri...
Snorri was dead.
The memory changed and Malekith’s heart sank. He knew that part of him had died with that noble dwarf. Not since had Malekith allowed himself to trust anyone as he had trusted Snorri; not since had he ever allowed himself to know the weakness of friendship. It was too painful, the heartache of loss, and Malekith had lost himself in his grief.
The fires flared anew and Malekith was brought back to the present. A film of red covered his vision. His own blood, he realised.
He blinked.
The simple motion caused him immeasurable joy. The thinnest slivers of black metal had been fashioned into eyelids. Malekith blinked again, and then closed his eyes. He enjoyed the darkness and more time passed.
‘It is done,’ announced Hotek.
Malekith flexed his arms and bent his legs, trying out his new body. It felt like his own flesh, though the burning had not lessened. Half a dozen dead elves lay sprawled at his feet, throats slit, their blood anointed upon his forged form. He could feel their spirits sliding around him, trapped within the runes of the armour.
‘Not finished,’ he said. ‘My crown.’
Hotek looked confused and turned to Morathi for explanation. She summoned an acolyte who brought forth a velvet cushion on which was placed a circlet of dull grey metal, spikes jutting at strange angles like a crown conceived by a lunatic.
Morathi reached a hand towards it, but Malekith grabbed her wrist. She howled in pain and tore free from his grip, backing away. There were burns on her flesh.
‘You cannot touch it,’ said Malekith. ‘It is not yours, it is mine.’
He took up the Circlet of Iron. It felt icy cold to his touch. While Morathi fussed over her burnt wrist, Malekith raised the strange crown to his head and placed it on his brow.
‘Weld it,’ said the prince. ‘Make it a piece of the helm.’
Hotek did as he was bid, striking more rivets into Malekith’s skull before securing the circlet in place with molten metal. Malekith reached up and tugged at the circlet, assuring himself that it could not be removed.
Satisfied, his closed his eyes again. He let his thoughts free from his body, tasting the dark magic seething around the dungeon chamber. He felt the inrushing of power and rode the wave of energy, spearing up through the roof of the chamber, passing through the many floors of his father’s palace like a meteor called back to the stars. Anlec dwindled below him and he shifted from the plane of mortals into a realm of pure magic.
As at the first time he had worn the circlet, he looked at the Realm of Chaos, the domain of the Chaos Gods. On this occasion he had no fear. He materialised in his armoured form, burning white hot, his presence blazing across the dominions of the Chaos Gods as a challenge.
Sentiences not of any mortal recognition stirred. Malekith felt their attention slowly drawn towards him.
‘I am Malekith!’ he declared. A flaming sword appeared in his hand. ‘Son of Aenarion, the daemons’ bane. Hear my name and know me, the rightful king of the elves!’
As a comet of power, he plunged back to his body. The runes of his armour exploded with dark flames as he re-entered his artificial form. He opened his metal eyelids, revealing orbs of black fire.
He looked down at the elves around him. They seemed small and insignificant. His voice echoed strangely from the mask of his helm, filling the room.
‘I have returned,’ he declared. ‘Pay homage to me.’
All present fell to their knees, instantly obedient to his words; save one, who fixed him with an expression of utter happiness.
‘Hail Malekith!’ cried Morathi, golden tears streaming down her face. ‘Hail the Witch King of Ulthuan!’
SEVENTEEN
MORE BLOOD ON THE PLAINS
It was too much to believe that the ambition of Morathi and the druchii had been finally thwarted, though there were some amongst the princes that believed the abandonment of Cothique signalled as much. Carvalon and Tithrain were the chief proponents of this view, arguing that the druchii army had surely been withdrawn to shore up the defence of their home kingdom. They went as far as to suggest that embassies be sent to Nagarythe to initiate discussions for an accord.
Caledor was far from convinced by this argument and warn
ed that not until Morathi had been slain and the druchii brought to their knees would they ever consider any kind of peace. It was a difficult debate, made all the harder for the Phoenix King by his own desire to end the war.
‘It would be the easy answer to believe we are on the brink of victory,’ he confided in Thyriol one evening.
The two of them shared a jug of wine on a balcony of the mage’s floating palace, looking down across the moonlit Inner Sea. So tranquil was the scene, it was almost possible to forget the woes of the past thirteen years. Almost, but not quite. Caledor could not rid himself of the things he had seen, especially the carnage he had witnessed in Cothique.
Thyriol seemed much changed by his personal battles too. His daughter and grandson had turned against him, and he had slain the latter. Several mages Thyriol had once counted close allies, friends even, had been corrupted by the lure of dark magic, and sorrow lay heavily on the Sapherian ruler as he stood beside Caledor at the rail, his shoulders sagging, back bent as if weary with burden.
‘I must concur with your assessment,’ said Thyriol. He let out a drawn sigh and swirled the wine in his goblet, eyes gazing into the distance. ‘We face a foe every bit as irrational and determined as the daemons. They will not capitulate and they will not accept an easy peace. Part of me thinks you should allow an embassy, if only so that its failure will curb these false hopes that erode the resolve of our allies.’
‘That would be unwise,’ said Caledor. ‘Any hint of weakness will be seized upon by the druchii. And such entreaty will simply offer them an opportunity for manipulation. I would rather some of the princes harbour doubts than give our enemies a means to divide us even more.’
‘You are right, I am thinking poorly,’ said Thyriol.
The ancient mage fell silent and for a change it was Caledor that felt the need to speak, to fill the quiet to avoid the company of his own bleak thoughts.
