With a deafening roar, the shaggoth cast the remains of the unfortunate Naggarothi in its claws, so that he smashed back into the company, toppling several more elves. Its swords blazing with energy, the prehistoric monster hacked and chopped with savage glee, slicing great bloody wounds into the regiment.
Summoning what little magical power remained after the dwarfs’ counterspell, Malekith charged in to the attack, Avanuir trailing blue flames as he swept the magical sword towards the beast’s underbelly.
The creature reared with an angry bellow and Malekith was forced to leap backwards to avoid a raking claw aimed for his throat. Ducking beneath the swipe of a monstrous sword, Malekith took hold of Avanuir in both hands and hacked at the beast’s legs, though even the enchanted blade of Nagarythe bit only lightly into the armoured skin of the terror.
Alerted by his preternatural senses, Malekith tried to dodge another swinging blade, but was caught on the shoulder by the shaggoth’s fist and sent wheeling through the air. Landing heavily, the wind knocked from him, Malekith struggled to regain his feet. Pouncing with unlikely speed, the shaggoth grasped Malekith in one of its foreclaws and wrenched the prince aloft. Its right arm swung back ready for the death blow, energy arcing from the blade it held.
With a wordless shout, Malekith drove Avanuir deep into the flesh of the creature’s foreleg, causing it to spasm and drop him to the ground. Crawling forwards, Malekith ducked beneath the creature’s bulky body and then stood, raking the tip of Avanuir along the softer skin of its underside. Thick, dark blood dripped from the wound and the shaggoth tried to back away so that Malekith would not be hidden by its own body. The prince rolled between its thrashing legs, avoiding an immense sword that dug a great trench in the earth where he had been stood, and drove Avanuir into the base of the shaggoth’s tail.
Such wounds would have been grievous against any other foe, but the shaggoth was not even slowed by them. Malekith rolled beneath another attack and barely brought up Avanuir in time to deflect another blow, though the parry sent the magical sword spinning from Malekith’s fingers.
Unarmed, Malekith stood up to face the beast, staring defiantly into its black eyes. Intelligence flickered in those inky depths, a recognition of what Malekith was. Other Naggarothi jabbed and hacked at the shaggoth with swords and knives, trying to draw its attention away from their prince. It turned quickly and swept them away with a swing of its tail, hurling them from their feet. Malekith remained where he was stood, hands balled into fists that glowed with magical flame.
The shaggoth loomed over the lord of Nagarythe, its twin swords held high above its head. More lightning arced down from the storm clouds it had summoned, earthing into the tips of those primordial blades. It crossed its blades in front of it in a mocking salute, its mouth twisted with an evil smile.
The first strike caught Malekith full in the chest, lifting him from his feet with an explosion of electricity. Sparks of energy flew from the prince’s magical armour as he sailed a dozen feet into the air and then crashed down onto the rocky ground. Pain lanced along his spine and his ribs felt shattered, but Malekith’s pride would not let him die on his back.
With a grunt, he pushed himself to his feet, his injuries sending spasms of agony through his body. The prince turned to face the shaggoth once more.
“I am Aenarion’s son.” Malekith spat blood onto the ground at the shaggoth’s feet. “My father slew the four greatest daemons that the Dark Gods could send. Armies were laid low by his blade. The world trembled at his tread. All will remember me as they remember him.”
The shaggoth brought down its leftmost blade and Malekith raised his arm to protect himself, the ensorcelled gold of his armour screeching and blazing with light at the impact. The shaggoth’s smile died, and its brow furrowed in frustration and anger. Another blow that would have felled trees and shattered stone sent Malekith skidding backwards, his arm broken, a slash across his face.
Spitting more blood, Malekith stood again.
“Your time is long past,” Malekith taunted the beast. “Our time is now. Go back to your dark hole and pray to your filthy gods that we do not hunt you down.”
With a roar of anger, the shaggoth lashed out wildly, allowing Malekith to easily avoid the blow. Malekith ducked beneath the sword, and then leapt high, fuelled by anger and magic, his blazing fists smashing the shaggoth across the face. Reeling from the blow, the shaggoth took several steps back, shaking its head.
Landing lightly, Malekith readied himself to strike again when the shaggoth let out a great howl of pain. It whipped around, and the prince saw that its tail had been half-severed. There was a flash of light from some source obscured by its gigantic body, and a clawed foreleg whirled into the air in a fountain of thick gore.
Ducking so that he could see beneath the creature’s heaving gut, Malekith saw the dwarf High King, blazing rune axe in hand. Each blow cut through flesh and bone without pause, sending the shaggoth staggering from side to side.
Determined that he would not be upstaged by Snorri, Malekith leapt to where Avanuir had fallen and snatched up his blade. Though his left arm was shattered and his insides burned from injuries that could not be seen, Malekith sprinted forwards and leapt upon the shaggoth’s back. As it bucked and turned, Malekith ran up the bony crests along its spine. Spitting through gritted teeth from the pain, the prince grabbed one of the shaggoth’s curling horns with his crippled left hand and planted a foot upon its shoulder.
With a triumphant cry, he brought down Avanuir across its neck, chopping deep into the thickly muscled flesh. Thrice more Avanuir bit, until the beast shuddered and spasmed and then collapsed to the ground. With a final effort, Malekith sawed the head free and tossed it to the ground beside Snorri, who was awash head to foot with the entrails and sinews of the monster. The beast’s remains toppled to the ground, tossing Malekith unceremoniously into the blood-slicked mud next to Snorri.
The High King looked down at Malekith, his eyes glittering behind the visor of his helm. He then gave the curious thumb-up signal the prince had seen the dwarfs use as a sign of approval.
“We’ll share this one, I think,” Malekith said magnanimously.
Only then, with his point proven, did Malekith allow himself to pass out.
—
An Alliance Forged
With the shaggoth slain and their goblin allies routed or slaughtered, the beastmen had little stomach for the continuing battle and quickly slunk back into the woods. Neither elf nor dwarf was prepared to venture after them, the dwarfs knowing they would never catch their swifter foes, the elves utterly undone by the shaman’s spell and the shaggoth’s attack.
It was a much slower and wearier march back to Karaz-a-Karak for Malekith. His whole body ached and his back and arm flared with pain every time he took a step. The dwarfs offered to carry him upon one of the war machine limbers, but Malekith refused such indignity. Agonising though it was, he walked alongside the dwarfs, hiding his pain as best he could.
It was a source of pride that those of his warriors still capable of standing did likewise, though seven of them were so badly wounded that he allowed them to be carried on the wagons. The bodies of nineteen others were carried with dignity amongst the dwarfen dead.
The dwarfs were similarly determined to prove their resilience, though a good many had suffered broken bones and deep cuts. Bandaged and hobbling, they marched back to the capital with their heads held high, as high as any dwarfs head could ever reach.
Malekith spent most of those following days with the High King, and was pleased that the heroic display of his warriors and himself had earned much respect in Snorri’s eyes. Snorri was much more talkative, and seemed eager that the coming negotiations went well.
To cheers and great clamour, the throng returned to Karaz-a-Karak and strode through the gates. The dwarfs chanted Snorri’s name and came forwards to congratulate their returning warriors. The elves were greeted with similar enthusiasm and were
presented with all manner of small gifts and tokens of the dwarfs’ appreciation by wide-eyed beardlings and smiling dwarf maidens.
That same night, the High King hosted a banquet for the victorious army, and lavished his warriors and the elves with food and beer. He bid Malekith the honour of sitting at his right-hand side, and gave the prince his own royal drinking tankard. There were many toasts raised, and more speeches, though on this occasion Malekith was far more complimentary to his hosts than he had been in Karak Kadrin. He thanked the dwarfs for their hospitality and spoke of their courage and honour. He pledged his lifelong friendship to their people, and swore an oath of brotherhood with the High King.
This last was a great occasion and marked the dwarfs’ absolute acceptance of the elves as their comrades and friends. Whatever the negotiations and trade talks would bring, Malekith now knew that he would forever be an ally of Snorri, and found himself glad that this was so, not only for the power and prestige this would surely bring, but also because Malekith genuinely liked and admired the dwarfs’ ruler.
The day after the celebratory feast, Alandrian was summoned to Malekith’s chamber. The prince gave him a very personal mission. The lieutenant accepted his orders without question and sought out Aernuis. He found the Eataine prince in one of the upper galleries.
“There is something important we must discuss,” Alandrian said with a conspiratorial tone. “Come with me.”
Aernuis followed without question as the Naggarothi captain led him out of the hold via one of the many secondary gates, and they walked out onto a windy rampart high up the mountainside.
“Where are we going?” asked Aernuis finally, as Alandrian took them up a winding stair that led up to a cliff face.
“We cannot risk being overheard or seen,” Alandrian confided.
Saying no more, Aernuis ascended the steps and they stood side-by-side upon a wide ledge. Beneath them a swift river had cut a deep ravine, and gushed over a steep fall into a pool surrounded by jagged rocks some two hundred feet below. Spray filled the air and the roar of the water masked all other sound.
“What is it that you have to say?” asked Aernuis.
“I have a message from Prince Malekith,” said Alandrian.
“What is it?” replied Aernuis.
Swifter than a striking snake, Alandrian stepped behind Aernuis and pulled a curved blade from his belt. Grabbing the prince by the chin, he drove the point of his blade into Aernuis’ back, cutting through his spine. Aernuis struggled as he collapsed to his knees, his cries muffled by Alandrian’s hand.
“You are no longer useful to him,” Alandrian hissed in his victim’s ear. “Malekith has the ear of the High King now, and he remembers the slights against him. He is not known for his forgiving nature.”
Aernuis writhed and wept, but Alandrian’s grip was as tight as a vice.
“My prince cannot allow you to live,” the Naggarothi explained. “He would willingly let his light shine upon your life, but he cannot share power with you. You are beneath him, and your petty ambition would undermine all that he hopes to build.”
The Eataine prince flailed at his assassin but Alandrian easily batted away his grasping fingers. Without any hint of pleasure or regret, the Naggarothi drew his knife across Aernuis’ throat and pushed him from the ledge. He stepped forwards to watch the body tumble into the spume. The trail of arterial blood spewing from the wound was soon swallowed up by the fury of the waterfall. Tossing the blade casually after the Eataine prince’s corpse, Alandrian turned back towards the stair. He wondered where he might find Sutherai.
Fifteen days later, the audience chamber of Snorri was filled with a crowd of dwarfs and elves. Though ostensibly mingling and getting to know each other, the two peoples were keeping to their own and only a few brave souls of either race ventured over to talk to the opposite delegation. The High King sat upon his throne and watched all of this with amusement, Malekith stood upon his right.
“It is a shame that your two companions are not here to witness the culmination of their efforts,” Snorri remarked.
“A shame indeed,” Malekith replied without pause. “I cannot comprehend what possessed them to venture from the city without an escort.”
“Nor I,” said Snorri.
Malekith detected no hint of accusation in the High King’s voice, though perhaps the prince’s ignorance of the dwarfish language masked some implication in the words.
“I am glad that their disappearance has not caused problems for the negotiations,” Malekith said smoothly. “It is good that their sudden departure has not formed unfounded suspicions between us. Such an occurrence could have unravelled many months of careful planning.”
“Do you think there is cause for suspicion?” said Snorri, turning a questioning eye upon the prince.
“I think not, but I can see how one might view such matters with suspicion. I do not think that there is any conspiracy at work. Prince Aernuis has long been in self-exile and perhaps the impending talks got the better of his nerve.”
“Whatever his reasons, he is probably troll-fodder by now,” said Snorri, returning his attention to the throng below. “Or worse.”
“A regrettable end for a prince of Ulthuan,” said Malekith.
They both allowed the hubbub of the hall to wash over them for a while until Malekith felt the need to break the silence.
“Shall we join our parties and bring them together?” the prince said.
“Yes, let’s get this pony moving,” said Snorri, stepping from his throne.
* * *
For more than a year the talks between the elves and dwarfs progressed, and there were many treaties signed and oaths sworn on both sides. While the rulers and diplomats haggled, the common people of both races got on with the business of the actual trade, reaching local agreements and personal bargains with their opposites.
Malekith recovered from his wounds in time to see the negotiations concluded. Once fit again, he divided his time between Athel Toralien and Karaz-a-Karak, and led the elves to numerous celebrated victories over the creatures of darkness. Bel Shanaar sent the prince a mighty gift in recognition of his achievements: a white dragon from the mountains of Caledor. As his father had done in the time of the daemons, Malekith led the armies of the elves from atop this mighty beast and his foes fell before him. Many times more over the following centuries did the prince of Nagarythe march forth beside the High King, and their friendship was a symbol of the unity between the races of elf and dwarf.
The alliance with the dwarfs heralded the golden age of the elves; their colonies spread across the globe and the wealth of distant lands flowed into their coffers. Their fleets travelled wherever the elves’ desires took them, and cities of gleaming marble and alabaster rose up in the wildernesses of the world.
From Ulthuan the elves spread to every corner of the world, settling in the steaming jungles of Lustria, the savage forests across the great ocean, and upon volcanic isles in the east. The cities of Ulthuan grew with the empire, so that even the meekest of their kind lived in grand mansions amidst great luxury. Everything from the sea to the mountains became the domain of the elves, and in the peaks the dwarfs reigned supreme, their own empire growing vast upon the spoils of the alliance.
Only one land remained free of elvish influence. Eastwards, beyond the mountains of the dwarfs, lay the blasted wastes of the Dark Lands. No elf wished to venture further east, for there was plenty enough for both peoples to enjoy and the dwarfs warned that there was nothing but death and misery in the barren desert.
Thus the elves named the high peaks Saraeluii: the Mountains at the Edge of the World. Truly they were masters of all that they surveyed. Their armies marched at will under the command of the princes, and the evil orc and goblin tribes, vile beastmen warbands and unnameable Chaos creatures were driven into the far north.
Only here, at the very roof of the world, would the elves not venture. It was here that the Realm of Chaos touched upon the wor
ld, disgorging its tide of magical energy, warping and corrupting the lands. Having suffered greatly at the hands of daemons before, the elves had no desire to war against the Dark Powers upon the doorstep of their otherworldly realm, and were content to corral the nightmare mutants and monsters upon the bleak ice and keep them from the cities in the south.
Malekith found that his spirit was not quelled by these battles, for his foes were now of little threat, scattered remnants of the huge tribes and armies that had once made the woods their homes. His dragon was slain by a monstrous giant whilst the Naggarothi fought against the last great horde of orcs to beset the elves’ lands, and with reluctance the prince realised an age had ended. Elthin Arvan had been tamed, and with that his chance for greater renown would ebb away. So it was that Malekith finally turned his attention to the north, and first went into the cold lands of the Chaos Wastes.
—
The Passing of an Age
Hoping to regain some of his former passion, Malekith renewed his friendship with the dwarfs of Karak Kadrin, and alongside them took the fight to the monsters and mutants that came south from the Realm of Chaos. On occasion the High King would join Malekith in these conquests, and together they forged along the mountains and across the tundra to bring civilisation to the icy wilderness.
For a while Malekith was content, his turmoil soothed by the comfort of battle and his isolation from the politics of the elven princes. With sword in hand he became master of his own fate once more, and the legends of his exploits grew in proportion so that again his name was spoken of in awe by the high and the mighty of the colonies and Ulthuan.
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