In time—moments or an eternity, Malekith could not tell—the swirling colours began to coalesce around him. They formed into a nightmarish landscape above the centre of which floated the elf prince. The skies boiled with fire and black clouds, and beneath him stretched an arcane plateau that stretched on for infinity: the Realm of Chaos.
In one direction Malekith spied an unending garden, forlorn and decaying, filled with drooping willows and sallow grasses. A miasma of fog and flies drifted up from the overgrown copses of bent and withered trees, and rivers of oozing pus gurgled between fronds of clinging fungi and piles of rotted corpses. Marshes bubbled and boiled and pits of tar gurgled, spewing gaseous vapours into the thick air.
At the centre of the unkempt morass rose up a mansion of titanic proportions: a grandiose but tottering edifice of crumbling stone and worm-eaten wood. Peeling paint and flaking brick stood upon cracked stone and bowed beams, crawling with sickly yellow ivy and immense black roses. Fumes belched from a hundred chimneys and gargoyle-headed pipes spat and drooled gobbets of ichor across cracked tiles and mouldering thatch.
In the smog and gloom shambled daemons of death and plague; immensely bloated creatures with pustulant flesh and pox-marked skin, and slobbering beasts with slug-like bodies and fronds of tentacles dribbling noxious emissions. Swarms of boil-like mites scrabbled over the sagging walls and roofs of the manse, while a legion of cyclopean daemons, each with a single cracked horn, meandered about the wild gardens chanting sonorously.
Turning his gaze from the filth and squalor, Malekith then looked upon a mighty citadel made up of glimmering mirrors and crystal. Its surface shimmered with a rainbow of colours, translucent yet transparent, shifting with eddies and swirls of magic. Doors yawned like devouring mouths and windows stared back at the prince like lidless eyes. Fires of all colours billowed from the spires of thin towers, sending fountains of sparks trailing down to the ground below.
All about the bizarre palace was an immense maze, of shifting walls of crystal. The twisting, contorted pathways overlapped above and below, and passed across each other through unseen dimensions. Arcing gateways of flame linked parts of the immense labyrinth together, flickering from blue to green to purple and to colours not meant to be seen by mortals.
The skies about the horrifying tower were filled with shoals of creatures that climbed and swooped upon the magical thermals, shark-like and fearsome. Formless, cackling things cavorted and whirled about the maze, flashing with magical power. Daemons with arms that dripped with fire bounded manically along the winding crystal passages, leaping and bouncing with insane abandon. Malekith felt his eyes drawn back to the impossible fortress and saw that a great gallery had opened up.
Here stalked arcane things with multi-coloured wings and bird-like faces, with contorting staves in their hands and robes of glistening pink and blue. One of the creatures paused and looked up at him. Its eyes were like pits of never-ending madness, deep oceans of swirling power that threatened to draw him into their depths for eternity.
Breaking that transfixing stare, Malekith then looked upon a blasted wasteland, surrounded by a great chain of volcanoes that spewed rivers of lava down their black sides and choked the air with their foul soot. Immense ramparts were carved from the mountainsides, huge bastions of dread hung with skulls and from whose jagged battlements fluttered a thousand times a thousand banners of red.
Within the encircling peaks the land was rent by great tears and chasms that welled up with blood like wounds, as if it had been constantly rent by the blows of some godly blade. The skeletons of unimaginable creatures were piled high amongst lakes of burning crimson, and all about were dunes made of the dust of countless bones. Hounds the size of horses with red-scaled flesh and enormous fangs prowled amongst the ruination, their howls tearing the air above the snap and crack of bone and gristle.
At the heart of this desolation grew a tower of unimaginable proportion, so vast that it seemed to fill Malekith’s vision. Of black stone and brass was it made, tower upon tower, wall upon wall, a castle so great that it would hold back the armies of the whole universe. Gargoyles spouted boiling blood down its brazen fortifications, and red-skinned warriors with wiry frames and bulbous, horned heads patrolled its ramparts. Upon its highest parapet there stood a thing of pure fury; rage given bestial, winged form. It beat its broad chest and roared into the dark skies.
Shuddering, Malekith turned fully about and stood bewitched by a panorama of entrancing beauty. Enchanting glades of gently swaying emerald-leafed trees bordered golden beaches upon which crashed white-foamed waves, while glittering lakes of tranquil water beckoned to him. Majestic mountains soared above all, their flanks clad in the whitest snow, glistening in the unseen sun.
Lithe creatures clad in the guise of half-maidens cavorted through the paradise, laughing and chattering, caressing each other with shimmering claws. Across emerald meadows roamed herds of sinuous beasts whose bodies shimmered and changed colour, their iridescent patterns hypnotising to the elf prince. Malekith felt himself drawn onwards, ensnared by their beauty.
Suddenly realising his peril, Malekith tore his gaze away from the mesmerising vision. He became distinctly aware that he was being watched and could feel the attention of otherworldly beings being turned in his direction. Feeling as if his soul were about to be laid bare and flayed before the gaze of the Chaos Gods, Malekith felt terror gripping him. He sought somewhere to flee, but in every direction spread the domains of the Dark Gods. With a last dread-driven effort, he wished himself away and was surrounded again by the twirling energies of magic.
When his vision had cleared again, Malekith found himself hovering far above the world, as if stood upon the edge of creation itself and looking down upon the realms of men and elves and dwarfs and every other creature under the sun. He could see the jungle-swathed forests of Lustria where lizardmen scuttled through the ruins of the Old Ones’ cities. He saw orc tribes massing in the blighted wilderness, carpeting the ground in tides of green.
Over everything drifted the winds of magic, now more clear to him than they had ever been. The prince saw them streaming from the shattered Gate of Chaos in the north and spreading out across the northlands. He saw the vortex of Ulthuan as a great swirl of power, drawing the energy out of the world. He saw sinkholes of darkness and blazing mountains of light.
In that instant it all became clear to Malekith. The whole world was laid out before him, and he saw as perhaps only his mother had before seen. There were torrents of power that swept across the lands untapped by mortal kind. The very breath of the gods sighed over oceans and plains, down valleys and across forests. From Chaos came all magic, whether good or ill. It was stunning in its beauty, just as a storm-tossed sea can enthral those not caught in its deadly grip.
Malekith lingered awhile, now aware of the crown burning upon his head. It acted as some kind of key, some artefact created by the races that had come before the rise of elves, before even the coming of the Old Ones. It would be easy for him to stay here forever, marvelling at the rich, random choreography of the dancing winds of magic. He could spend an eternity studying their heights and depths with the circlet and still not unlock all of their secrets.
Something nagged at his mind however, a sensation deep within his soul that threatened to break his reverie.
Yeasir struggled to his knees, still weak from the magical blast that had cast him down. The alarmed shouts of his comrades grew more urgent as the skeletons began to advance up the steps towards the Naggarothi. Crawling to the edge of the uppermost level, he looked down to see the unliving legion marching implacably onwards, each stepping in synchronicity with all the others, guided by common purpose or will. The arrows of the elves had little effect, most bouncing harmless from the glowing bones of their enemies, others simply passing through them as if they were nothing more than ghosts.
As the first line of skeletons reached the uppermost step, the Naggarothi struck out with their spears, driving
silvered points into skulls and ribcages. This had more effect than the arrows and no few skeletons crumbled into bones, their golden light ebbing and then disappearing. Their advance was as inevitable as the coming of the tide though, and even as the first rank fell the second stepped forwards, and the third, and the fourth.
The skeletons’ blades were as keen as the day that they had been forged, despite the passage of ages, and they bit into shield and flesh as the skeletons attacked back. Cries of pain and fear began to reverberate around Yeasir as he struggled to pull free his own sword, but the scabbard was pinned beneath him and he had not the strength to lift himself from it.
The elf to Yeasir’s left gave a cry and toppled down the steps as an unearthly blade slashed through his throat. The skeleton took another pace forwards into the space the elf had occupied and turned its grinning face towards Yeasir. It raised its arm above its head, the wicked black blade in its hand sparkling with golden light. Yeasir gave a cry and tried to push himself away, but the skeleton stepped forwards again, ready to strike. The captain pulled his shield in front of him just as the sword swung down, and the undead thing’s blade rang against it with a dull crash.
Again and again the sword smashed upon the shield, with relentless, metronomic ferocity. After the tenth blow, all the strength was gone from Yeasir’s arms and the eleventh strike smashed the top of the shield into his face, stunning him. Dazed, he could do nothing as the skeleton’s sword arm rose high again. He stared into the guardian’s eyes, seeing nothing but pits of darkness.
The golden light that filled the room flared into white intensity, blinding Yeasir. He shrieked and knotted his eyes shut, expecting to feel the bite of the unnatural blade any moment. No blow came and Yeasir opened a single eye, fearful of what he might see. The skeleton still loomed above him, arm upraised, but its aura had dimmed to a faint glow and it stood utterly motionless.
Yeasir opened his other eye and dared to let out his breath. The captain then heard harsh laughter from behind him and turned his head slowly, wondering what other fearful apparition awaited him.
Malekith stood in the centre of the dais, the circlet upon his head blazing with power. His face was drawn but he was filled with a glow of energy. His expression was one of disdain, divine yet strangely cruel. His gaze was distant. The prince looked at Yeasir for a long while but did not appear to actually see him. The prince flung out an arm and with the gesture the skeletons came to life once more, turning upon their heels and marching back down the steps. Panting with relief, Yeasir watched as they returned to their plinths and once again took up their immobile vigil.
* * *
With the power of the crown, Malekith could see the magical forces binding the skeletons together and the ancient commands that blazed within their empty skulls. It was simplicity itself to order them to stop, and then with another thought the prince bid them to return to their eternal slumber. All about him the hall was filled with great golden arches and glittering pillars, unseen to all except him.
Given extraordinary awareness by the circlet he could look upon the magic of the ancient architects of the city, the curving galleries and arching balconies constructed from mystical forces that even he had been unaware of. This was why the chamber was devoid of other magic, for it contained its own power, far stronger than that of the fitful winds of magic. Just as air cannot pass into a solid object, so too the winds of magic found no room to creep into the enchantment-filled chamber.
Now gifted the insights granted by the crown, there was no telling how acutely the Naggarothi prince might master the power of Chaos. With the circlet to act as his key, Malekith could work such spells as would make the witchery of Saphery seem insignificant. Had he not looked upon the realm of the Chaos Gods itself? Did he not now know their lands, and had he not dared them and survived?
Elation filled Malekith, more majestic than any triumph he ever felt before. His mother had warned that Chaos was the greater enemy; the perils of orcs and the armies of the beastmen paled into insignificance against those legions of daemons that Malekith had seen. The Chaos Gods plotted and waited, for they had an eternity to ponder their plans and to make their schemes. The elves could not shelter behind the power of the vortex forever, Malekith realised, for he had felt the slowly growing power of the Chaos Gods even as he had stood in their midst.
It all came together in the prince’s mind. The men of the north were vassals of the Dark Gods, and as they prospered and multiplied, so too would the influence of their ineffable masters. There might come a day when the bulwark of the vortex would fail, and again the hordes of Chaos would be unleashed upon the world. Ulthuan was utterly unprepared for such an eventuality. Bel Shanaar could not hope to meet such a threat. It was an apparent truth to Malekith that he alone, with the power of the circlet, now bore the means by which the elves might be protected from this greater doom.
Slowly, with much effort, Malekith took the crown from his head. The great magical architecture faded from his vision and he found himself back in the strangely angled hall beneath the prehistoric city. His Naggarothi surrounded him, staring at their lord with eyes full of wonder and fear.
Malekith smiled. He now knew what he must do.
PART TWO
The Cults of the Cytharai
The Return of the Prince
Anlec Restored
The Will of Asuryan
—
The Malaise of Luxury
Even as Malekith embraced the destiny revealed to him by the Circlet of Iron, far to the south on Ulthuan another elf started upon a path that would see him brought into the fates of the most powerful princes of the isle. An unassuming captain of the Lothern Guard, Carathril led a handful of his company along the harbour road. His mission was secret, known only to a few amongst the court of Eataine, but its import was beyond reckoning. That night would set in motion a series of events that heralded the end of the elves’ golden age.
White light blazed across the night sky, shining from the thousand windows that pierced the walls of the Glittering Tower. Surf sparkled as it crashed against the rocks upon which the lighthouse was built. By the light of the Glittering Tower ships moved to and fro across the bay, passing into and out of the great portal of the Emerald Gate, beyond which lay the still waters of the Straits of Lothern.
Their white sails cast a ghostly shimmer over the calm waters, bathing the sea with radiance.
Past rearing cliffs lined with towers and walls, where the spear tips of sentries could be seen moving endlessly on their patrols, rose up the bulk of the Sapphire Gate, its wrought silver dazzling under the magical light of the giant gems set upon it. In the starlight beyond the Sapphire Gate, a lagoon opened out, tranquil in its stillness, where white beaches climbed out of the quiet waters.
Piers and wharfs crowded with ships of all sizes curved elegantly across the waters. Small jolly boats and pleasure craft hung with golden lanterns drifted along the shore, the laughter and conversation of their revelling passengers echoing across the softly lapping waves. Amidst the forest of tall masts and slender spars of white-decked merchantmen and sleek-sided yachts, the mass of warships loomed large. Immense dragonships rode confidently at anchor, their golden rams and silver-chased bolt throwers shining reminders of their bloody purpose. Darting hawkships tacked back and forth through the sea traffic, their Sea Guard crews ever alert to any danger.
Around the lagoon, the city of Lothern stretched up into the hills. Verdant terraces, abundant vineyards and low-built villas dotted the hillsides, linked together by winding paths of silvery grey that meandered from the shoreline up to the great mansions and slim towers built upon the peaks of Lothern’s twenty hills. Quiet reigned over the city; not the peace of contentment but a hush of apprehension.
A languid malaise blighted Lothern, just as it gripped all of the island of the elves. Many elf-folk of Ulthuan had lost themselves in debauchery and excess. What had begun as aesthetic gatherings, readings of darkly
poetic works and ceremonies of mutual solace, had become something far more sinister. With blood sacrifices and twisted rituals of debasement, the cultists now pleaded with forbidden powers for release from their woes.
The pleasure cults had drawn in others by offering the simple thrill of experience, for the elves had always been a people who felt sensation and emotion strongly. Let loose from the civilities of polite decorum, some elves had lost themselves in the raw hedonism enjoyed by the cults of excess, indulging every perverse whim and partaking of any forbidden deed.
Few suspected the true extent of the cults’ inveiglement into their society, nor the secret machinations that fuelled the midnight conferences of their shadowy leaders. Even fewer knew the true extent of their network, for in outlook each appeared individual and disparate, unique emerging counter-cultures within each realm and city with no connection to the travails of the other kingdoms. So it was that Bel Shanaar and his princes sought to quell the rising power of the cults through political and spiritual means, hoping to forestall the recruitment of new followers and rebalance the distressed psyche of the elven people.
Carathril was intent upon the destruction of a cult recently uncovered in Lothern, and to this purpose he led his warriors along the winding streets of the city.
In the manse of Prince Aeltherin on the outskirts of the city of Lothern, hidden amongst carefully tended orchards and perfectly appointed gardens, a vile ceremony was reaching its climax.
The air in the marble hall of the elven lord swirled with purple and blue vapours, which billowed from braziers wrought from the twisted bones of animals. Intoxicated by the narcotic fumes, a sea of elves writhed upon the red-carpeted floor. Fishermen and nobles, servants and lawmakers lay together, rendered equally low in their depravity. Some wept at nightmares only they could see, others laughed hysterically, while a few simply moaned in ecstatic pleasure.
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