Chronicles of the Dark Empire
A Compendium of Stories From Finubar the Mad
Enthardon moved with grace behind the two attendants of the prison. While the steps of the two humans could be heard clearly as they echoed down the stone passageway, Enthardon barely uttered a single sound. He grimaced at the appearance of the structure. The bleak stone and the disgusting accumulation of mold and mildew made him quickly remember why he loathed staying in human settlements for any extended period of time. This trip, however, made Enthardon more upset than usual. This errand was beneath him, and the fact that he had to go to Marienburg to pick up this Asur and drag him back to Ulthuan angered him greatly. Had it been any other but the Phoenix King and Enthardon would have laughed in his face. But unfortunately, it was Finbuar himself who approached the Aesenar with this request; and here he was, in this disgusting prison for the insane. The attendants stopped at one of the faceless doors and fumbled with their giant ring of metal keys. It took all of their combined force to open the heavy iron door, and it slid open with a high pitched scrape as the bottom of the door dragged across the stone floor. Impatient, Enthardon stepped through the door, his dark gray cloak flowing behind him. In the middle of the cell was a large oak desk, and scattered all around were piles and piles of parchment. On each and every page were frantically written elven runes, and they were pilled up as high as Enthardon’s waist. On top of the desk were half a dozen candles that burned brightly, although they were on their last inch or so of wax – each candle was surrounded by a large puddle of wax that the flames had already consumed. Surrounding the candles stood even more stacks of parchment, and sitting behind the desk was a feverishly writing elf. His long hair was caked in sweat and dirt, hanging from his head in wiry strands. He was so focused on his writing that he did not even see Enthardon and the two humans enter. One of the humans stepped forward and stood next to Enthardon. With a heavy sigh, he brought Enthardon up to speed. “We found him in the middle of a militia armory clutching his knees and completely nude. He had carved these into himself.” The attendant walked up to the elf, and very gently pulled back the brown robe sleeve to reveal perverse runes carved into his arms. “They’re all over his body.” Even though the conversation was about him, the crazed High Elf did not break concentration, and he continued his diligent scribing. “How did he get into the armory? Was he attempting to steal anything?” The attendant shook his head, his fat, middle aged jowls rocking back and forth. “Nothing was disturbed. Not even the door. From what we can tell, he simply appeared in the middle of the building.” Enthardon skimmed over some of the countless sheets of paper. “Do you know his name?”
“Finubar is what he told us. He was quite adamant. Claims he was sailing from Ulthuan to escape some war. Wanted ‘some history to survive’ is all he could mutter.”
Enthardon walked behind the desk. Grabbing the chair forcefully, he spun it around so the supposed Finubar was facing him. Finubar still kept writing, his quill now making shapes of runes in the air. Grabbing the elf’s face with force, Enthardon grabbed it and pressed it up so that the Aesenar could make eye contact. He had only seen the top of the elf’s head before, but now it was clear. The face was an unmistakable look alike of the Phoenix King. This elf bore a few additional scars, but the resemblance was remarkable. The Prince of Nagarythe turned back towards the humans. “Take him to my ship.”
Several weeks later…
“How is this possible?” Finbuar asked. He grimaced at the sight of the broken and wretched elf that sat before him. “The mages say every fiber of his being has been assaulted by the aethyr. Whatever happened to him, the ruinous powers are to blame,” Enthardon replied. The Phoenix King ran his hand through his hair as he thought to himself. “How did he change his form to look like me?” “The mages say his aura and yours are nearly identical. His carries a great taint with it, but if his physical appearance was somehow altered by a spell, it would not change how the Sapherians view him with their witch sight.” Enthardon picked up a hefty book and walked it over to Finubar. It contained many of the papers from the prison – the Aesenar had the pages bound on their journey home from Ulthuan. He opened up to the first few pages and held it out to display the contents. “From what I can tell – He was writing some twisted version of history. As far as he believes, Malekith defeated Caledor thousands of years ago. I’ve never seen a mind so corrupted by Chaos, but retain such a lucid false history.” “Interesting. A very intricate false reality indeed, Prince. I’d very much like to read his accounts,” Finbuar ran his finger over the pages and stopped at the large title on the first page. In great, dark runes it read:
Chronicles of the Dark Empire
The Deranged Tales of Finubar the Mad
On the subject of the Sundering 1 An Introduction 2 Revelation 6 Enmity 14 The Siege of Anlec 19
On the subject of the War of the Beard 21 The Witch King 22 The Phoenix King 26 The Rebellion 31 Rescue and Exodus 35 The Shadow King 46 The Beginning of the War 51 The Human Race 66 The Traitor 69 Enemies at Home 74 Dragonslayer 78 The Forest Awakens 85 A Fateful Duel 91 The Last Blaze 97 The Coming of Sethalis 100 Oaths and Oathbrearkers 103 The Events That Were To Follow 113
On the subject of the Hour of the Wolf 116 Bloodied Sand 117 Shifting Desert 121 Old Sword from Old Days 130 Eternal Servants 134 Children of Ash 139 A King’s Duty 146 The Price of Failure 153 The Dying Light 158 The Halting Sands 170
Harvest 174 What Chaos Promised 176 The Bloody Toll of Vengeance 181 The Vision 202 Deliverance 205 Coronation 211 The Assassination of Malekith 224 Found Once More 229 Tears of the Oak Father 232 Changing of the Guard 236 Valaya Protects 241 The Fall of Sarthailor 246 At the Reik’s Throat 251 Hidden Hope 256 The Last Journey 263 Et tu, Nagash? 271 Conclave of Twilight 278 The Black Dawn 285
Concerning Ulthuan in Flames 292 Oriour 293 Cadaith 298 The Wilderness 304 Thanan 312 Chronicles of the Dark Empire 322 Chronicles of Imperial Ulthuan 331 Beyond the Wilderness 339 Asur 347 Out of the Wilderness 364 Everything and Nothing 376 Tremors 381 Return of the Kings 386
On the subject of the Sundering
1 An Introduction By Calarion Sapherior From the Sundering Campaign
A New Age Dawns
After the war against the powers of Chaos, Ulthuan faced a long and difficult period of rebuilding itself from the ruins of war. Many of the greatest heroes had perished during the struggle, and so when the Phoenix Council met it was for them to decided unto whom the Phoenix Crown would pass. There was but one logical candidate – fair of face, strong of arm, wise of mind, the son of Aenarion was a great lord and Malekith was supported by many in his quest to honor his father by taking up his position as Phoenix King.
But others were opposed to Malekith’s succession and so the Council of Princes ruled against him. While non could fault him, there were many who remembered the barbaric depravities of Aenarion’s court in Nagarythe, and who feared what one born in such conditions would be capable of. And so Malektih was passed over, and the new Phoenix King was instead Bel Shanaar, the High Prince of Tiranoc. Malekith was the first to acclaim their decisions and swear his fealty to the new Phoenix King.
Bel Shanaar proved a wise and just king. After his ceremonial marriage to the Everqueen Yvraine ended, he swiftly cemented his power by a union with the grand-daughter of Caledor Dragontamer, and sought to placate the proud folk of Nagarythe by making their lord Malekith his right hand. The elves restored their power in Ulthuan, building great cities around the fortresses they had dwelt in during the war with Chaos. Pre-eminent amongst these was the great jewel of the known world, Tor Anroc, seat of the Phoenix King, which grew rich and proud with trade.
Colonies were founded also as the elves began exploring anew the world around them. Malekith was foremost amongst these explorers, leading armies to subdue the barbaric orcs, and drive off the remnants of Chaos. Many served under his banner, and so he gained followers from all over Ulthuan, who could personally attest to his bravery, skill at arms, and his honor. He personally met with the dwarves, and was for a time ambassador unto them.
The Cult of Pleasure
But when Malekith returned from his expeditions to what humans know as the New World, he found Ulthuan had changed during his long absence. The Cult of Pleasure, a hedonistic movement, had slowly spread throughout Ulthuan in the wake of such newfound prosperity, and through it the worship of Chaos had returned. Elves had abandoned their ancestral gods to pay homage to the Lord of Pleasure himself, hermaphroditic Slaanesh, and there were rumors of decadence, live sacrifices, and obscene orgies and rituals.
Bel Shanaar, unsure of how to combat this new threat, turned in desperation to his friend Malekith. The son of Aenarion was the only one he could trust to battle this evil. Malekith began his work in Nagarythe, in Tor Anelc itself, and there uncovered a nest of vipers: a huge coven of Slaaneshi
2 worshippers led by his own mother Morathi. Malekith denounced and imprisoned them all, even his own mother, for the sake of duty.
Malektih continued his purge, spreading his influence into the other kingdoms. The headquarters of the inquisition were in Athel Kanya, a small fortress in northern Nagarythe, and no one could predict who would be dragged away to answer to them. Devotees to the Cult of Khaine, the terror the inquisitors inspired was immense. But the Nagarythi were displeased by what they saw as their persecution, now with their own lord seeking out traitors amongst them and imprisoning their revered High Priestess.
A Hero Falls
In latter day, it was said that Malekith had been insane, that he had hidden ambition and deceit under a mask of honor, and that his goal had always been the crown. But Malekith’s nature was undeniable – he truly was the foremost of Elven heroes of the time. However, his pride, his honor, and his greatness would be the keys that led to his own downfall. Bel Shanaar was a great king, but there was no doubt that their relationship was uneven, for Malekith was one of those marked by destiny for greatness, and he stood head and shoulders in all respects above his friend. How could doubt not emerge, under such conditions? How could Malekith not begin to consider himself the greater of the two, when he clearly was?
Upon his return to Ulthuan, the truth became more and more self-evident. Bel-Shanaar had failed to suppress the Cult of Pleasure that was tearing his nation asunder, and was incapable of doing so. The role of a king was to lead his people as the foremost amongst them, but Bel-Shanaar had enver done so. It was Malekith who led the armies, made alliances, and now had to exorcise this cancer from his people. Morathi it was who tipped the scales. When Malekith discovered she was the High Priestess of the Cult of Pleasure, unwilling to arrest his honored mother, she poisoned his ear with the same words that had poisoned his father. Bel Shanaar was weak. His rule had led Ulthuan to the brink of civil war. He had failed to excise the Cult. Why should he rule, instead of Malekith?
The doubts that had been growing in Malekith’s mind for centuries took full form as the honeyed poison of his mother’s words assailed him. And those doubts consumed him as he agreed to her suggestion – the Cult of Pleasure could be turned to serve him. All he had to do was ally with it, and the crown could be his. It would be so easy to drive it out after he had become King. Malekith made his choice – he freed his mother in secret, and his inquisitors began to remove his political enemies, those who might work against him when the time was right to make his move. There was no limit to whom they would take – even the High Prince of Saphery was arrested on false charges and imprisoned in Athel Kanya, to rote there while Malekith gained the throne and finally stabilized his nation.
The Fateful Day
It was in midwinter, in the 1668th year of Bel Shanaar’s reign, that events finally came to a head. Civil unrest in Nagarythe was at a high, and soon it was feared it would become civil war. The Council of Princes met in the Shrine of Asuryan for the Feast of Light, the midwinter religious festival, and on the day after the feast they would decide how to avoid the catastrophe of war. That day would never come, as the Feast of Light that year became the day in which history irrevocably changed.
Malekith knew this was his chance to take the throne. All the pieces were in place. All he had to do was convince the other Princes of Bel Shanaar’s incompetency. As the feast was to begin, the High Prince of
3 Nagarythe stood up, raised his glass, and denounced the Phoenix King bitterly. He told how Bel Shanaar’s ineptitude had ruined Ulthuan, how he had allowed the Cult of Pleasure to grow with his inaction, had as good as allied himself with it and had led the Asur to the path of destruction. The Princes were horrified by the disrespect of Malekith’s words, but more horrifying to all was when the Phoenix King, intending to reply, instead toppled over. He had been killed by poison in his goblet. None will ever know how Bel Shanaar came to be poisoned. Some say he took his life; others say that Malekith poisoned him. Still others hold that Morathi herself had been responsible, creating the final catalyst for what would unfold without anyone’s knowledge.
In any case, chaos reigned. Malekith may have had some hold over the Princes before, but now they believed he had murdered the king, and they turned upon him. Malekith was forced to defend himself, and what should have been a bloodless coup turned into a bloodbath. When the fighting ended, many of the Princes had been slain, and the rest had surrenedered to him, cursing his name as the vilest of traitors . But Malekith knew was he had to do, and entered the Flames of Asuryan. In that furnace, the god would absolve him of his sins and pronounce him the rightful king. Malekith truly believed that he would be the next chosen of Asuryan, but as he entered the flames and the horrific screams sounded, it became obvious this would never be.
Somehow, a charred and deformed Malekith managed to fling himself from the flames to collapse naked, skinless, at the verge of death, before the shocked Princes. Morathi emerged and spirited the barely living High Prince away, flying by Pegasus to Nagarythe. On that day, the King had died, and his greatest champion had fallen. On that day, the Sundering began.
The Forces Muster
It was now obvious to the few remaining Princes that Malekith would return, at the head of an army. A new Phoenix King had to be chosen. Swiftly, the Princes analysed those who were still alive, looking for a new king who could lead them as a symbol, as a great warrior. They chose Imrik of Caledor – grandson of Caledor Dragontomer, and brother to three who perished that day: the High Prince of Caledor, the Phoenix King, and his consort. Imrik was absent hunting in the mountains of Chrace, surviving that day, but it was hoped that his valor and symbolic qualities would make him an excellent leader, and that his well known lack of political experience would make him easily manipulable – the perfect figurehead.
Meanwhile, as Malekith raved and screamed in Anlec, still tormeneted by the agonies of the flames, Morathi took command in his stead. She swiftly united the forces of Nagarythe – the Cult of Khaine, strong right hand of Malekith, and the Cult of Slaanesh, his left hand. She spread disinformation throughout Ulthuan, lies and truth intermingled together, and chaos reigned as the lords had to decide which of the two opposing sides to support. The Princes were spreading their own propaganda, and so no one was sure of the truth.
The forces of both sides rushed to Chrace, were the newly proclaimed Phoenix King was. The Princes reached Imrik first, proclaiming him to be their new leader, and telling him of what had happened. But shortly thereafter, a force of Nagarythi assassins dispatched by MOrathi from the Forest of Tari located them and attacked. Had fate not intervened, the Phoenix King would have perished long before his coronation, and without a leader the Princes would have been easily overthrown. But a small band of Chracian huntsmen were in the woods, having just completed their rite of manhood for the young Ulthwe Windrider, and they intervened. With their aid, Imrik survived the assassination attempt, and adopting them as his defenders, journeyed south for the coronation.
4 Imrik passed through the flames and took the name Caledor, after his illustrious grandfather. Immediately he began mobilization for war, knowing that it was now inevitable. On the day before Caledor would have his ceremonial marriage to the Everqueen Nairalindil, word came – the armies of Nagarythe invaded Tiranoc through the pass of Malinand Londe, surely headed for the great metropolis of Tor Anroc. Forgoing the marriage, Caledor departed immediately for the front lines. The Sudnering had begun.
5 Revelation By Calarion Sapherior From the Sundering Campaign
Tor Anlec. The immense fortress-city dominated the barren plain that spread about it, vast and monolithic. Layers of fortifications encircled it, massive black pinnacle-towers and shell upon shell of fortress. Even large than the great capitol of Tor Anroc, wealthiest city in the world, Tor Anlec was almost prehistoric in scale. It seemed impossible to believe that a citadel so vast could have been anything less than the abode of gods, and not the construction of mere mortals. Smoke rose from within that dreadful place, and about the walls scarred and pitted with the wars it had weathered. Even daemons had found it an impregnable fortress. Even more minute than ants seemed the ever-flowing river of elves that swept over the plains around the city, which poured into the city, engulfed within it. They had been summoned. Alith Anar turned to gaze upon the small band behind him, feeling suddenly faint from the futility of it all. The greatest fortress ever constructed, with the largest army ever mustered gathering within it. And he, he and six other, would single-handedly attempt to defeat this? It seemed lunacy. But some things have to be done, despite the odds, the Prince of House Anar reminded himself. Certainly no army could ever hope to breach that dreadful place, not now, but where an army would falter, seven elves might succeed. It seemed a propitious number, with the weight of legend behind it. Seven elves against the black heart of the war which wracked this land. And those with him were worthy of legend: Enarlion Whisperblade, Tanilas Nightflower, Irithar Moonsinger, Jadia Windspell, Salenar Ravenseye, and Ashnari Doomsong. The seven greatest warriors of House Anar, all assembled to enter Tor Anlec - and to kill its master. “We split up and each join a different group entering the city. It should be easy enough to gain entrance. Once in, stay with those you joined with. We’ll reunite in the Peler Khaine just before the assassination attempt.” They nodded. None of them would let him down, he knew. They would achieve their goal, or perish in the attempt. Except, in the darkest hollows of his being, he knew the truth. None of those assembled would escape alive. He had not voiced this to the others, but knew it as an inevitability. Looking in their eyes now, he knew that they, too, had realised this. “Irithar, you’re first. Loec be with you.” The short she-elf nodded curtly, and then, rising, began her descent towards the city. With so many armies, it would be easy for her to slip unnoticed amongst one of them. Hopefully. They waited for another seven hours. Every hour, another of the small band would rise and leave, the next to enter the city. Harsh-featured Jadia was the next to go, shouldering her mighty longbow. Then Enarlion, blademaster, his black ponytail swinging behind him. The mage Salenar, austere and sternly handsome, the fourth to depart. Tanilas Nightflower embraced the band before she left, leaving behind her only the scent of her dusk-rose perfume. And finally it was Ashnari Doomsong who left to enter the city, leaving Alith Anar alone to gaze over the arteries of armies pumping soldiers into Tor Anlec?s foul heart. His mind wandered as he gazed at Asuryan’s flame in the sky, watching the fiery orb sinking in the sky. Its dim presence behind the stormclouds that had begun to roll in off the sea was the only
6 means he had of telling the time. The clouds were thick, and held the promise of a future thunderstorm; maybe tonight it would strike. If his guesses as to what would unfold tonight were correct, it would match perfectly. The gods must have a sense of the melodramatic, he concluded, and laughed humourlessly to himself. He gazed up infrequently, at the gradually disappearing sun. Finally he determined that an hour had passed since Ashnari?s departure, and that it was time for him to go. “Loec, guide me now. Guide us now. We are going to need all the help you can spare us,?”he prayed briefly, sincerely. Then he, too, rose and started down the path towards the armies. His plan for gaining entry was simple: the simpler it was, the less room for error, or so he thought. Clad in the armour of one of Lord Morgukai’s slain bodyguards, he would join up with the hosts entering Anlec, and lose himself within their numbers. He could see the point where he would join them already: an outcrop of rock at the edge of the cleared field about Anlec, past which the armies were marching. Slowly, he worked his way there. Timing was important; he could not move too slowly, for haste would have him spotted. Slowly he worked his way across the barren field, reaching the boulders. He stood up there, his back to it. No one had noticed him yet. Good. The tide of warriors swept past the rock, and without hesitation Alith Anar left his position, slipping into their ranks. He was borne away by the throng and swept deep into the fortress.
It was some time before Alith Anar found a chance to slip away, for there was always another elf around, always a set of eyes upon him, and he could not draw attention to himself; not yet, at least. There would be time enough for that later. For now, he strode confidently along the small side-streets that wended their way through the fortress-city. It took mental discipline to do that much; surrounded by so many enemies, his instincts were telling him to run, to hide. Fortunately instincts could be sublimated, for attempting to use stealth would draw more attention to him, now that he was in Tor Anlec. He had to look as if he belonged there. He had been to Tor Anlec before, a long time ago, before Malekith had revealed himself as the vile murdering traitor that he truly was. Using that knowledge, he now sought to find the Peler Khaine, where he knew the meeting would be taking place. Memory served him well; the Peler Khaine was the great field outside the Temple of Khaine and the High Prince’s Palace, at the heart of the city. It was there this night that the lords and generals of the traitors had been summoned. Anlec had changed since he was last here. It had always been a grim place, dark and gloomy, the elves withdrawn and wary. But under the golden age of Bel Shanaar, Alith Anar remembered the colour of great festivals to the gods, dancers and revellers wearing brightly hued robes and sashes. He remembered the smell of exotic foods, from all over Ulthuan, being offered for sale at the side of the streets. He remembered the calls of the market vendors, offering wares and pleasures legal and illicit, familiar and unfamiliar. All of that was gone now. He remembered, just a child, eating a piece of sticky fruit-bread which his father Eothlir had bought for him from the markets. The vendor he remembered vaguely, at best; he remembered the vendor’s warm smile. The vendor would be dead now, or amongst the soldiers battling against the forces of Caledor. Perhaps the vendor had been present when Athel Anar was razed, when Eothlir was butchered, when his grandfather Eolaran taken and tortured to death. Perhaps Alith Anar had killed him. He shook his head. No point thinking about has-beens and could-have-beens; there was too much in the here and now which he must focus on. When he died and went to Morai-Heg’s halls, then he could think about regrets. He looked up. He had reached the walls of the central compound. Another stretch of bleak grey fortifications, with a small gateway inset into them. A steady stream of elves moved through it, slowed by the handful of guards who moved amongst them, stopping an elf every now and then.
7 Random checks, of course, Alith Anar realised. Fortunately, he had come prepared for them. Opening his belt pouch, he found the summons which he had taken from the body of Lord Morgukai. That would be his safeguard should he be stopped. Boldly, the Prince strode out from the alleyway and approached the gate. As fate would have it, he was not stopped; instead, he joined the stream of warriors and moved through the gates, into the Inner City. It stretched before him now; the Peler Khaine, a vast field flanked by the massive and imposing Temple of Khaine on the left and the High Prince’s Palace on the right. It was here, two thousand years ago, that Aenarion the Defender had mustered his armies for the war against Chaos. Malekith seemed keen on proving himself his father’s heir; had to be, since it was the only shred of legitimacy he could provide to his claim for the throne. He would muster his forces at the same place. The storm clouds had filled nearly all the sky now. The last rays of the sun seemed weak and very far away, as they penetrated the few gaps in the roiling black morass of the sky. Rain began to fall; a light moist mist that sizzled in the light of the great brazier-torches set up about the Peler Khaine, and rose back into the air as smoke. Already the field was filling up with the assembled warriors, the nobles and generals of Malekith’s forces and their chosen few. Alith Anar slipped amongst them. It was time to find his men. There was not much time. But there were too many; well over a thousand elves were standing in the Field of Khaine, waiting for the revelations they had been summoned to witness. He cast his keen gaze through the crowd, but there was no sign of his compatriots. A flush of worry swept through him; had they been found? Was Jadia Windspell, for intance, even now revealing the plan to the tender ministrations of Anlec’s expert torturers? Worry was an emotion Alith Anar did not permit himself. He blocked it off. Either his mission would work, or... it wouldn’t. That was all. He was nearing the front of the crowd, gazing out at the huge granite platform at the head of the field, flanked by flaming braziers, when he heard a new noise. Heavy and rhythmic, it was the sound of footsteps. The ceremony had begun. Lines of halberd-wielding warriors marched on to the stage. They were clad in evil-looking armour of black plate and iron chain, covered with spikes and blade edges, and holding serrated halberds of the finest ithilmar. The prince of House Anar had never seen them before, but their very bearing spoke of their skill, and their intimidating equipment was of the finest quality. He swept his eyes over them, counting quickly; he had not survived this long by not paying close attention to his enemies. There were in total twenty seven of the warriors, and he recognised their leader, who did not wear one of the large horned helmets. It was Narkathe Fenix, one of the leaders of the traitors in Caledor. Alith Anar had heard word of the butchery this one had committed at Vaul’s Anvil, and of his prowess as a leader and a warrior. That one would be a truly dangerous foe. Narkathe led his warriors on to the great platform, where they took up positions. The guards, Alith Anar realised, as he surreptitiously worked his way further forward. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of something, and, turning, saw Tanilas Nightflower. She nodded gravely at him. So, at least one of the others was here as well. The rain redoubled in intensity. The armour of the guards on the stage was slick with water running off it. Alith Anar’s hair was becoming soaked. The great braziers hissed and sputtered, and steam rose in clouds off them. On the horizon, the great rumble of thunder echoed. A near palpable atmosphere of anticipation was growing amongst the spectators; soon, they knew, they would witness the reason they were summoned here. It happened too fast for Alith Anar’s eyes to fully comprehend its arrival, rather than its presence. Suddenly, a crackling ball of incandescent light was crackling upon the dais. The elves strained to look upon it, but had to avert their eyes, so bright was the light. It roared, louder than the thunder’s
8 roll, and resolved itself into the shape of an elf, still glowing a brilliant white, too bright for any to see details of it. Alith Anar gaped. This was Malekith? This angelicly radiant apparition? He had never seen magic so blatantly powerful. The Cripple King had truly recovered. Surely only the gods could have blessed him so! For a heartbeat his resolve hung in the balance, but no more. The memory of his father’s severed head and mutilated body at Athel Anar, the weight of his grandfather’s corpse in his arms as he carried it to the funeral pyre, these were enough to dispel all doubts. And as he realised this, the form changed from some avatar of the heavens, to an image of the purest hell. The luminous being dimmed, and changed, and now Alith Anar could see the form truly. Massive and imposing, it strode forth, a cloak of shimmering purple-stained ithilmar weaving about it. Its armour was dark, almost black, form fitting, spkied and bladed like that of the guards; or rather, that of the guards was but an imitation of this, the master suit. As Alith Anar stared at it he could see purples and blacks and blues melting and bending into each other, moving in ways armour should not ever be able to move. It was like a symbiotic skin rather than the magnificent shimmering construction that it was. The left hand continually clenched and unclenched, terrible and taloned. But most imposing of all was the eyes. No skin, no sign of the wearer of this terrible living armour could be seen, save in the midst of the ithilmar stag-horned helmet. There, alone, two eyes burned out, powerfully, feverishly. They were entirely green, blazing with a horrific energy. An aura, physical in its force, swept over the assembled elves. Fear and awe assailed them. Alith Anar knew he was in the presence of a force primordial in its pure, unadulterated evil, and his very soul shuddered and screamed at that realisation. And yet in the wake of that force, all he wished to do was to fall on his knees, recognising and worshipping that terrible, awe-filled image. Calling upon all the depths of the hatred of this force he had ever found within him, all the considerable willpower he possessed, Alith Anar fought that aura. About him the other elves did not. “Malekith! Malekith!” they chanted, and fell on their knees, worshipping this dreadful, wondrous spectre that had appeared before them. Alith Anar fell to his knees too, mindful that to stand would draw too much unwanted attention to himself. He toppled to the grassy field, prostrated himself, hated himself as he did it, and screamed out, “Malekith! Malekith!” And then it spoke. Its voice was harsh, rasping, metallic. It was strained and hoarse, yet powerful. It sounded as though the throat which issued it forth should never have been able to form speech again, and every word uttered from that shadowed maw was torture to the one who spoke it. Raising his right hand, Malekith hushed the crowd immediately. They were his, body and soul, and hung open his words as they began to come forth. “I have returned!” Malekith said, his bellow scarcely more than another man’s whisper, and all the more audible for it. “The pretender Bel-Shanaar tried to destroyed me; and failed. The very gods have tried to destroy me; and yet, I am here!” The crowd roared its assent. Alith Anar could see on his right another dark elf staring at Malekith with a look of pure, mindless adulation on his face. He shivered. “You, the chosen people, have been without a lord too long. You have been persecuted for your loyalty, tormented and slain by the minions of the Traitor King Imrik, who dares call himself Caledor! It is time your faith was rewarded!” Again they roared their support. Thunder bellowed in the sky, sheets of lightning stabbing accusingly at the earth.
9 “This night,” Malekith hissed, “this night, is the end of the dark age that has enshrouded this country for so long! We shall go forth! We shall carry the battle to the minions of Imrik, and drive them before our righteous wrath!” A new sound could be heard now. The beating of gigantic, leathery wings. Unimaginably vast, an inky silhouette dropped from the sky, perched on top of the High Prince’s Palace. Immense wings spread, the dragon opened its mouth and bellowed, deep and powerfully. Alith Anar was screaming, but he could not hear it over the painful, deafening noise. About him, many of the others were doing likewise. The roar went on, and Alith Anar suddenly felt a piercing pain in his left ear. Moving one hand to it, he felt the flow of a small trickle of blood. One eardrum had burst, and crimson fluid was slowly leaking down his cheek and chin. Malekith raised his hand again, and all sound ceased. Even the dragon was still, upon the great tower. “For now,” he said softly, “I have the power.” And suddenly the dragon was roaring again. But this time, it sounded different, a scream not a roar. The sound tremored up and down octaves fluidly, weirdly. Alith Anar was looking square at it when its head burst in two. Showers of gore rained down as the skull exploded down the middle, splitting clean asunder and continuing down the neck. The dragon’s head; two head, still writhed in agony, and it beat its wings as if trying to move, but some great force held it in place, as it methodically finished the torture. The neck was now tearing apart, as if some great spectral scalpel was making a clinical incision. And where it had already split apart, more gore was showering forth, but stopping, solidifying, caking on. Twisted and malign, the dragon’s visage was now. Both heads opened their terrible fanged maws and screamed again, belching twin plumes of flame into the air. And on the ground, there was a stunned silence, and then someone in the front row screamed out, “Malekith! Malekith!” and the chant began again. Malekith turned from his contemplation of the tortured dragon, and gazed about him at the worshipping dark elves. His metallic helmet gave no hint of his expression, but his whole posture spoke of one thing only: triumph. “Once again,” Malekith bellowed, his whisper like the sound of waves crashing upon the cliffs of Nagarythe. Magically amplified, Alith Anar realised, and he shuddered at the power of a being who could mutate a mighty dragon so easily, hold it in place, and still have enough power left to project his voice that it could be heard by all of Anlec. “Once more, you shall have a king!” From either side of the rostrum, two bands entered. Upon the left, from the Temple of Khaine, came forth a woman, wild-eyed and savagely beautiful, wearing a scant costume of metallic plates that barely managed to cover any of her lush form. Behind her, another, clad in the armour of an Ithiltaen knight, but sable-hued. Upon the right, another woman, clad in a purple dress of simple yet elegant design, and yet infinitely more attractive than her voluptuous counterpart by her peerless features, her deportment, her hauteur. She was accompanied by a handful of elves of both genders, chosen for their incredible beauty. Morathi ;the woman on the right. held forth an item she had been carrying. The Crown of Nagarythe. Malekith fell to his knees, while the two processions of Khaine and Slaanesh moved to flank him. The two she-elves grasped the crown between them, over Malekith’s head. The throng screamed out his name, again and again. It was time for Alith Anar to act. One second the crown was suspended above Malekith’s head, held in the hands of the two elfwoman. The next, it was flying free, and Alith Anar lowered his bow. “You are king of nothing but hell,” the prince sneered. “Let me help you to your true kingdom!” Chaos reigned. About Alith Anar, his six compatriots burst forth from the crowd, upon the stage. Narkathe shouted something, and the Black Guardsmen ran forward, to engage the enemy. Morathi and
10 the Slaaneshi turned and swiftly quit the scene, while the voluptuous Hellebron and her sable-armoured companion readied weapons and charged the heroes of House Anar. And yet for all their speed, the battle was almost over instantly. Alith Anar set a second arrow to the Moonbow, great artifact of his grandfather, and with barely a second’s thought released it. It hummed through the air, between the ranks of the Black Guard. Malekith turned his head and looked straight down the shaft of an arrow moving straight for his forehead. There was no time to react; the arrow struck his helmet immediately, and the world held its breath. The arrow shattered. Malekith rose to his feet, and strode towards the closest of the band of heroes. Irithar Moonsinger levelled her spear at the prince of darkness and with a defiant cry thrust it at him, aiming for the glowing green eyes. Malekith seized the spear with one hand, shattering it like brittle driftwood. Irithar’s eyes went wide in horror, and then the great taloned left hand descended over her face, held her head, and squeezed. There was a terrible scream, and her body dropped. Gore splattered off Malekith’s hand. There was no time for shock; the Black Guard were upon him. Alith Anar managed to let off another shaft, and one of the warriors toppled, a silver arrow embedded neatly in his heart. Then he was dropping the fabulous bow into his left hand, sweeping out his longsword with the other, and the warriors were upon him. Three halberds thrust at him, and he fell back, his sword singing a metallic harmony as it worked furiously to keep them at bay. At his side, Ashnari Doomsong was likewise holding back the guardsmen with his short and long blade, while Jadia Windsong levelled her longbow at the wild-eyed Narkathe and fired a steady volley at him. The captain of the Black Guard advanced slowly, at barely more than walking speed, his halberd spinning over his head. Deflected arrows were flung aside, as he reached the archer and then lashed out at her. Jadia fell, struck solidly in the solar plexus by the butt end of the halberd. She rolled down the edge of the plinth, and the captain followed catlike, stabbing down at her with the blade. Ashnari howled, flung himself aside, and crossed blades caught the halberd between them and forced it back. Behind Alith Anar, he heard a loud whumph. and the pressure of a great wall of fire spreading behind him. Salenar Ravenseye had created a barrier of flame between the stage and the crowd, and so the rest of the elves could only watch the savage melee that unfolded. He turned his attention back to the black guard. Salenar moved in to engage one, staff crashing against halberd, and so for the time being Alith Anar fought but two. A halberd thrust at him; Alith dodged, spun behind the attacker, and tripped him with one foot, into the second guard. This one was swift on his feet, darting out of the way. Alith Anar charged him, seizing the initiative, and hammered down at him with a serious of powerful blows. His enemy was good, no doubt about it; he caught all the blows on the steel shaft of his weapon, turned them all aside. But not good enough ; Alith smashed out with the pommel of his blade, impacting heavily against the side of the warrior’s helmet. The guardsman staggered, and Alith Anar ran him through. The first guard had risen again; a swift serious of blows were exchanged before Alith Anar separated his head from his body and charged another knot of warriors. Moments later, another three of Malekith’s guards lay, hewn and bloody, at his feet. He cast his eyes about him, at the others, and knew that his intuition had been correct; this was a suicide mission. Ashnari Doomsong still held out against the captain of the Black Guard, both circling each other, looking for an opening. Both bled from numerous light wounds, but they were too evenly matched for any advantage to be apparent. Tanilas lay, writhing, at the feet of the nearly nude Bride of Khaine, who stabbed down with both blades, screaming her triumph to the heavens. Enarlion Whisperblade still fought against the spear-wielding paladin, scoring another ineffectual hit upon his foe’s armour. Jadia lay where she had fallen, a trickle of blood running out of the corner of her mouth. Dead also, he knew, and could see the wound over her gut where one of the Black Guard had slain her as she lay stunned. At his side, Salenar struck a
11 Guardsman over the head, and then channelled a burst of energy into his body, killing him. The two stood alone in the heart of the melee for a moment. And then a terrible spectre emerged from the fray, blood soaked, swinging one clawed fist still soaked with Irithar’s brains at his chest. Parrying would be ineffectual ; Alith Anar threw himself down, bent double, and felt the air stir just above him as the gauntlet whistled all too fast above his back. He straightened, and pulled himself back, again narrowly missing the return sweep. Malekith pressed him back, punching and jabbing with the terrible horned gauntlet, and all Alith Anar could do was give way before his furious advance. And then Malekith was flung aside, as a torrent of flames struck him with all the force of a huge fist, sent sprawling to the ground. Salenar approached, his staff pointed at Malekith, sending a stream of power from it to batter the fallen lord. But Malekith staggered up, holding out his right palm at the flames, and they died away as they met it. The two stared intently at each other for a time. Sweat began to bead upon the mage’s forehead. Then Salenar screamed. The flames rushing between them changed in hue to a horrible sickly black, rushing from Malekith’s palm up through the fire and up the staff, and consuming the spellcaster. Salenar stumbled back, engulfed in midnight fire. Within seconds it had engulfed him and only a small pile of charred flesh and bone was left. But Salenar’s horrific death had given Alith Anar time to recover. He howled and flung himself forward, and now it was Malekith who was being driven back by the frenzied assault. Mindful of the incredible armour that the son of Aenarion wore, Alith Anar feinted ever at the hidden face, and the lord of Anlec withdrew from him, next to the melee between Enarlion and the dark paladin of Khaine. Enarlion glanced aside for a second, and his foe struck, impaling him. Whisperblade howled, and hung suspended on the spear. His sword fell from his limp hand, and as the Khainite withdrew the spear the corpse fell. Swiftly, Malekith seized the falling blade from midair, and swept it into a parry. “Shall we dance?” the dark lord hissed in his tortured voice, and assumed the one-handed stance of a fencer. Alith Anar held his blade in both hands, his bow having been long since returned to his back, and watched, waiting for Malekith to make the first move. In the time of Bel Shanaar, Malekith had been accounted the greatest swordsman in Ulthuan. Since his terrible maiming, would he still be able to fight with the same incredible skill? Malekith moved. His sword swung and then hacked at Alith Anar’s leg. Alith Anar pulled his own blade over and down, a swift backhand parry. Blades locked and disengaged, and Malekith was already striking again, thrusting at his chest. Alith Anar stumbled aside, parried. Blades flashed and parried, and the thunder roared about them. And Alith Anar knew he was losing. Whenever he managed to claim the initiative, launch his own attacks, Malekith swept them aside, parried and dodged, and immediately returned to the attack. And they were terrible attacks, swift and powerful. It took all of Alith Anar’s skill and reflexes to keep him from harm. His arms felt numb as they absorbed the shock of the blades. He could not keep this up for much longer. And he did not. He brought his blade into a parry, only to have Malekith twist suddenly, and then the sword sunk into his right bicep, tearing the muscles and sending a rivulet of blood mingling with the rainwater that soaked him down his arm. His sword was lost, skittering away across the platform. Malekith advanced again, kicking out, and Alith Anar gave a faint cry as he toppled heavily to the ground. About him, the black guard watched as their master strode forward, levelling his blade to claim his would-be assassin’s head. And Ashnari, eyes wide in fear, still exchanging blows with the Captain of the Black Guard. Malekith?s blade swung down for Alith Anar’s throat, and Ashnari moved with the speed of a cat. One sword caught Narkathe’s halberd on the descent while the other smashed into the captain’s face. The nose shattered, blood and teeth went flying, but Ashnari was already away, leading with his long sword.
12 He caught Malekith’s sword an inch before it struck Alith Anar’s neck, and launched a furious barrage against the dark lord, whose own sword wove between them, fending off the attacks. Alith Anar staggered up and retrieved his sword. One blow, that was all it would take. None of the others were attacking now ; all watched their lord battling the last of Caledor’s assassins. The duel between Ashnari and Malekith was swift and ferocious, and over almost within a heartbeat. Blades locked, Ashnari lashed out with his shortsword at Malekith’s face. The terrible gauntlet seized it before it could go further and shattered it. And then Ashnari was flung to the ground as Malekith flung the locked blades back. Malekith strode forward as Ashnari rose to a crouch and delivered two swift blows. The first Ashnari parried, but it left him wide open for the second. The second struck Ashnari?s gut and went straight through. Ashnari Doomsong spat out a bright crimson gobbet of blood. Then, gracefully, he fell. Alith Anar screamed and flung himself forward once more. All six of his comrades were dead now, all slaughtered. They had been unprepared for the sheer power of Malekith reborn, and being unprepared had killed them. Finishing the mission was futile; escape was the only option now. The Phoenix King had to know what he would be up against. Alith Anar struck a powerful one-handed blow at Malekith. The lord of Anlec spun, pulling his blade free from Ashnari’s body, and parried. But the Shadow Prince was ready. His spare hand seized Ashnari’s discarded short sword, and he stabbed forward with it like a dagger with all his might, and all his rage and hatred. The weapon snapped, but the force of the blow caught Malekith off guard, hurling him off his feet and sending him spinning to the edge of the platform, and off it. The black guard were moving again. Malekith was rising. The time for escape was now. Alith Anar dodged between advancing warriors, and seized the fallen Crown of Nagarythe. “A monster like you,” the Shadow Prince screamed over the thunder, “shall never be the true King of Nagarythe! False pretender, betrayer of your people and your gods! There shall be enmity between us until the end of the earth, Witch King!” And then he was gone.
13 Enmity By Calarion Sapherior Of the Sundering Campaign
Fire rained down upon the city of Tor Yvresse. In bronze-cast jars, cast from the rings of ballista surrounding the city, it showered down upon the once-luminous crystal walls, now a horrible scorched and pitted black, exploding forth as the jars shattered, releasing their flaming message in swift staccato and bass rumbles in the chill air of dawn. Bursts of flame rose up through the thick Yvressan fog. The roar of ielthain heralded the second stage of assault. Lines of battle mages chanted words of arcane power, tearing at the walls, sending the fire-oil converging at the weakest points of the wall, summoning fire and air and water and earth to rend the enemy defences. They were met by the city?s defences, spells of warding and protection upon the walls themselves, and the counterspells of the hundred mages within the city, "to put you back on schedule." Ainare smiled, politely. "But, Isilion, we are on schedule. Perfectly so." "Explain." "I could have taken this city within a week, if speed had been my only concern. But the enemy commander, Lord Zrexlan, is extremely capable. He knows I have a stronger position and a stronger army, but should I have to face him over the ramparts, he would extract such a cost in blood from me that it would break both of us. The cost in lives to take this city swiftly would be catastrophic." "So," Ainare continued, "I declined to play his game. The advantage he has is the walls, correct? If they can be breached, it would be much easier to meet him on my terms, and break his position." "So you've been working on breaching the walls," Isilion said sourly. "You don't seem to have made much progress." "On the contrary," Ainare said gravely. "I have made excellent progress." "Have you really?" Isilion sneered, angered afresh by his upstart arrogant general. "I don't see any signs of it." "Because you look in the wrong place. The usual tactics for taking a city are to use a magical assault, and ielthain fire to weaken the wall, correct?" "Which is what you've been doing. Unsuccessfully." "Correct, to a point. Lord Zrexlan of course expects, since I am not pursuing a frontal assault, that I will employ ielthain and magic to destroy the walls, and so I am not disappointing him. However, all these attacks are merely a diversion. Every single attack against the city has been magical, all the ielthain pots were enchanted so they give off a magic aura. Zrexlan's mages have been too busy stopping all the threats we gave him, to notice what we?ve been doing with those they've defeated. All the ielthain they've stopped has been teleported into those fine crystal walls." Isilion blinked. "So," he said suspiciously, "why haven't you taken the city yet?" "I was going to," Ainare said, "and then I heard you were coming. I thought you might like to see us reclaim the seat of your power personally." Before Isilion could respond, the lanky general turned to one of the many Asur walking through the camp, an archer captain by the look of her. "Are the troops ready, Tari?" "Yes, my lord," Tari Calanor said. "They merely await your order." "Their order is to attack once the walls are destroyed. Which will be shortly. Also, give the order to the ballista to fire on the fifth wall." "Yes, my lord," the captain said.
14 "Very soon, Isilion," Ainare said, "you will see the sack of Tor Yvresse." "Your familiarity is vulgar," the High Prince grumbled. "And it's about time. The others of the Council of Princes are talking about my inability to contain this "minor insurrection". My political standing is plummeting, and it's all your fault." Ainare glanced inscrutably at him. "Politics?" "Yes, politics. Not that I'd expect you to understand that. You just play with your swords and do your job for once and let me handle the important things." "Very well, Isilion," Ainare said blandly. "Now, my orders should have been issued by now, so please cast your eyes upon that wall there." He pointed. Isilion squinted, but could not make out which wall the general was referring to. "Which one? Blast this mist, I can't see!" Whatever Ainare was saying in response was inaudible, for at that moment the wall exploded. Litres of liquid fire, moved by mages inside the wall itself, now struck by a barrage of flaming ielthain jars, ignited with devastating effect. The force of the shockwave caused the very ground to shake. Isilion could not hear the explosion either, for it was a volume too loud to express. A pillar of incandescent white flames bellowed forth into the sky, a roiling fireball. And then it was gone, and the silence was deafening. Half of the great southern crystal wall had vanished, and flames washed across the southern half of Tor Yvresse. The armies of Caledor the Conquerer poured across the Yvraine Field towards a city in chaos.
"Zrexlan," Ainare said, "has escaped." The two, High Prince and general, were standing around a small table in the heart of Tor Yvresse. The battle for the city was over, having lasted a few scant hours, and now the two leaders plotted their next move in the great palace of Tor Yvresse. "That is why the defences were so light," Ainare said. "Rather than be caught between our army and the city walls, he fled the city shortly after we destroyed the western wall with a large portion of his army, heading south." Isilion snarled, "And why didn't you catch him? You, great general, have cavalry; you should have brought him to bay like some wild pig and destroyed him as a rabid menace. Rather than let him go free. Now he'll just go and raise a new army, and we'll have to do this all again." "We?" Ainare said. His emotionless exterior was cracking. "We?" "Stop repeating yourself "yes, we." Ainare swung around to face him. "What we? has there been in this? I captured the city, I drove out the Butcher of Tor Yvresse." "You took four months to do nothing. On the day I arrived, the city fell. And I will be telling the Council as much. It's politics, you'd never understand," the High Prince said patronising. "I think it's you who wouldn't understand!" Ainare growled. "How can you claim credit? you don't even know what fighting is, I've fought every battle for you since this war began, and you've done nothing but talk, talk, talk. Do you know what it's like to kill your fellow elf? Knowing that all you're doing is your duty, and all he's doing is the same, and twenty years ago you could have been friends, comrades-in-arms? Do you have any idea what it's like to be the one who has to destroy their own city's greatest treasure?" "And what do you understand?" Isilion shouted. "All you know is the swing of your sword, you're irresponsible! All your spare time, wenching and drinking. You make me sick!" "Drinking, yes," Ainare hissed. "It takes the bad taste out of my mouth I have whenever I finish talking to you"
15 "Damn you, Ardagnirhir! Watch your tongue!" Isilion strode to the door, face livid with rage. "So help me, if you cross me one more time, I will destroy you. All you'll be good for is a footnote in history, the incompetent fool who lost Yvresse!" Then he was gone, and Ainare breathed deeply through his nose, calming himself. Isilion managed to stir this kind of reaction in him every time they spoke. He was certainly abrasive. The door opened again, and Tari Calanor entered again. "Lord Ainare?" "What is it, Tari?" "Outriders have located the Butcher. He has joined up with a new army and is currently camped outside the White Rocks. Approximately two thousand strong." Ainare contemplated swiftly. "We have one thousand eight hundred, correct?" "Yes, my lord." "Outnumbered, but not badly. And the White Rocks are only a few hours outside the city. Assemble the army; we go in pursuit of Lord Zrexlan, to destroy him once and for all." Tari Calanor nodded and departed, and Ainare sat himself on a short stool, and cast his keen eyes over the map. He had plans to make.
The White Rocks were a triple pinnacle of stone spires, twisting up and about each other into the sky. Their shadow was cast long upon the fields of Yvresse, and under that shadow two thousand warriors readied themselves, holding themselves orderly in ranks. Far more orderly than I was expecting, Ainare admitted to himself. For all that he had fought against Zrexlan?s forces for years now, he found he had always underestimated the Butcher of Tor Yvresse. He could see now, against the base of the towering rock formation, the war standard of his opposite number, a blue field with a silver spear upon it. "You will not wish to be here when the fighting starts," Ainare said clinically. "Isilion, go wait with the baggage." Beside him, the red-faced elf started to bluster, but the general cut him off. "This area will become a slaughter-field. You will die if you stay in the front lines." Isilion nodded. "You'd better do your job properly for once. I expect to see your enemy being routed today!" "They will be, never fear." Isilion nodded and turned his horse, riding into the back ranks. Ainare watched him go with his usual bland expression forcibly upon his gaunt face. No one angered him as much as the pompous, self- righteous High Prince. It took extreme self-control not to throw all plans to the winds and try to throttle Isilion. "Tari?" His captain was there immediately, her thick brown braid swinging behind her. ?Yes, my lord?" "Order the signal corps to give the sign to advance." The two armies moved slowly together. Arrows raced through the air overhead, and elves fell, slain by grey-fletched shafts. And then, with a sound eclipsing all else, the phalanxes of spearmen slammed into each other, and battle was joined. Ainare hung back somewhat from the fray, he had no intention of concerning himself with the common warriors. He had no great argument against them, and had the blood of too many on his hands already. His prize this day would be Zrexlan, the Butcher himself. And there was his standard now, advancing through the melee. Beneath it, he could see Zrexlan, a grey-armoured figure wielding a spear in both hands with great skill. "There! Charge!" Ainare shouted, and kicked his steed into a gallop towards the standard. His bodyguard of ithiltain knights followed in his wake, hooves churning up the turf. Blades brandished, they struck the enemy line and crumpled it before the weight of their impact. Lines of spears closed around
16 them, and one of the knights fell, spitted by a dozen spears. The rest hacked and slashed, dancing their horses about to avoid the spears which threatened to impale them. Ainare turned his steed away from the melee. The blue and silver banner loomed, massively, before him. Alone he rode towards it. Twice an enemy soldier tried to come in his way, but with swirling sweeps of his blade he dispatched them and continued his advance. "Lord Zrexlan, I presume!" Ainare shouted. The grey armoured warrior turned and looked at him. "Ainare Ardagnirhir?" Zrexlan's black hair was lank with perspiration against his head. The blocky-featured warrior smiled. "Come to finish this, one-on-one?" Ainare slid from his saddle. "Indeed. My sword, your spear, and that will decide this whole mess." Zrexlan's smile grew. "You are indeed a great warrior, Ainare. There is much honour in you. I salute you." Ainare was surprised. He had finally met his enemy, and rather than the monster he had expected, something much like Isilion, in fact, his archnemesis was in fact rather pleasant and congenial. "You should not speak about my honour until you know me better," Ainare said. "Shall we?" "Certainly." Zrexlan charged, spear leading the way. Ainare pulled himself aside and batted the weapon aside with a circular motion of his blade, stepping closer to his enemy. He slashed twice, and his foe fell back, bringing his spear shaft before him to ward off the attacks, before suddenly lashing forward with the butt end of his spear. It struck Ainare's lofty helm, and the general staggered, his head ringing. Almost immediately Zrexlan was upon him, stabbing and feinting with a numbing speed, and now it was Ainare who was forced to retreat, blade cutting circular arcs in the air. Metal rang against metal. And then suddenly Ainare was charging, and they both struck at each other as they passed, before spinning around to face each other again. The side of Zrexlan's face was open, and blood ran down his jaw. Ainare ignored the incredible pain in his shoulder, where the spear had driven beneath the armour and into his flesh, and spun his sword again in midair. "You are indeed skilled," Zrexlan admitted. "I've worked hard to become so," the gaunt general remarked flippantly, and charged. His blade lashed out, striking the tip of the ithilmar spear. Sparks flew as metal grinded against metal as Ainare forced his enemy's weapon aside, and then Ainare struck, serpent-swift. The spear too far out to stop the blow, Zrexlan could not stop the blade as it struck his face. Fortunately, if such it could be called, it was the pommel that struck him, but even so he spluttered blood as his nose exploded in a shower of red. He staggered, and Ainare struck again at his right hand, shearing through thick leather glove and fingers, and the spear fell with them. Zrexlan howled, Ainare delivered his final blow, sending the maimed Butcher spinning to the ground, still alive. A second later Ainare's foot landed on his foe's breastplate, and his sword was level with Zrexlan's neck. "Yield," he snarled. Zrexlan's face was pale. "To be executed later?" "I don't want to kill you. Yield! No further harm will come to you if you do." "Very well... yield." About them, the battle had paused. Zrexlan's standard bearer gaped, his face comically akin to some sort of fish. "Good," Ainare said. "Now... you have troops in reserve, correct? Tell them to charge at the left flank." "Wha...?" "Tell them!" Ainare shouted, striking Zrexlan hard across the face. "Our line, their line, is weak there. You'll break through and be able to encircle the right flank."
17 "I don't understand." "You don't need to understand, beyond this I've defected. I am your lord now, Zrexlan. Doubt me and I will kill you. And as my first act on your side, I intend to deliver my old army to you." Zrexlan looked at the standard bearer. "Do what he says. Give the order." "Good," Ainare said. "Good."
"We have some prisoners... my lord." Corpses were heaped high upon the battlefield, being assembled by the survivors into a mass pyre. Ainare stood at the base of the White Rocks. His defection had gone perfectly. There was but one part of his triumph missing, but that would come shortly. "You captured the baggage train as was instructed?" "Yes. One of the prisoners has been wanting to meet you. He has been quite vocal about it." "Excellent. Bring him up." Shackled, the High Prince of Yvresse was led towards the new commander of Malekith's army in Yvresse. "Damn you, Ainare, you black hearted traitor! You'll pay for this...!" Ainare cut him off. "Your threats are tiresome even when they're fulfilled, Isilion. And you have no chance of fulfilling them this time." "You will die, Ainare, someday, and when you do I hope you spend your time in Morai-Heg's halls burning in hell!" "If I do, you will certainly know, because you, Isilion, are going to them much sooner than I." Isilion started to say something, but Ainare cut him off by slapping him hard across the face. The High Prince looked at him, aghast. "If you want to know why I defected, Isilion, it is all your fault that this came to pass. With you in charge, the blood that is spilt has been catastrophic. Your politics has threatened everything. Only when I am in charge myself, and free from these stupid games, can we start to rebuild Yvresse and end this stupid war. All you'd do is drag it on forever." "A warrior, against violence? Murder is the only art a swordsman can practice." If Isilion had any more to say, he was not given a chance to say it, for Ainare spun suddenly, his sword flying from its sheath. There was a splash of blood, and then the headless corpse toppled to the ground. "How true you are," Ainare said. "But I will rectify that." He turned from the body of his hated foe and faced Zrexlan. Bandaged and mage-healed, his new second-in-command looked at him with a mixture of horror and admiration. "You were right about not commenting on your honour, you know," Zrexlan said slowly. "Send a message to Anlec," Ainare said, ignoring him. "Tell Malekith that I declare myself the new High Prince of Yvresse, and that if he confirms me in that position, I will support him for the rest of my life." "Immediately." Ainare left him, wandered over to the pile of heaped corpses. Treachery was repugnant to him, but now, hopefully, no more would have to die like had done so here. It seemed strange that to save Yvresse had involved killing so many. Smoke rose off the pyre, the flames crackled amongst the corpses. Looking at them, Ainare saw Tari Calanor. His old captain stared accusingly at him, and in her glassy, dead eyes he read the truth. Power and glory for him, Ainare, was his goal. An end to the master he had despised. No grand humanitarian goals. He could lie to himself, but not to the dead. Tari, his old friend, was dead. Her body was cut in twain, and her innards hung out. The smoke rose higher, and stung his eyes, and Ainare cried.
18 The Siege of Anlec By Calarion Sapherior Sundering Campaign
In the last days of the Sundering, a final desperate tactic was employed by the followers of the Phoenix King. As word spread of the deaths of the High Princes loyal to Caledor I, and of the fall of kingdom after kingdom to the followers of the Witch King Malekith, despair spread in the hearts of the followers of the now shattered Council of Princes. Thus it was that insanity reigned, and folly seemed as wisdom, as the High Prince of Ellyrion led his armies north to besiege Tor Anlec itself. The Citadel of Aenarion was widely considered to be impregnable, but the armies of Malekith were absent from it, and it seemed to him a prize ripe for the taking. Caledor?s hand was forced now. He could not abandon one of the few lords loyal to him, and the holding action that he had been leading was only becoming a slow defeat for his followers. It was, also, true, that should he manage to seize the fortress-city, that many of the leading figures of the Loyalists would be present. In one decisive blow, he could win the war ? or lose it ultimately. The armies of the Phoenix King moved into the lush lands of Nagarythe with all haste, and his supporters flocked to his banner, most especially the High Princes Anrol of Ellyrion and Shandiar of Tiranoc. Another entered the camp late at night, the infamous Alith Anar, already called the Shadow King for his exploits. Having just rescued his comrade Ashnari Doomsong from the Witch-King?s personal dungeons, and evading the trap set to kill him there, Alith Anar now led the army by the swiftest route to Anlec.
The Witch King knew of their coming. His own garrison was insufficient to defeat the forces of Caledor, but he had other weapons. Kithan, the Master Assassin, vanished into the shadows, with orders to return with Caledor the Conqueror’s heart in his hand. That night, as the camp slumbered outside the walls of Anlec, the slayer of the Anar family entered the camp. But the last scion of House Anar had expected such a plan, and when Kithan entered the tent of the Phoenix King, he found it empty; save for Alith Anar. The two drew swords, but fighting was not on Alith Anar’s mind. Slashing open the side of the tent, he then seized a torch and set it on fire. The tent had been specially prepared, and so when Kithan tried to escape, he found the tent had collapsed on him, and that it had been doused with oil. The Master Assassin, a living torch, escaped screaming from the burning tent. Now Alith Anar engaged him, fending off increasingly desperate attacks until his nemesis collapsed in a smouldering pile. Alith Anar stood watching until only ashes remained. From the wall of Anlec, Malekith saw the blaze and knew that Kithan was dead. The next day the siege began. Legions of mages from Saphery and ielthain-throwers attempted to breach the wall, but the massive defences stood intact. Caledor knew that he would have to break into the fortress soon, but days of assault passed as the walls held firm, and as scouts reported the arrival of another army from the south, led by Yssasuiltis Pendragon. As the second army moved into position to block off the retreat, the vast gates of Anlec opened wide and began vomiting forth the Black Guard, led by their captain Narkarthe, and the crack regiments of Nagarythe. Seeing his chances slip from his grasp, Caledor mounted his dragon and flew aloft, bellowing in a voice that could be heard across the battlefield for the pretender Malekith to face him if he dared. In response, an inky shadow burst from the walls of Nagarythe, a two-headed monstrosity with the Witch King upon it. Massive wings bore the two together in a bone-shattering collision, and massive talons tore at each other while the two master swordsmen upon them engaged in a final duel with the fate of Ulthuan hanging in the
19 balance. Meanwhile Prince Shandiar took control of the vast armies that fought beneath the shadow of dragon wings, and engaged the Black Guard; knowing if he managed to punch through their lines before Yssasuiltis’s forces reached him, he could use the defences of Anlec against her. The greatest battle ever fought on Ulthuan since the creation of the Vortex raged, as kin fought kin, brother slew brother, and husband cut down wife. No matter which side won, the scars of their victory would be doomed to remain forever. Shandiar forced his way into Anlec, as Yssasuiltis? forces struck the rear of the embattled army. The streets of Anlec ran awash with blood, soaking all who fought there. But it was overhead that the true battle raged, and with a single exchange of blows faster than the eye could follow, the outcome of the Sundering was decided. The two dragons were stiff beneath them now, as their blood was spilt like crimson rain, and as the two corpses plummeted meteorically to the earth Caledor unleashed a flurry of blows that left Malekith reeling, his defences open. With a single perfect move the sword of Caledor Dragontamer drove at Malekith’s heart. But the armour that Hotek had forged was impervious to weapons, and with a mighty scream of steel Caledor’s blade broke asunder, and the shards rained from the sky like teardrops. Howling in victory, the Witch King counter-attacked, and the deadly sword Destroyer tore open the Phoenix King’s armour and sent Caledor’s heart’s-blood flying into the air. Then the dragons struck the ground, landing in the middle of the armies. Thousands of warriors from both sides were slain as the crimson and sable leviathans impacted into the walls, and Anlec?s unbreachable wall was torn asunder. As the devastation cleared, one form staggered to his feet ? Malekith, the Witch King, had survived. Immediately a great cry went up, a wail of anguish from the followers of the Phoenix King, and a roar of victory from the Black Guard, who tore into the enemy with renewed vigour. Taking stock of the situation, Prince Shandiar realised the battle was lost. Forming his household knights into a wedge about him, he drove through the Druchii lines southwards, and reached Yssasuiltis Pendragon herself. With a single blow of his sword he cleft the renegade Pendragon in twain, and trampled her corpse into the mud. Following in his wake, the shattered remnants of the army fled from the massacre. They were not pursued, for the fall of the dragons had broken the Naggarothi army as well. But now Malekith was the unchallengeable master of Ulthuan. In the weeks that followed, the forces of Malekith spread swiftly. Save for a few remnants of loyalists to the fallen Phoenix King, the entire island swiftly belonged to him. But the war was not over, for still the leaders of Caledor’s armies survived; Rythion Pendragon continued to hold the fortress-cities of Caledor, while Alith Anar’s band of guerilla warriors and Shandiar Aminaith escaped Nagarythe, bearing the body of Caledor the Conqueror with them. The Phoenix King had not perished in the final battle, and his strength gradually returned. The battle was lost, and the last strongholds fell one by one into the hands of darkness ; but the war was not over yet.
20
On the subject of the War of the Beard
21 The Witch King By VictorK War of the Beard Campaign
Scarcely a week had passed since the walls of Tor Anroc had been overrun and its gate broken open in fury yet it welcomed with open arms and a carnival atmosphere the very people who had violated it. The King’s Boulevard, the spine of the city that had been choked with corpses hours after her defenses fell was swept clean and once again lined with guards in the livery of the most powerful individual in Ulthuan. Gone was Bel Shanaar’s triumphant phoenix on a field of white, it had been replaced by a darker field of purple and black though the phoenix remained, the rune denoting the Kingdom of Nagarythe burned in red upon its breast. Caledor’s dragon had never graced the pennants that flew over Tor Anroc’s great gate. Though it was the dawn of spring in Tiranoc the air was filled with white flakes, flower petals that were thrown by civilians from the windows and terraces of the high buildings that overlooked the boulevard. When the gates opened the crowd of mostly women and children held back by the line of soldiers erupted into a cheer. The banner of Malekith was visible as it was raised over the broken arch of the city’s gate. For the second time the conquering army marched into Tor Anroc, though it did so in full procession, a triumph for its king. Stern faced veterans of a war that had lasted for centuries bore their shields and spears proudly as they marched in perfect rank and file down the street that before the war had known many such military parades, though all of them took place during the peacetime. The people that lived in the former seat of regal authority for the elven lands cheered their lungs out for these consummate murderers because they could see the end in sight. Five hundred years is a long time even to the senses of an elf, in the crowd there was more than one family that had been torn apart by conflicting loyalty and would have cheered any conqueror so long as their rule brought peace. Those days were now in sight, and for this task of ultimate bloodshed Malekith would be given the same love and admiration that his father had commanded for the same terrible feat. After the rank and file swordsmen came the nobles, elves of proud bearing who had commanded the warbands that had secured Malekith lordship over all Ulthuan. They were born into the city upon black steeds, many of which had come from Tiranoc. Following them where the Shields of Malekith led by Gathgrayl, with the banners of the other lieutenants still in the field raised behind them. The last in the procession were the fearsome Black Guard, and at the sight of the black armor and wickedly curved halberds the crowd’s enthusiasm dimmed as a brief glimmer of fear planted itself in their minds, binding with the memory of five hundred of slaughter to produce apprehension. This feeling lingered only for a few moments before the next figure in the procession passed underneath the gate. Malekith, the Witch King, advanced into Tor Anroc upon the back of his black chariot which was drawn by a team of cold ones imported from the west. The response to the appearance of the new master of Ulthuan was immediate and overwhelming. Elves that had been sitting stood on their feet; those who had conserved their voices or held them back in apprehension let loose the full measure of their devotion. Some shrank away or left the boulevard, but their presence was not missed or even noticed. Their voices were no longer heard. The Witch King’s armored left hand rose into the air to acknowledge the outpouring of emotion at his arrival. The once fair son of Aenarion was still a sight to behold as he entered Tor Anroc. Though his skin had been burned away by the scorn of a vengeful god it had been replaced by a true work of the murderous arts. His ruined muscles were hidden by a finely sculpted frame that was covered in arcane runes that allowed the withered husk of an elf within to move with strength he had not known before
22 consigning himself to the will of Asuryan. To his detractors Malekith was a glorious illusion, a weak thing who hid inside his shell which, in an attempt to appear more inviting, had been draped with a purple toga and then paraded in front of the people in a queer show of fake power. To his loyal legions Malekith was the embodiment of the phoenix, nobility that was ruined had risen again as a new, gleaming king. In his right hand was a long halberd with a wicked blade sitting at its head. The rune of Khaine was inscribed on its face, and on the whole its well polished and cared for exterior gave the impression that this halberd was a ceremonial weapon only. The Witch King, in the heart of the old order, expected no hint of war or struggle. The procession continued up the King’s Boulevard, the chariot that bore Malekith followed by a group of female elves bearing a richly embroidered and veiled palanquin. From behind the crimson screen the Lady Morathi watched the reaction to her son’s presence with her regular cool and calculating demeanor. Her black heart swelled with perverse pride, savoring her son’s victory as if it were her own. It was vindication for her, her husband, and her son. More importantly, it was what each one had stood for. Power. She had contributed to the words that her son would speak when he reached the platform erected for him in front of the palace that had belonged to Bel Shanaar the Old, Fat, and Very Dead. More important she had spun wards on the surface of Malekith’s chariot and on the stage that would protect her son from any would be assassins in the crowd, and the Dark Gods knew that in his desperation Caledor would try anything. The thought caused a smirk to break out over the impossibly beautiful elf’s delicate features. It added to her previous thought: That is, if Caledor could even speak. Malekith moved with all of the agility that he had enjoyed in his previous life as a whole being from the back of his chariot to the platform. The soldiers who had arrayed themselves in front of him called out his name and hailed him as king, momentarily drowning out even the population of the city. Standards dipped in unison and weapons were raised; caught up in the martial proceedings the citizens that lined the boulevard lifted their arms and joined in hailing Malekith as master of Ulthuan. The Witch King closed his eyes behind the stoic mask that captured his formerly handsome features in its metal countenance. He basked in the sound he had longed to hear for over a millennia. He was slow to raise his hand and call for its halt, his head tilting back with the motion and eyes that burned with unholy determination and will to live stared into the sky as if to ask the gods to behold him and reckon the Witch King among their number. The sounds of adoration died away slowly like the tide receding as the sun began to set. Calm and anticipation began to replace it, a tension that ran from elf to elf. Some still felt apprehension while others swelled with pride. Malekith inhaled slowly, the rush of air painful. His burning lungs reminded him of what he was underneath the shining exterior. When Malekith spoke it was with the voice he had commanded so eloquently as a young Prince making his way among Ulthuan’s elite. It was amplified with a spell so that it reached every ear on the boulevard. “People of Tor Anroc,” It began. “This long night is coming to an end; the dawn is on the horizon. The greatest crisis of our people has come as our nation, established by my father and snatched from the claws of the very daemons I have endeavored to eradicate, has barely drawn its first breath. Our enemies, at the first opportunity, worked treachery against the line of Aenarion and the whole elven nation. Make no mistake, the gods weep to see their chosen torn asunder by something so base as greed and insidious as the Ruinous Powers. Cities that were great have rejoined the earth. Great leaders have had their lives snuffed out before they could work them to a great end. We are right to mourn the death of peace but we would be fools to dwell on its demise.” Malekith paused, eyes roaming over the crowd while his head remained still. “This war,” He thundered with renewed vigor, “was not simply waged against a usurper and his traitorous followers but against an entire ideology, against a path of fate that would have led away from the golden times and into a slow and painful decay. The road that Imrik-“ the Witch King deprived the elf of his kingly title “-would have us walk down the road of cowardice, of weakness, and extinction. So long as his followers cling to the notion that elves are beings
23 who should restrain themselves from their natural powers and dominance they should be eradicated as a cancer upon our people. So many of my soldiers and your kin should not have died so that we may retreat from our destiny and huddle on this island until the world comes crashing down. This victory, and it is a victory when their false King lies broken on the field with his generals dead and his army fleeing to the far corners of the realm he fancies as his own, this victory comes as an affirmation of our greatness and of our right to spread to all lands of the world and make it ours. Those of you who stand with me now will see the wisdom in what I say, and those of you with apprehension or who participated in outright rebellion will in time come to agree with me. There is nothing more pure and great in this world than when a people recognize their inherent power and move to seize it. That is why I stand before you now, and it is my solemn duty as the rightful King of the elven people to defend our place in the halls of destiny and to lead the march forward; not into the twilight of Imrik’s Ulthuan but into a new day of glory.” As the Witch King’s speech came to its end the crowd erupted with furor similar to when he had first appeared. Even Morathi, hidden behind her veils, applauded her son softly. Malekith raised his left hand again, basking in the adoration of the masses. “Let any elf who served in the armies of Imrik the Usurper come forward and declare his error, and he shall be spared. Let the false King’s armies deplete and rot away. His followers have no reason to cling to the corpse of his ideals. Join me, and we will make a better world.” On the final note Malekith waved to the masses and turned, striding purposefully towards the palace that Bel Shanaar had constructed. Black Guard fell in line behind the Witch King, and soon the imminent ruler of Ulthuan disappeared from view. “Where is Aminiath?” The Witch King demanded, his voice screeching and grated through a ruined throat. The spells had worn off and he was in the privacy of Bel Shanaar’s throne room, surrounded by loyal generals and lieutenants. Malekith’s fury was unmistakable even as his face was hidden. He seethed, chest rising and falling while his iron fingers were clenched into heavy fists. “How did he escape you?” The Witch King paced through the room, eyes that shook with madness roaming over his subordinates. “This city was surrounded, and you let Caledor’s puppet slip through your fingers!” He turned once he neared the throne that Bel Shanaar had sat upon and shattered its back with a single blow from his fist. The newer lieutenants, those replacing such greats as Nagathi shrank away from their king’s outbursts. The others stood resolute, hands clasped behind their backs and gazes even and forward. “He took Yssaultis from me!” Malekith cried, his voice horrible in its anguish. “Calm, my son.” Morathi’s lyrical tones drifted in, and the Black Guard made a path for the seductive queen. “He will be hunted down. My agents are already tracking him through the mountains of Caledor.” She stood across from her son, leaning against her staff wearing a cool expression and with just the right curve in her stance to strike an alluring chord. “There is no need to worry about…so small a fish.” Malekith narrowed his eyes, sending daggers of hatred towards his mother. “I do not need your help in this, crone.” He spat, leaning forward menacingly. “The war is not yet over, and I am the warmaster. Say your soothing words to some other ear; I am not interested in your prattle.” Morathi merely smirked, stepped forward to cup her son’s iron face in her smooth hand. She watched with satisfaction as the harshness and uncertainty in Malekith’s eyes gave way to a wide-eyed stupor. She, and every other elf in the room, knew who the power behind the throne was. “You hurt me when you speak of me that way.” Morathi whispered, stroking the cold, lifeless surface that had become her son. “I know this has been hard for you, Malekith. It has been difficult for me too, seeing my son treated in this way…” Her eyes turned down in a persuasive sulk. “I want only what is best for you, and Ulthuan. Do not begrudge me for doing a mother’s duty to her one and only son.”
The Witch King sighed, his entire form settling. He mimicked his mother’s motion, cold and lifeless fingers stroking at her fair and supple cheek. “What torture.” He murmured as if an old man, “To
24 be unable to feel my mother’s cheek, or to take proper comfort in her caress…” He closed his eyes. “Forgive me mother.” Malekith said in a stronger tone, straightening. “I should not have said that, you do me and the realm a service in tracking the traitor. I suppose that I only feared that he could galvanize the Caledorian resistance beyond its already formidable state.” The imminent queen of Ulthuan nodded understandingly, stepping back from her son. “Your apology is accepted, my son. I will not trouble you further; your armies have pushed into Avelorn and I would join them…It has been some time since I enjoyed the fruits of that realm. I shall see you when you make your return to Anlec, I pray that you shall be safe.” With these parting words Morathi turned and walked from the throne room, a calm expression of self-assurance firmly entrenched on her features. The handmaidens of the dark queen turned to follow her, and soon she was gone, leaving some men in the stupor of her presence and longing for more. Not a word was said before she was gone. “To the war, then.” Malekith murmured, breaking the silence and striding towards a table that had been set up in the middle of the room. “For nigh near a century now we have had the armies of Caledor on the run, but breaking them occurred only recently.” He gestured towards Anlec, drawing an imaginary line first towards Saphery and then to the mountains of Caledor. “These are the last strongholds left to our enemy, and already our armies in the field are driving out his supporters. Soon there will be nowhere left for Caledor to run; and with his defeat at Anlec we might even be blessed with his imminent demise. Arcanaus, take your legions and press into Caledor with full fury. If any man, woman, or child resists they are to be destroyed. Though the storm of war is letting up we must remain vigilant and strong. Our tactics have brought us this far, we should not abandon them now that the prize is in sight.” Arcanaus and the other generals nodded their silent agreement. “The press into Saphery will come after Caledor has fallen, until that time The Crimson Company and the Silver Spears are to prevent Caledor from reinforcing along the northern border and to disrupt all supply. You are under your own discretion whether to attack Caledor’s remaining forces in part but you are forbidden from engaging him head on. Is that clear?” The two commanders nodded and Malekith seemed satisfied, looking around the exquisite throne room. “Good. Then there is one last order I have to give. I will be returning to Anlec in the morning.” A Black Guardsman stepped forward, “My Lord, you are not due back in the capitol for another week.” Malekith’s fist came down on the table, threatening to destroy it as he had destroyed Bel Shanaar’s throne. “I will make my own schedule as I see fit. I have tired of this city, one night will suffice. In the morning take your men and burn this palace to the ground. Take what treasure still remains and melt it down. I want no trace of the Phoenix King here. If Bel Shanaar’s grave should be nearby it is to be dug up and his body cast into the sea. Go through the city. All monuments, placards and sigils that call to mind the usurpers Bel Shanaar and Caledor are to be destroyed immediately. We are building a new world; I will not have the specter of any false king looking over my shoulder. We are finished here.” The generals and soldiers saluted as Malekith left the room.
25 The Phoenix King By VictorK War of the Beard Campaign
“The situation is clear. Every pass is lost to us and the mountains of Caledor offer at best a temporary shield. There is reason to believe that common people are acting as guides for Arcanaus and his legions.”
“How many does he bring?”
“Enough.”
It didn’t matter who among the remaining High Princes and generals of Caledor’s armies had spoken the words, it was the truth and it hung over all of their heads. Silence fell along the great table that occupied the position of honor inside the Hall of the World Dragon at the heart of Caledor. A great circular map of Ulthuan dotted with small colored figures and etched with the eloquent runes of Tar Eltharin was the subject of every Asur’s attention but few of them really looked at it. It was a constant reminder of despair. The only elf that did not sit at the table was the master of the Hall, and the one who fancied himself the head of the council. Rythion Pendragon turned, regarding his peers and generals. “Nonsense.” He declared, his well cultured voice reverberating through the room like a breath of song. Rythion was a wisp of an elf lord, though those who had faced him could attest to the willow like strength and quickness that had preserved him throughout the war and left a mountain of corpses in his wake. “Certainly Anlec was not the victory we had hoped it would be, but perhaps we can now move freely.” Cambrogol of Saphery slid his chair back, narrowing his eyes at Rythion. “My Caledorian brother,” the Sapherior used a formal term of address, “What do you mean?” Rythion just smiled thinly, walking with an almost drifting quality towards the map of Ulthuan. A space was reserved for him, and he let seconds hang in the air while he surveyed the position of Malekith’s armies. “The Witch King and Arcanaus believe us beaten, but they are mistaken. Your armies, Cambrogol, are in top condition. Our spies in Tor Anroc tell us that Malekith himself has retreated to Anlec, leaving Caledor to Arcanaus. His armies hesitate on the border of Saphery and Yvresse, unsure if they have the strength to strike.” “I’ve seen the reports. That’s a lot of assumption to draw from them, Rythion.” The latest voice belonged to Korian L’enodel, the leathery faced veteran of the long struggle for the passes. He was skeptical of Rythion, all of them were, but his clout with the generals and lieutenants of what remained of Caledor’s armies could not be denied. “Our armies are exhausted; if common people in this realm have turned against us then we have lost the advantage. Our armies are in Saphery and Eataine, we have only garrisons here.” Rythion was quiet, but he did not meet he eyes of his peer from Chrace, instead turning towards one of his generals, a warden of one of strongholds that dotted Caledor’s vast mountain ranges. “Do you hear him, Caerntharn? Our esteemed colleague from Chrace thinks it would be wise to abandon the homes of our fathers, the halls where the dragons slumber and the most fortified land in all of Ulthuan to the enemy, just like that.” Rythion smiled his thin smile, dismissing Korian without even addressing the elf. “These are the tactics that have brought us to this point.” The Pendragon’s smiling but bitter eyes now turned to the whole council. “I say to this, not another inch. Let the traitors trip and stumble. I
26 knew Arcanaus; a lifetime ago I called him brother. He would not undertake this attack, with the full weight of his forces, if he truly believed that he was in a position of power. At the beginning of this struggle I took his home from him, and I still hold it. I will hold it. Malekith has lost his mind. The nobility of his blood was burned away the moment he stepped into the flames. He is not given over to caution or patience, in his arrogance he has ordered Bel Shanaar’s palace burned to the ground. Malekith would not, and has not, held back a single soul. Due to other factors we have lost our chance and holding the whole of Ulthuan but half shall be ours so long as we are willing to fight for it. Then, when his followers realize that Malekith will lead them to ruin they will come to us. We need only have the courage to stand up for our future and it will be secured for us. Asuryan is on our side, Isha will protect her children, and Vaul will provide our steel. The war is not over, it has only begun.” Immediately following Rythion impassioned declaration and before any leader of the Asur could comment the doors to the hall were flung open, slamming like a thunder clap against the sides of the rock hewn chamber. Silence did not follow this interruption, the thunder being chased by the rhythmic cadence of iron shod boots marching against the ancient stones of the hall. Stout elves armored from head to toe in glimmering gold scale and draped with massive pristine white lion pelts marched into the room, each bearing with him a massive and ornately forged axe. They were stony faced and completely silent, and in many ways resembled the elf who they had been formed to protect. The White Lions took their posts around the room, bolstering the regular door guard to a point that was fit for an embattled king in a time of war. When every one of them had passed the entry a lone elf remained, and when the generals and princes laid eyes upon him Rythion was forgotten and to an elf they stood, every one of them silent as the grave. Caledor himself was a mess. The Phoenix King walked with a heavy limp on his right side and his white robes had been drawn up in such haste that they laid bare the heavy bandages that covered his chest. Though he had never had an overweening compulsion for protocol he was the Phoenix King, and the cloak woven from a thousand feathers hung around his shoulders and the thin silver circlet of the Phoenix Crown rested stately upon his brow. What Caledor lacked in health and presentation he made up for in dignity. His face was set in a look of intensity that bordered on an outright scowl. His eyes were grey but sharp. The Phoenix King limped into the room, gaze roaming over the faces of each elf that stood around the table, and each could feel their souls being searched by Caledor’s piercing eyes. It was Rythion who patronized his king, walking with quick and false concern towards his master. “My lord…” He protested, careful to put a sufficient amount of regret in his tone. “You should be resting! Your wounds…” Rythion seemed to recoil as he looked at Caledor’s bandages, and the look of disgust that crunched his features was too genuine to have been invented solely for the purpose of keeping up appearances. “…Are grievous.” Caledor dismissed Rythion with a curt wave of his hand, never turning his gaze from the table or its map. Even a flippant gesture like that could not be disobeyed and Rythion stood stock still, in total silence, left in the wake of his king. The generals parted as Caledor neared the table, some bowing their heads in deference. Caledor commanded a different aura than Malekith. The Witch King ruled his subjects through fear and the promise of power which he alone could grant. Caledor demanded respect, and promised nothing but quiet consideration in return. Some would say that was why he no longer sat comfortably on his throne, if he ever had. With one sweep of his grey eyes Caledor absorbed the information on the map, nodding slowly and gravely as his attention gravitated towards the rocky peaks of Caledor. The king’s finger came down on the rune marking the Halls of the World Dragon, and every prince’s eyes were on that point. Slowly Caledor circled the colored markers that denoted the armies assembled outside the gates, massing all of them into his next gesture. The Phoenix King formed his hand into a blade and set it down in front of the pieces, then drove the tips of his fingers towards the figure that marked Arcanaus. As he did so his face screwed up in torment or wrath, as if his hand truly was a sword and he was thrusting it into the heart of the Druchii general. “Time.” The king almost
27 growled, lifting his eyes from the map and searching the face of every one of his generals. “Save our people.” Every elf immediately understood the weight of those words, and what they meant for their king and the realm. If Caledor had heard Rythion’s speech he had thrown it out the window. Time, save our people. The Phoenix King was abandoning the mountains of his homeland and drawing back the elves who had supported him and who he knew would suffer at the twisted hands of Malekith. He traced a line back through Eataine and over to Saphery, the most secure realm in his vanishing kingdom. The princes exchanged glances, each wondering what was at work in the head of their king, and if Malekith’s blade had not just ruined his body but had poisoned his mind. Caledor straightened, giving his commanders one last glance to make sure that they understood his orders before nodding slightly and turning for the door. The White Lions began to file out, forcing their king to wait for a moment next to Rythion. Caledor touched his countryman on the shoulder, pulling the taller elf down to where the Phoenix King could whisper in his ear: “You are my sword.” Then, he was gone. Caledor’s offensive pressed Arcanaus in the coming weeks, lending time to the mountain communities who otherwise would have been trapped between the roots of the world and their enemies and likely slaughtered. Even with this success the offensive was designed to fail. Many of the princes and generals at the Hall of the World Dragon had left to see to their realms and their armies, leaving only the Phoenix King and some of his closest advisors. With his King in failing health and none of his peers present to temper him the elf who Caledor had called his sword began to feel betrayed, and in this despair he hatched a plot to further the defense of the realm. A last chance for the victory he had described. The Phoenix King rested. The news from the front was good, Arcanaus’ forces had withdrawn for the moment and the army was resting. Caledor could not remember a time in his life when his mind was not troubled by heavy thoughts. His family had thought him an imbecile when he was young, but the boy who had grown into the failed Phoenix King simply preferred not to waste his words. There was too much of that in his kingdom, always had been and always would be. In the days before Anlec he sometimes wondered how much the Asur might actually have achieved if they were to hold their tongues for five seconds and do their duty. He closed his eyes. All that was passed. Now there was only the future, a new world that awaited his people. Leave Malekith to his ruin, this war couldn’t go on much longer or there would be no one left to fight it. Caledor had failed to defeat Malekith on the battlefield; his one hope now was that he could prove that his people could govern better. A positive example of true power would consign Malekith to his doom. It would take years, more than Caledor had left in him, but it would be done. No more pointless wars. No more sorrow. That was what this Phoenix King desired. The door to Caledor’s bedchamber opened slowly, the creak of the ancient timbers alerting the king to an intruder. One of his grey eyes opened and spied the head that poked through. The face brought a smile to Caledor’s features and he made an effort to sit up. It didn’t hurt as much as before, slowly but surely he was mending. A female elf smiled back at him and slipped into the room, gliding across the floor towards Caledor’s bedside. “Aurelia.” The king spoke, the depth of feeling in his tone making additional words unnecessary. She knelt by his bedside, not protesting when the king’s calloused hand rested against her cheek, pushing back her hair. Silently she went to work, pulling back the covers on the king’s bed to expose his chest and the gnarled line of scar tissue that Malekith had left there. She undid his bandages carefully, and in her familiar motions Caledor turned away, his eyes towards the ceiling but his hand near her. “Glad you’re here.” The king muttered, feeling a wet cloth probe his wounds. She was the wife he could not have, his one point of solace… The Phoenix King’s finger brushed against something cold at the back of Aurelia’s neck. The chill traveled up his arm and into his heart, filling him with terror. Without another second to spare Caledor’s other hand snapped up and took Aurelia’s wrist just as the tip of the dagger began to pierce his skin.
28 Even in his weakened state the Phoenix King was more than strong enough to resist the woman’s struggles. He twisted her arm, eliciting a reflexive gasp of pain but no exclamation of hurt. The dagger clattered to the floor and Caledor drew the woman closer to him while his fingers wrapped around the cold knob where her head met her neck. She did not protest, and once she lost the dagger she did not even struggle. Finding a firm grip the Phoenix King pulled on the knob, wrenching it from Aurelia’s body. What had been cold turned warm and slick, and Caledor’s heart froze over again. The life blood of his lover spilled out as if that knob had been holding all of it back. Soon the Phoenix King’s hand was drenched and the crimson tide was seeping into his sheets. Even though the warrior was no stranger to blood or corpses he pushed this one away with revulsion, throwing off his sheets and scrambling off the other side of the bed. With wild eyes Caledor watched Aurelia bleed out the last of her life, and all he could do was back up against the rock hewn wall of his room, as far from her as possible. With a trembling and bloody hand he brought the knob up to his face. The Phoenix King could not make out any markings; a bubble of blood covered its surface. His other hand then had to wipe it away, revealing in all of its terrible splendor the rune of Khaine. Caledor’s heart sank in disappointment and the beginnings of grief. He was no stranger to assassination attempts, but the coldness of this one had managed to shock him. Feeling that the knob was no longer comfortable to hold the Phoenix King dropped and forgot it. He turned away from the sight of the dead she-elf, thinking now that all that remained was to tell his guards, and to move on. Instead of Caledor’s footsteps alerting the White Lions it was the heavy and urgent fall of boots that alerted the Phoenix King that something was amiss. There had been no cries, no loud noises to alert anyone outside this chamber that anything was wrong, yet elves were coming. Quietly the Phoenix King drew his sword and walked towards the door, lying in wait. As expected the heavy timbers were thrown open and three elves entered in haste. Caledor could only scan the faces of the forward two. Both of them were dressed like White Lions but Caledor did not recognize their faces. Anger now replaced the more passive feeling of grief; this wasn’t Malekith trying to strike him down. He had been betrayed. With a cry of anger the injured King came forward, cutting the head from the shoulders of the first imposter and driving the tip of his blade through the gut of the second. Pulling the now blood slicked sword from the elf Caledor whirled on the third elf who was just now trying to free his blade. The Phoenix King grabbed the last elf roughly, placing his blade on his taller assailant’s throat. With fire burning in his eyes Caledor looked into the face of his would-be assassin, and felt despair return. Rythion Pendragon, sure that he was at the end of his life, stared back into the face of his king. It took every fiber of his strength and self respect to keep his expression neutral. He watched as Caledor’s features fell away, feeling at once a sharp pang of regret that he had betrayed his master. “Killing me will do nothing.” Rythion stammered, any regret he had giving way to his sense of self preservation. “Arcanaus is here. I showed him the way, the secret passes. I’ve lured him to a trap.” One of Caledor’s brows shot up and Rythion could see contempt and hatred returning to the Phoenix King’s face. “He should be here now, outside the walls of this fortress…Our scouts noticed his approach a week ago and now our commanders are ready to strike. Sorry to have kept the news from you, my Lord. But you were not supposed to live to know of-“
Rythion was cut off and Caledor pushed his blade upwards against the High Prince’s throat. “No one here.” The king growled before the halls shook with an impact.
“Arcanaus comes.” Rythion struggled to speak, his voice rising in pitch.
Caledor merely nodded, dragging Rythion past where Aurelia and the White Lions had fallen and towards his window. The king threw back the curtain, letting daylight flood into the space. Rythion was
29 forced to narrow his eyes at the sudden glare but he was still being thrust forward until his face was against the glass. When his vision cleared Rythion was given a sight that few fools are graced with. He got to see his folly come full circle, from its misbegotten start to its disastrous end. Arrayed before the Halls was a horde far larger than what the High Prince had expected. Caledor noted this as Rythion’s eyes grew wide and the color drained from his face. What the Phoenix King had meant by ‘no one here’ came home to the High Prince; he had expected a normal army, a legion at the most that the garrison of the Halls and the surrounding area could crush if a surprise was unleashed. But this was the full weight of Malekith’s armies, and underestimating that was going to cost him everything. “Asuryan…” Rythion whispered, “…What have I done?” Rythion emitted a small cry of pain as Caledor drove his blade into his stomach. “You’ve killed our army.” Rythion recalled the body of men now trapped behind enemy lines. The Phoenix King twisted the blade. “You’ve killed her.” Aurelia had ceased bleeding. “You’ve killed Ulthuan.” At the last the king let him drop, pulling his sword from the High Princ’es gut as another set of impacts rocked the Halls. White Lions, responding to the siege, rushed into Caledor’s room to find their charge cleaning his blade on Rythion’s robes. Their captain stepped forward, his gaze unable to leave the blood soaked floor. “My lord…What now?” Caledor walked towards his bed, picking up his scabbard and beginning to armor himself. “We leave.”
30 The Rebellion War of the Beard Campaign By Alithwar
Malekith sat alone in his chair, made of black steel and littered with diamonds. He looked around the throne room of Anlec. He remembered how he played with his father here, a long, long time ago. Before those wretched traitors refused his rule. But now, he knew, he had it all under his control. He had defeated the Phoenix King and banished him from his lands. His people were strong and loyal. Everything was his, except...
- Malekith, King of Uthuan. It has a strange ring to it, wouldn't you say?
A voice of malice and pure power spoke loudly in his head. It has been so occasionally ever since he struck his pact with them. Them. The Gods of Chaos. He would have never done so, and neither would his father, whom he so looked up to. But his need was greater than anything, and he had no choice. But he wouldn't do as they wish. He knew he could trick them and get out of the deal without his side of the bargain made. He grinned for a second before regaining his composure and faced the insubstantial apparition that now appeared.
- What do you want?, he asked, but he knew what they came for. - We want your side of the bargain fulfilled. We have given you great power and victory over those that you hate so much. Now, you shall open the Vortex for us.
Malekith laughed out loud in their face. How could he dare to do that? At once, a beam of light sailed through the air and struck him right in the chest, but he was still laughing.
- Don't you remember the Network of True Magic? You cannot harm me here, evil ones. Nor can you make me open the Vortex for you. Why would I do anything for you? You yourselves made me invincible, and now you see the consequences of that.
The colours began shifting more intensively, depicting the anger of its true masters. They have been tricked where they were sure to win and have at their disposal a passageway to use as they saw fit. But a mere weakling tricked them and took power away from them.
- You cannot do this. You have promised it to us. - Words do not mean anything, you of all should've known. Mere sounds spilling from the mouths of both stupid and perfect. Words are tools on the tongues of the able that they may reach their goals. I have. - Malekith.
The sound of their voice changed in an instant and sent chills down the King's spine. He never heard such a voice, outerwordly and of purest evil.
- The Witch King. May you and all of yours be cursed until you meet your end at the hands of the one you thought dead and banished forever. Rejoice in your empty victories and know that death will always
31 be ready to jump at you. We know, we see, we hear, be it past, present or future. You are an empty piece of flesh, encased in your armour, secure in your position and order. But your heart is black and your people treacherous. You will yet remember our words when the Reapers knock at your door. - Begone, you fools! Do not step in my halls again and bother me with your empty words. You have fulfilled the use I had for you.
Thus, the light slowly shimmered out of view, leaving a silent room behind it. Malekith sat in his throne and looked through the window, thinking about what has been said, until a knock at the door scared him and woke him from his thoughts. A lone Druchii soldier came in.
- Milord, High Commander Nagathi wants you to assist him in making plans for the cleansing of the last of the foul traitors from our island.
He rose slowly, the armour screeching as it slided on the marble of the chair. Walking ceremoniously to the door, he grabbed the soldier by his throat, crushed it and threw his corpse on the floor.
- Thank you.
------
In the realm of the North, the Gods pondered about the worst punishment for the Witch King. They hated him from the core of their being, and they swore that one day, revenge will be exacted upon the Witch King. They will have the last laugh, even if it took them a thousand years to do it.
------
But a tool has arisen in the hands of the Chaos Gods. Their loyal followers, particularly Slaaneshis, started a rebellion which spanned through the whole island of Ulthuan and threatened Malekith and his whole great scheme he has exacted until now. Led by Mornatar, a Sapherian Archmage, they have won many Elves to their side, and the Witch King was forced to assemble his armies sooner than he thought. But the real threat, one Malekith wasn't aware of, was that the Chaos Gods he thought he had the power over turned against him. Now, the land was torn apart by another civil war and hundreds died every day in bitter skirmishes across the lands of Ulthuan. And the most important was yet to come..
Lord Arcanaus, one of the High Commanders of the Druchii, slowly opened the great iron doors of Malekith's ruling chamber, his black robes dancing around him.
- Lord Malekith; he bowed - a visitor wishes to speak to you.
A cold, lifeless voice spoke from the casket that was the black armour which kept him alive.
- Who is it? - Lord Mornathar Tuloni'eth, a Sapherian Archmage. - What bussines does he come here for? - He did not wish to say, my King. - Bring him in. - Send for the Mage! - shouted the general.
32
A moment later, a tall figure clad in ellegant dark blue robes with purple decorations and runes fluttering about him entered the room. Arcanaus bowed again and left the room, closing the door behind him.
- Malekith the King. What a pleasure. - Who are you and what do you want? - Straightforward as I've heard. Legends of you precced your coming. I have always wondered which of them are true. - Say what you want or I will throw you to the my guards. - No, you will not. I have magically sealed the doors. The Dark Prince will keep them closed until my mission has been accomplished. - Who sends you, traitor? - The Dark Gods and my Lord Slaanesh. They have sent me to kill you and exact their revenge upon you for failing to honour your agreement. I have started a rebbelion and my loyal followers spread the word through your kingdom. No, pardon, my kingdom. War is raging again through these lands and I have them in my grasp. With your dead at my hands, I will grow in the eyes of the Dark Prince and bade in the adoration and pleasure. Do you have the strength in you still, or have you grown incapable of everything from the day of your... accident?
Malekith stood up and walked to his challenger, unsheathing his sword. Made of the finest steel, enchanted by the powerful mages and blackened by the heart of its wearer, it struck at the Mage. But he had his tricks as well. Creating a fiery sword in front of him, he gave himself time to draw his own greatsword and strike at the Dark Lord. The fight raged on, blow after blow blocked by the swords, or in Malekith's place, the armour he was wearing. He was wondering how none of his Guards outside heard this happening. Even if that was due to magic, he knew he was going to take some heads because of that. Several minutes passed and none of the combatants got the upper hand, until the Mage slipped as if to create a diversion for Malekith to strike out so that he can stab him, but he lost his balance and truly slipped, giving the Witch King the chance he needed. He chopped the Archmage's head and walked to the door, opening it with his free hand. The soldier's outside stopped in their steps and looked at Malekith. He was breathing slowly, enraged beyond reason. In two quick motions, he beheaded one of the Guards, and slipped the gut of the other, sheating his sword. The soldiers outside stood with their mouths wide open as Malekith slowly returned to his chair.
- Incompetent fools.- he slowly whispered - Assemble my armies and strike with full force at the Chaos rebels. Say to them that their leader is dead and that they do not have a chance to win. Take no prisoners and leave none alive.
------
The civil war was over in a matter of weeks. Leaderless, outnumbered and cornered, the armies of the Chaos Gods had no chance at being victorius over the forces of Aenarion's son. They were quickly overun and expelled from their hiding places in Ulthuan as Malekith's rage brought them to justice. One of the soldiers said that many have taken their own lives with long, curved knives as to the bring pleasure to Slaanesh. A shame, thought Malekith. They would serve well as presents to the torturers of his dungeons. He began the purging of Chaos and strickly forbid every worshiping of Slaanesh, or any other Chaos God in all of his kingdom under the penalty of death. Let us see how they will get their
33 revenge now, he thought. It even brought a smile to his scarred face. Death always amused Malekith the Witch King. Especially if he gained from it as well.
------
A group of hooded horsemen rode fast through the forest. The moon sometimes reflected on the decorations on their armour, resembling Dragons and fire. The Exiles of Caledor, no doubt. On of them raised his hand and the riders stopped. One of the riders quietly spoke to them.
- We are nearing Yvresse on time. The night will protect us as we arrive. We will split up and move our separate ways. Evreyone knows the plan and route, yes?
The riders all nodded their heads in agreement.
- Good. Then we ride for the Council. May the Gods bless your paths and make sure you arrive safely to our destination. Go now. For Caledor! - For Caledor!
Each of the riders spurred their horses onto different roads and moved quickly forward, wondering how many of them will survive the journey. The Council of the King will start soon, and there was little time for escape.
34 Rescue and Exodus By Eldacar War of the Beard Campaign
The sun was setting in a blood-red sky over Ulthuan, crimson rays bathing the world in an uneasy light. Across the seas it swept, around the Vortex, and into the eastern kingdom of Yvresse, wherein hid the last remnants of the once-great army of Caledor I, the true Phoenix King of Ulthuan.
To the eyes of a child, it would have seemed perfectly normal. Elves moved from place to place, some carrying food, others messages. Yet to the older, more experienced eye, this would be far from the case. The eyes of the messengers were furtive, darting. Fearful. Some elven women walked around as if in a daze. Some elves openly wept, whether it was for loved ones lost, hunger, or simple despair. It was a saddening sight, that what had once been a great army was now reduced to these pathetic remnants. Still, there was yet hope. Caledor had finally, at long last, arrived in Yvresse. It had been nearly a year since the disastrous battle fought at Anlec, where brother had slain brother, and when Malekith had revealed the full depth of his pact with Chaos, seizing the throne for himself in that bloody war. And now, with this hidden muster of what forces remained to the Asur, they were doing their best to ascertain the best way to recover from this devastating blow.
***
Arguments flew back and forth within this small council hall in such an out-of-the-way place. The most vocal of all of these was the self-proclaimed Shadow King of Nagarythe, Alith Anar. The crown that he had stolen from the Witch-King rested upon his head, perhaps as some subtle way of establishing his position. Or perhaps not.
“How can you justify running away from this usurper?” the Shadow King pressed, a wild gleam in his eyes as he spoke. “If we continue fighting, we may yet be able to drag him from his stolen throne in the future, and ensure that nothing like what he has done to us can happen again! Just think, a united Ulthuan once more, free from the touch of Chaos, free from-”
“We are depleted, outnumbered, and out-positioned, Prince,” Korian L'enodel cut him off. “As much as I and many others here can admire your courage and strength of will, we simply do not have the resources to wage a war like what you are suggesting. And once Malekith discovers us here, we will have to flee.”
“Listen to me, old-”
“Enough.” The word was soft, but such was their reverence for the speaker that all chatter within the hall was instantly ended. All eyes turned towards Caledor I, the one who was, in their eyes, the true Phoenix King of Ulthuan. Until now, he had remained silent, as was often his way, allowing all the assembled commanders to voice their opinions on the best course of action. Standing, he limped down from the slight dais upon which rested his seat. Evidently, the terrible wounds that he had suffered at
35 the hands of the Witch-King were not yet healed, despite his recovery in Caledor following the battle of Anlec.
“Ulthuan,” he began, “is too dangerous.” This started a slight murmuring amongst those gathered, for they sensed that he had made his decision.
“Phoenix King,” Cambragol Sapherior said cautiously, careful not to offend his King, “If Ulthuan has become too dangerous, then where would we be able to go? Ulthuan is our ancestral home. We cannot travel from here, for wherever we go, would Malekith not pursue us? Where can we go?”
“The colonies,” the Phoenix King answered, his voice like iron. It was immediately and abundantly clear to the entire room that he had spent time considering this, and that he would not be budged from his position.
A deathly silence had fallen over the room in the wake of these words, a profound absence of sound. All their eyes rested on the one who had led them through the war, as if unbelieving of the event that had just taken place. Leave Ulthuan. The mere thought of it was almost too much to comprehend. Deep in their hearts, many of those present here today knew that Caledor was right, that they could not stay in Ulthuan, but none of them would have dared to voice those thoughts openly. Whole minutes passed without a single prince opening his mouth to speak, until Korian stepped up behind Caledor, his eyes worried.
“My king,” he said, breaking the silence, “There will most likely be supporters of the Witch-King in the colonies, and they could carry word to him of where we will be. Are you sure that leaving for the colonies is the correct decision?”
“Yes,” was the reply.
“No,” Alith Anar growled from the assembled generals, shoving them aside so that he could have a clear view of the Phoenix King. “Are you a coward, Caledor? We can hold Ulthuan! If we give up now, we will forever lose any chance we have of regaining it. Is that the fate that you would choose for your people? To abandon our own homeland because you are too cowardly and weak to confront the one who has usurped what should be yours?!”
“Restrain yourself!” Haldir snapped. The Caledorian moved to confront the enraged Nagarythian, but Alith Anar would not be stopped now. He roughly shoved the other prince to one side and approached Caledor, who stood watching him with an utter calmness that was unsettling.
“I and those who follow me will never surrender Ulthuan,” he snarled to the Phoenix King. “We will fight to the last breath if possible, but we will not surrender. Not now, not ever. And if you leave, then I will not follow you.”
Another silence had fallen, and Haldir gazed from the floor in utter shock at the words that had left the mouth of the Shadow King. The only one who moved was Caledor, who met the eyes of Alith Anar with a coolness that was matched only by the rage in the other.
36 “It is your choice,” was all he said. It was like two polar opposites confronting each other. On the one side was Caledor, like a rock amidst a howling, raging storm, and on the other was Alith Anar, the epitome of towering rage.
“So be it,” the Nagarythian said with finality. And then he spat in Caledor’s face, turned, and stormed out of the hall.
In the wake of such a temper tantrum, nobody could muster the courage to speak. It was as if they had been struck dumb by the enormity of the act that the enraged elf had just committed. Caledor made no comment, merely wiping the saliva from his face. Turning, he moved back to his seat, where he sat down, oblivious to the questioning gazes directed at him. Some murmurings had begun to stir the group into action once more, but they fell back into silence when Caledor raised his hand once more.
“Nairalindel?” he asked. To elaborate was unnecessary (not that he would have anyway), for all remaining knew of what he spoke. The Everqueen of Avelorn, Nairalindel, was reputedly a prisoner of Malekith, held hostage at the Evercourt within that enchanted forest. The thought of rescuing her had been raised before, but no decision had ever been reached. Now, though, it seemed as though Caledor was ready to pronounce his verdict on the matter.
“My lord,” Korian began hesitantly, unsure to the mood of the Phoenix King after Alith Anar’s outburst, “We have received word that she remains a prisoner at the Evercourt in the Forest of Avelorn. Rumour has it that Malekith plans to make her his wife to secure his legitimacy as a Phoenix King of Ulthuan. Beyond that, we know very little.”
Caledor nodded at this, and descended back into a deep silence, as if his mind was weighing the options available to him. Finally, he looked up at the different elves standing near, awaiting his decision. Should he save her, or trust in Isha to protect her? Caledor knew what had to be done.
“She must be rescued,” he said, and this sent another spate of murmured comments racing around the hall. Caledor had entered into the customary year-long marriage with Nairalindel soon after he had passed through the Flame of Asuryan, but it was common knowledge that the marriage had been based purely on politics, to secure the Phoenix King’s legitimacy. And now they wondered if there could have been something between the two after all.
“King, warriors and me happy to bring back Everqueen,” Prince Anrol declared. His eyes were shining with sincerity, and his once-elegant robes were rumpled and food-stained. The Phoenix King looked at him carefully, judging his current mental faculties. In the long war, Anrol had confronted a challenger to his position, and an unfortunate side-effect of that had been his current ailment: blind stupidity. Slowly, Caledor shook his head.
“Stealth is needed,” he said, raising his hand and ignoring the expression on Anrol’s face, like that of a child who has just lost his favourite toy. “He will lead.” All the eyes in the room followed the direction that Caledor was pointing, to the lone elf in grey robes near the back of the room. Prince L'enodel nodded and motioned for the elf to approach. “Prince Lathaniel,” he declared, “Will you do your king’s bidding, and rescue the Everqueen Nairalindel?”
37 The youthful face of the chosen prince looked up to that of the much older councilor. White-blond hair fell about his face, and his silver-flecked blue eyes were afire with determination.
“I will,” he swore, and the emotion behind his words was enough to assure the elves present that he would, at the least, prove to be their best hope of bringing Nairalindel back to them.
“Then this court session is ended,” Korian announced to the assembled elves. “Men'thala vasaroiei'vasilei.”
***
The elfmaiden moved under the eaves of the forest with a smooth grace, her footsteps barely disturbing the ground she walked on. Through the trees she could see the tents of the Evercourt, silent and imposing. A single tear tracked a course down the side of her face as she recalled the days before the terrible war, when this place had been one of laughter, joy and music. All things change, she reminded herself, but all the same, this change could not be for the better. Her eyes drifted across the camp from her position, settling on the lone black tent that, while stark, seemed elevated above all the others. Malekith was at the Evercourt, continuing his quest to win the hand of her liege-lady, the Everqueen Nairalindel. So far, he had met with little success. But she must not be tardy, for in but a short time, she would be called upon to wait on Nairalindel. Gathering her robe around her, she moved back towards the tents.
“Prince Malekith-”
“King Malekith, Lady Nairalindel,” the Witch-King corrected her. The Everqueen’s mouth twisted, but at the dangerous look in Malekith’s eyes, decided that it was probably in her own best interests to humour him.
“King Malekith, then,” she continued, “I have been married to Caledor for well over a year now. I cannot marry you, for it would be against the will of Isha.”
“Caledor?” Malekith’s laugh was high, cold, and more than a little insane. And there was something wrong with his eyes. “I am the rightful King of Ulthuan. Not a traitor to Aenarion. If you must insist on calling that farce a marriage, then I can merely annul it with a single proclamation.”
Nairalindel turned to regard the Witch-King, sprawled in his chair sipping his wine. The black Armour of Midnight covered him save for his helm, which had been removed and rested on the ground beside his chair. He had been drinking heavily since the morning, and given how prone he was to fits of rage, it was perhaps better to remain silent for now. Malekith caught her gaze, and his eyes grew wild.
“What?” he demanded, standing and moving over to her. “What is it?” The imposing figure of the Witch- King loomed over Nairalindel, and she took an involuntary step back, clenching her skirts.
“You have heard things, haven’t you?” Malekith said in a whisper. “Rumours about me.” Up this close, the sheer chaotic energy that seemed to surround him was almost overwhelming, yet he quickly moved away as the harmonious magic of Isha radiating from Nairalindel began to press on him. Malekith snarled at the touch of Isha’s power, refracted through the Everqueen.
38 “You made a pact with Chaos,” Nairalindel said softly, beginning to move away from him. Malekith looked at her blankly, and then laughed again. Yes, it was the eyes. There was something seriously wrong with Aenarion’s son, and whatever it was, she didn’t like it. Not at all.
“I tricked them, don’t you see?” Malekith whispered. “They thought to manipulate me, that I would let them into this world. They gave me power, power to do as I will, to become the unchallenged ruler of the elven race. It was my birthright. And I achieved it!” He broke off, watching her with wild eyes. “By my authority as ruler of Ulthuan, I hereby annul your marriage to Caledor I, a traitor to the throne of Ulthuan.” Turning abruptly, he strode out of the tent. Shaking in fear, though she tried with all her strength to deny it, Nairalindel slowly sat down, her mind spinning.
“You should not deny him so. My son is a troubled soul, as I am sure you can see, Lady Nairalindel.” The voice was smooth as honeyed wine, but it contained all the sweetness of a snake. Nairalindel didn’t need to look in order to know who the speaker was. Morathi. The leader of the Cult of Pleasure, a worshipper of Slaanesh, the widow of Aenarion, and the mother of Malekith. And if the rumours were true, his lover as well. “You have naught to gain by refusing his offer,” she continued. “The King of Ulthuan weds the Everqueen, and my son rules Ulthuan as the Witch-King.”
“I did not give you permission to enter my tent, Morathi,” she said, standing and turning so that her green eyes locked with those of the other elf, pointedly refusing to acknowledge any title. Clad in naught but a strip of black silk that wound about her frame in such a way as to entice the eyes of any, and leaning seductively on her staff, the soft smirk that graced the red lips indicated that Morathi had seen through Nairalindel’s subtle denial of her station. “And I will not marry Malekith. I am already wedded by law and custom to the Phoenix King of Ulthuan, the true ruler of the elven homeland. The Witch-King is merely a tyrant, and like all tyrants, he will be deposed in time.”
“Your permission means little to me, oh-so-mighty Everqueen of Avelorn,” the handmaiden of Slaanesh replied. “As the Queen Mother of Ulthuan, it is my right to travel where I please, and none may impede me.” She moved right up close to Nairalindel, until their faces were naught but inches apart. “None,” she breathed softly, her eyes alight. “Not even you.”
“Leave here, Morathi,” Nairalindel said without emotion. “I have no time to waste on you.” Her eyes radiated Isha’s soothing aura, an aura matched by the darkness of the Queen Mother.
“And if I refuse?” Morathi asked coyly, reaching out to run one slender finger along the sleeve of Nairalindel’s gown. “You could have risen high had you joined the cult, Nairalindel. Such beauty is surely a gift from the greatest of all gods, and-” she gave a start, jerking her finger back as it touched the skin of the Everqueen. She hissed softly as she observed her index finger. The skin had blistered already in a vicious burn-mark. Merely touching the embodiment of Isha was enough to harm the High Priestess of the Dark Prince, it seemed, and Nairalindel quickly seized this advantage.
“You are excused,” the Everqueen said softly. “Now go.” Overlaying her voice was an aura of magic and command. Instinctively, Morathi backed up, as if about to leave. Then she regained control of herself, and stopped. Turning, she gave Nairalindel a malicious smile, one that promised suffering that the Everqueen could not bear to think of.
“Guards,” Morathi called. As two of Malekith’s Black Guard entered the tent, she continued. “The Everqueen is tired, and wishes now to rest and regain her strength. She must soon begin her
39 preparations for the wedding to my son.” With a final look, one that was matched in intensity by Nairalindel, she departed the tent.
***
A forest, enchanted and mysterious. Mossy grass and great trees mixed freely with sunlit groves and light brush. Ancient magic, hidden pathways. A fast-approaching band, who brought with them the scion of an ancient legacy, one who carried an aura of power around him. The runes Quyl-Isha and Asur, shining from upon high, engraven on the greater moon. Tthe fast-approaching storm clouds, crackling and rumbling in the distant skies to the west, the black evil to the north, and the despair to the south, as the flame in the hearts of elves was extinguished. Glittering beings of energy danced around her in welcome, yet she was a stranger here, in this place of power. A presence surrounded her, protecting and soothing, and somehow, without a doubt, she knew its name.
“Isha?” There was no reply, only a need to watch, to observe. She saw as they came closer, surrounding a camp amid the forest, yet understanding had not yet come to her. Then the need to wake.
The eyes of the Everqueen flew open, and she gasped as a deathly chill wracked her body. It flowed through her veins, her skin, right into the depths of her bones. What could cause such a cold?
“My lady?” The voice was questioning, unsure of how to proceed. Nairalindel turned to see one of her Handmaidens, Alassea, standing to one side, as if she had been watching over her while she slept.
“Malekith?” the Everqueen asked. Alassea shook her head.
“He left,” she explained, “To put down a group of Pleasure Cultists that have arisen in Saphery. There are only a few of his guards left in the Evercourt, and none are nearby.” Her tone took on a concerned voice. “My lady, are you well?” Nairalindel waved her away when she moved closer, as she was still trying to work out what the vision had meant. It had to have been a message, a vision granted from something. But what? And why? Elves had been moving through a forest to attack a camp, and they moved with the blessing of Isha and Asuryan.
“Isha,” she whispered. Isha had to have granted her a vision, knowledge of what was to be. Nothing else could explain the runes in the sky.
“My lady?” Alassea was clearly discontented. Nairalindel forced a smile.
“I am well,” she assured the Handmaiden. But there was a tinge of worry in her voice, no matter how hard she tried to suppress it. “I just need some air.”
Alassea looked at her for a long time, and Nairalindel was acutely conscious of the time slipping past, just like the night breeze as it swirled through the air. Then, the Handmaiden knelt deeply before her, before turning and leaving the tent as quietly as she had arrived, shadows dancing around the tent flap as it rippled in the night. Shadows. Nairalindel could remember when her court was filled with dancing, music and laughter, in earlier days. Happier days, days before the terrible destructiveness of Malekith’s civil war had taken place. Now, there was only sorrow and sadness to be found here. This could not be allowed to continue. And she somehow knew that the only way to heal the divide was to go east. But
40 how? Guards surrounded the camp. There was no way to escape. Yet there was still hope. She knew that much.
***
The leader of the small group raised a hand, signaling the other elves to stop. They were drawing close to the Evercourt now, and stealth was of the essence if they were to have any chance of accomplishing their mission: Rescue Nairalindel, and get her back to Yvresse and the Phoenix King unharmed. Their soft leather boots made no sound in the forest they moved through, and to an onlooker, they would have seemed to be nothing more than shadows upon the trees. Silently, they moved as close as they dared to the trees, eyes darting as they took note of the guards. The leader turned to face the elves following him. They were all hardened warriors, toughened by the many long years of war, and they were eager to strike back at those who had forced them from their rightful position. There was nothing that needed to be said. All knew their part, and all would perform it to the utmost.
As they split up, moving away in groups of two, the lone elf in grey robes remained, watching the tent that he knew to belong to the Everqueen. Idly, he observed one pair of guards chatting as they walked their patrol route. Abruptly, two shadows detached themselves from the shadows of the treeline and fell into step behind them. They never saw their death come. There was a sharp crack of necks breaking, and then the two corpses dropped to the ground. One. The elf murmured a soft incantation, summoning his energies for a spell. As he completed the casting, he felt a slight shift, and then he was viewing everything as if through a shroud. Encased within this cloak of darkness, he began to move. Time was of the essence.
As he approached the tent of the Everqueen, he shifted from shadow to shadow, always keeping himself as quiet as possible. He didn’t have much time, so the quicker, the better. The longer he took, the more chance that the bodies were noticed, and the higher the risk to all the lives involved. Reaching the tent, he ducked inside, and dropped the spell, looking on the Everqueen of Ulthuan for the first time. Her beauty was everything that he had heard, and more, and there was naught that he could do but gape. Nairalindel straightened, gasping, and he sensed the gathering of powerful magic around her. Quickly, he snapped back to his senses. This was not the time to daydream.
“Les’anan, Lady Nairalindel,” he said softly, raising his hands in the gesture of peace. “I am here to take you to safety.” They were not, perhaps, the best words to use. He could sense the fury around her building already.
“You enter my tent without permission, cloaked in powerful magic. You say that you are here to take me to Caledor. Yet you have no proof of your claims. How can I trust you?”
“Because if you don’t come with me, then you will be forced to marry Malekith,” he said bluntly. Her expression was still unconvinced, and there was that ever-growing sense that time was slipping by. “Please, my lady, we have been sent from Yvresse, where the remnants of Caledor’s army gather. We will be leaving for the colonies soon, and we need you to accompany us.” He broke off as she murmured something under his breath. It sounded like ‘legacy’. “Milady?” he asked. “Quickly, we must leave. Now.”
Nairalindel looked at him once more, and then briefly nodded, gathering up those things that marked her as the Everqueen, the Shieldstone of Isha, and the Stave and Star of Avelorn. Taking her hand in his,
41 he tried to shake away the feelings rushing through him. By Asuryan, he was acting like a child. Pushing the thought to the back of his head, he summoned his magic, drawing on the Wind of Shadow, and cloaked them in darkness. There wasn’t much time left, and as they hurried from the tent, soldiers were beginning to stir as the first pinkish rays of dawn touched the horizon in a beautiful network, weaving amongst the white clouds in one great, beautiful tapestry that stretched from the eastern horizon to the western storm front that was still fast approaching. It would most likely prove to be a beautiful sunrise, but now was not the time to admire it. As they moved quickly through the camp, he felt his grip on the Wind of Shadow begin to waver as the light of day drew closer. He was painfully aware that the two of them looked like moving shadows without an owner, and that the sooner they were gone from here, the better.
Abruptly, a cry split the air, coming from the north of the camp. The relatively small supporting army had found two of the sentries on duty. They were running now, heading for the approaching trees. Yet they could never make it. One guard stood in front of the pair, looking straight at them. Cursing all the while in Tar-Eltharin, he yanked his blade free and drove it into the gut of the stunned guard, the magical shield falling away. As Nairalindel gasped in shock, he let loose a piercing whistle, signaling that the rest of the small group should attack. Guards were rushing towards them, and keeping a tight grip on the hand of the Everqueen, he raced for the forest line.
“Run!” he called. Nairalindel resisted, not wanting to leave them to certain death. Half-turning, she made as if to run back and try to help the dying Asur. Swearing again, he rounded on her. “They are giving their lives in exchange for your safety, Nairalindel! Respect their sacrifice and run!”
***
It was a scene to inspire fear in the onlookers. The cowering messenger abased himself on the ground before Malekith, trembling in stark terror of this dark ruler, enclosed within the black Armour of Midnight, the metallic face of his helm twisting in disgust at the elf now before him. He had delivered his message and could tell that the Witch-King was displeased. For such an event to have occurred, and for such incompetence on the part of the one in command at the Evercourt, one or perhaps many would die to serve as an example.
“So,” Malekith said softly. Too softly. “I am of the understanding that the Everqueen has been captured by the Caledor loyalists, and that you, instead of joining the hunt to reclaim her, were sent here to bring the news to me. A sacrificial lamb, perhaps?”
“My king… it seems that she went with them willingly, that she had been waiting for them to appear. Perhaps they had lied, deceived her about the nature of the traitor-”
“Enough! She is a traitorous bitch like all the rest of them!” His eyes were wild now, and he stormed back and forth, pacing the ground, ranting to himself. “She dares to challenge my rule in such a manner by running off to a traitor, and refuses the traditional marriage between the Twin Thrones of Ulthuan!” Malekith snarled in rage, and his hand pulsed with black power. Abruptly, he wheeled on the elf, who still knelt on the ground before him, and rammed his fist into the screaming messenger’s chest. Tearing the heart free from the body, as the sodden heap of flesh collapsed to the ground, Malekith crushed the heart in his fist, the crimson flood spattering the faces of those near him. “And let that be a lesson to the rest of you!” the son of Aenarion screamed. “She betrayed me. I offered her such an honour. She betrayed me. They betrayed me. Everybody has betrayed me. Why? Why? WHY?!”
42
As his temper completely snapped, he lashed out once more, tearing the throat from one of the elves near him. Gasping, he staggered forwards, black spots tainting the edge of his vision, spots that quickly began to engulf his sight. And with those spots, flames. Flames like those of that accursed god, the one who had caused him to be sealed within this suit of armour. Asuryan. Asuryan had crippled him. Isha had betrayed him. Who next? Kurnous? He hunted the Pleasure Cultists, yet they eluded his grasp. Had Kurnous abandoned him? What of Loec? His enemies hid in the shadows, waiting for the chance to strike. Loec aided his enemies. Why did they all betray him? He had saved the elven race from certain destruction! He had successfully taken the throne, slain a Phoenix King, and had survived the attempts of a god to slay him! And now he ruled the most powerful nation in the world! How could anybody betray him? It made no sense. No sense at all. His vision had gone black now, and he was vaguely aware of staring up at a cloudy sky, as if storms were about to break. The wrath of Mathlann? Had the god of storms abandoned him too? Why did he need them, if they were so fickle? He deserved their blessing…
“Take him to his pavilion! Send for the Lady Morathi! She may know what to do!” Morathi. His mother. Yes, she had not betrayed him. She had been faithful to him from the very beginning. She would never betray him. What if she did? Could she? No matter. They had betrayed him. They had all betrayed him. He was vaguely aware of standing, his lieutenants cowering from him in fear. Spreading his arms wide, he screamed his defiance to the heavens.
“I don’t need you!” The Witch-King cried, the words resounding through the air. “You have betrayed me, crippled me, and aided my enemies! I renounce you all! Do you hear me? You are not my gods!”
***
Far to the south, across the Inner Sea, one would stand on the steps of the Shrine of Asuryan. Perhaps the most sacred place in all of Ulthuan, within burned the holy Flame of Asuryan, the Flame that had accepted Aenarion and marked him forever as the Chosen of Asuryan. Cared for by a small group of warrior-monks, the Shrine had stood since the time of Aenarion and would continue to stand until the last elf was gone. Perhaps.
Deep within the shrine rested the chamber wherein the fire burned, one lone monk watched the shrine. The Keeper of the Flame observed in silence, for such was the way of his order. Flickering and flashing, the fire danced in something that would have inspired laughter and merriment from some. But to the ancient elf, it was a far more ominous event. Abruptly, the fire burst into a roaring blaze, spiraling up to the very ceiling of the Shrine. And then, with the sound of broken stone, it burst through, momentarily lighting up the skies in a corona of dancing energy, to be seen from as far north as the Blighted Isle, where, had anyone been there to see, the Widowmaker glistened with black energy, the wailing keen of the sword echoing all across Ulthuan to match the blazing sky fire, casting a pall of darkness on the entire terrible scene.
It was a vision of beauty, and of horror. Writhing tendrils of energy moved among each other, twisting and turning, all to the sound of that wailing song. The intricate network of fire burned brightly for a moment more, the storm growing around it, and then, as the storm broke and rain poured from the heavens, the blazing fire descended back within the shrine, leaving the utter blackness of the storm as the sole ruler of the heavens and the hearts of those who had chosen Malekith. There was one final flicker from the Flame of Asuryan, and then it guttered out, the song of Khaine fading to a mere murmur, as the gods of the elves left Ulthuan to its fate. All the Keeper could do was collapse to his
43 knees and bow his head as the Shrine, and the hearts of the elven race, were plunged into a deep darkness, one from which he knew they would not rise.
***
“If my people must live in the darkness, without the light of Asuryan to guide us,” Malekith whispered, never taking his eyes from the sky, where but a moment before there had been such a wondrous, terrifying display of beauty and power, “Then so be it. We are not weak-willed Asur. From now until the last day, we are the Dark Elves, the Druchii!” And in the distance, the song of Khaine throbbed in response to his words, the foreboding music reaching every ear.
***
As the two of them entered through the gates of Tor Yvresse, the Prince felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Now that they were back among friends once more, he would be able to give up the harrowing duty of protecting Nairalindel as they had raced across the eastern side of Ulthuan from the Evercourt to here. He scarcely noticed the cheers from elves once so dispirited and downtrodden, their spirits livened by the proof of Isha’s favour before their eyes, riding serenely behind him, her hands clasped around his waist to help prevent her from falling off. His mind was on the rippling cascade of fire that had lit up the skies some days ago. Nairalindel had explained it to him as they had rested for a short period of time, yet he still had problems envisioning the enormity of what had occurred.
***
“The gods have left Ulthuan,” she had explained, a soft smile gracing that beautiful face. “Malekith’s blasphemy finally drove them to their decision, and all save Khaine have left Ulthuan. The Flame of Asuryan has been extinguished, and the blessings of the gods no longer lie upon Ulthuan. It is as mundane as any other island, now, save for the dark wishes of the war god and the predations of the Prince of Pleasure.”
“Why have the gods abandoned us, though?”
“They have not abandoned us. They have abandoned Malekith. They still exist, I am sure. But they have gone away, and we will have to find them once more. We must go to the east. There are storms in the west, and so with no hope to the south, and evil to the north, there is no choice left to us but towards the land of the rising sun. I do not know why. I only know that we must go there.” She studied the ground, lost in thought, and he did not press her.
***
Caledor had emerged from his chambers to greet the reigning Everqueen of Avelorn, and he stood on the steps accompanied by the highest members of the council. What was left of them. Once the two of them had dismounted, escorted by the Prince, Nairalindel ascended the steps.
“You have returned,” Caledor said, inclining his head to Nairalindel and her escort. While he remained, as always, famously close-mouthed, it was clear by his eyes, if nothing else about him, that he had been deeply worried about the attempt to free Nairalindel, and now that it had been carried through to
44 completion, like all those who had actually taken part, a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Now, they would be able to begin the final preparations for their departure from Ulthuan to their destination in the Old World. “Well done, Prince.”
“Caledor,” Nairalindel said softly, eyes steady. “You have made plans to leave for the colonies, I am told. We must go to the east. The gods have gone there, and we have to follow them.” Caledor made no reply, simply watching her carefully, and her voice grew more impassioned. “Ulthuan is like any other island now. The blessing of Isha has left it, and the Flame of Asuryan no longer burns within either the shrine or the hearts of the elves. Malekith and his people have turned from the light and become Dark Elves, and we must hurry, lest what there is left of the Asur are treated to the same fate.”
Finally, Caledor nodded. “Very well,” he said. “East.”
An expression of relief made its way onto her face, and she nodded. He motioned to Korian, who nodded and motioned that Nairalindel should follow him to a place where she could be cared for until the departure. Gracefully accepting with a nod of her head, she moved forwards, escorted by a small force of Caledor’s House Guard. As they moved towards their rooms, however, Prince L'enodel pulled him aside.
“Well done, Prince Lathaniel,” the older elf said. “You have succeeded against all odds, molaes-aer.”
“They all died,” he whispered, his voice almost shaking, but tempered by harsh experience. “All of them. They gave their lives to save her.”
“It was their choice, and they made it.” Eldacar nodded at these words, and turned away. Perhaps there was yet hope for the Asur, now that the Everqueen was returned to them. Perhaps not, for Malekith might yet swoop down upon them. But whatever the result, all knew that history was in the process of being written. Soon, within days, they would make their way to the Old World, where they might find sanctuary from Malekith, and there, the next chapter of their story would unfold.
***
East. The land of Elthin Arvan, home to an ancient empire of warriors and kings, as old as that of the elves, and as enduring as the mountains upon which it had been built. Rolling plains and lush forests, across which the primitive tribes of man often roamed freely. In centuries to come, they might have settled and built a nation under the leadership of a man-god, yet for now, they remained trapped within the lives that they had built for themselves. Quyl-Isha, hanging above a forest, side-by-side with the runes Caladai and Cynath. A vast and immeasurably ancient presence lurking beneath the shady boughs of the forest, hung against a backdrop of jagged mountains, across which could be seen a path. The death of a king. A broken promise. The mark of Asuryan, far to the east, in lands never before seen by elf or dwarf. A war, fast approaching, and countless deaths on the part of both sides. And yet, throughout, that same voice called to her, bid her come in a voice tinged with sadness, mourning, and loss. It called to her, and she had to answer it.
“Come to me, child. Restore the balance.”
45 The Shadow King By VictorK War of the Beard Campaign
Arcanaus’ blood had scarcely dried on the Shadow King’s blades before night descended over the Anulii to which he had fled, his life’s blood spilled on the soil that, as it turned out, he was going to die defending. All signs pointed towards this end. The now dull but painful ache in his midsection where the head of the arrow was still embedded screamed this. That he was losing feeling in his toes and in the tips of his fingers said it more subtly. Yet even against this Alith Anar forced his feet to keep walking and his fingers to grip the bark of the trees lest he collapse and be unable to rise. There was no solace for the Shadow King that while he walked towards his grave he had already sent the greatest of Malekith’s generals to his. That was tainted by the fact that the individual who he hated most in the world besides himself had outdone him in cruelty, in the disregard for all else but victory. This fact was old in Alith Anar’s mind; it was planted there the moment that the arrow that was slowly sapping away his life had been planted in his stomach. It had come when he sank his blades into Arcanaus’s back, the realization that Malekith had been willing to sacrifice his greatest servant to lay a trap for the Shadow King. He was no doubt already reported dead. Malekith would toast the end to the last of the resistance against him.
It was hatred that kept Alith Anar’s feet moving, hatred in three parts for three kings, two of which had diminished to nothing. Hatred for the Witch King, who had stolen his lands, killed his children and perverted all justice. Hatred for the Phoenix King who could not stop his usurper and so abandoned the cause. Hatred for the Shadow King, who was above all else helpless. Throughout every part of the tragic conflict that would end with Alith Anar’s death no elf had died without regrets, but no regret was greater than that which the Shadow King carried with him that long night with only the beasts of the Anulii to keep him company. On the moonlit horizon, nestled in a distant mountain slope a slow fire flickered, a beacon to the ailing Alith Anar. It held his attention and he moved with what strength was left to him, shuffling feet and ragged breath, towards that point. He wasn’t quite sure what he expected when he reached the flames, there was no medicine that the Asur or the traitors possessed that could heal him. It might be a last gasp for companionship, or the last flicker of hope. For whatever reason the Shadow King refused to succumb, pulling himself towards the fire.
In the darkness, when the moon was hidden behind the boughs of a mighty pine Alith Anar’s normally careful foot snagged the same tree’s roots and he collapsed on his face. The Shadow King did not rise.
The slow popping of the fire coupled with its soothing warmth brought Alith Anar back to the world of the living, his eyelids fluttering open. He tensed, trying to move his limbs but they would not respond. His muscles ached or had lost their feeling; the only sensation that seemed to matter was the pain of the arrow. The Shadow King struggled to turn his head, feeling as if he’d slept for years rather than the few hours that had actually passed. He looked up, into the fire and then past it. On the other side of the flames a man was sitting examining one of the Shadow King’s knives. He was heavily built, much more so than any elf Alith Anar had ever seen. His size and the blocky contours of his face convinced the Shadow King that this was no elf but one of the barbarians that had been in the service of the Chaos Gods during the time of Aenarion. The barbarian’s already massive frame was emphasized by the bulk of crudely assembled armor. His hair was blond and hung down past his shoulders. “This is a good knife.” He commented in perfect Tar-Eltharin.
46
Alith Anar grimaced, guessing at the nature of his company but unable to speak it. “I like the weight of it.” The barbarian continued. “Not just the way it’s balanced, mind, but its weight.” The last word carried special emphasis and as it was spoken the man held the knife up to the firelight, letting the fickle colors dance along its edge. A slick of blood can be seen. “It’s a very special knife that acquires this weight.” He continued. “You may wipe it clean after each kill but blood remains. And it accumulates. This latest sample…It belonged to a very powerful warrior, didn’t it? It adds a great weight.” The barbarian shrugged and dropped the knife. “But it didn’t do you any good, did it?” He remarked to Alith Anar, “Slicked as this blade is with Arcanaus’ blood you have lost more, and will soon share the same hell as him. Am I correct?” The barbarian smiled toothily.
Alith Anar managed a small growl, his fingers twitching as he imagined them around the insolent human’s neck. He inched forward, wincing as the arrow shaft was disturbed. “My…my knife…” The Shadow King murmured in his gruff tone, his gaze piercing the barbarian.
“Why?” He asked, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “You’ll soon have no need of it. A dead man needs no knives. He’s done his killing. No, you just rest there, my associates will be along shortly and then we’ll talk.” He fell silent, keeping the toothy grin on his features while Alith Anar’s eyes sent daggers at him. Yet soon those eyes failed him, and the Shadow King fell back into his sleep.
“Is this the one?” A throaty, frog like voiced spoke in the darkness, bringing Alith Anar back to consciousness. His body was no more responsive than before and rather than feeling refreshed the Shadow King was exhausted anew. He raised his head to try and track the voice, looking towards the barbarian just in time to catch his nod. A tall and portly figure stood next to him, his gut protruding immensely from beneath a black cloak. The garment’s hood was drawn over his head, hiding the majority of his broad face from view but leaving his massive mouth exposed. The sound and the shape reminded Alith Anar immediately of a frog with the thick lips that seemed locked in an eternal frown that stretched over the whole of the face and were slicked with drool. The Shadow King was immediately repulsed by this new figure, his nose detecting a new, foul scent. Even though his eyes were hidden the elf knew he was being appraised.
“What a lovely state he lies in.” The cloaked figure burbled, speaking as if he were forcing the words through a pool of mucus at the base of his throat. “The wound is festering, even at this stage.” He paused to draw in a loud breath; as if he were snoring or preparing to clear his throat and spit. “Soon there won’t be much left of him, I can see it. The worms…are hungry. They quiver in anticipation of your demise, elf. For yours is a very sweet flesh. Very sweet indeed.” A massive tongue licked the figure’s lips, spreading sticky drool across their surface. “You have already told him he is to die?”
The barbarian nodded.
The figure hrmphed, his entire body shaking. “Then I suppose we will have to wait, for the others. Perhaps this one won’t be reduced to mulch, though I do hate to disappoint the worms so. And the flies. While I am not inclined to love the larger scavengers I will not deny them their meal…They must feed the flies. And the worms. Yes.” The hefty figure moved to sit, resting his long fingers on his knees. They were knotted and scarred, some with open sores and festering blisters. “The night wears on, elf. You’ll need your strength.”
“…I will…not…be fed to worms…” Alith Anar gasped.
47
The figure chortled, his gut shaking. “Of course you won’t.” The Shadow King slept.
A sweet smell invaded Alith Anar’s dreams, masking the horrible stench that had occupied them. He felt a surge of energy and a smile on his lips, warmth below his belt. He was awakening slowly, and pleasantly…there was the soft press of flesh on his side, over his shoulder, and a sweet breath tickling his neck. When he opened his eyes the softly sleeping face of a beautiful she elf greeted him. Her skin was flawless even as she lay against the forest floor. No grim dared to touch her. Her breathing was perfect, and though she was the picture of serenity her curves excited Alith Anar’s heart in a way that it had not been excited in many, many years. He gasped, barely making a sound but enough to cause her eyes to snap open. They were a peculiar mismatched color but the Shadow King didn’t mind. She smiled seductively, fingers caressing his cheek. “My warrior prince.” She cooed, pressing her body closer to his. “What a night…What a place…I could not have asked for better…” Her face began to close with his, and he welcomed it.
“Leave him be, you harlot.” The barbarian commanded, his voice at once mocking and forceful. The robed figure chortled. The she-elf scowled, eyes locking with Alith Anar and flashing pure anger towards him. Then she detached from him and rose, flipping her raven hair over her shoulder. The Shadow King could see that she was thinner than was healthy, her purple gown, designed to enhance her wiles was betraying her near destitute condition. She turned away from him and faced the others.
“Don’t command me, barbarian!” She seethed. “Not after the indignation I’ve suffered these past years…You two, and the other, threw me to the dogs while you fattened yourselves! This latest blow has harmed me far more than it has even disturbed your twisted dreams.” She sighed, even in the apparent defeat her body moved with perfect grace. “And now you deny me this perfect specimen? My warrior prince? Damn you. He was strong, there was fire in him! Oh, what fire! What cruelty…what…potential.” She turned back to him, kneeling in front of the Shadow King and looking into his face. From his position on the ground Alith Anar would have done anything for her. “What a waste.” She lamented, caressing his chin. “To just throw him away, bleeding out his hot blood…I would have him, but alas, it is too late.” She stood, walking towards where the others sat.
“Lady…” Alith Anar gasped, feeling his passion die away. “…Take me…”
The harlot turned and sat, smiling at the elf. “In time. On the other side.” Then, with his strength exhausted, he slept.
The Shadow King snapped awake as the ground next to him shook. His eyes opened wide and a wave of fear went through him. He looked up, and staring back at him was a monster. Her skin was yellow and her hair fire red. Like the harlot her eyes were not what Alith Anar would have expected in a face that bore the contours of an elven girl. They were orange, with slits like a cat’s eyes. They peered at him curiously, the figure folding its membranous wings behind its back. “He’s not much to look at.” A girl’s voice spoke into his face. “His threads are ending. He bores me.” She straightened, wearing no clothes but lacking the definition of a female. Only the outline and curves remained. Her hair hung between her wings down to her waist. She turned to the others. “Why have I agreed to this? This prince is unsubtle. He was caught by the most simple of ploys; the hunk of cheese was so big that this idiot mouse was caught in a trap. Is this who we want? I say let him rot. Let the worms devour him. We have no time for losers.”
48 “That’s unfair.” The robed figure burbled.
“Is it? Remember the last loser we took in?” The girl reprimanded the figure, walking towards where the others sat. “He disregarded us as soon as he got too big for his iron pants…” She trailed off, and then turned to Alith Anar, eyes alight with a new joy. “Oh…I see your game. Hee. I like it. There are many shadows that this prince can occupy, he might not be a total waste after all. Certainly our enemy will perceive him destroyed, eliminated…A blind spot. You would think our enemy would know from personal experience that death is hardly the end of a threat.”
“Well said.” The barbarian returned. “Shall we get down to business?”
“Are…” Alith Anar broke in, his strength almost gone. He felt that if he slept again, he would not awake. “…Are you the Four? The Ruinous Powers?”
“No.” The robed figure burbled firmly.
“Yes!” The girl chirped.
“We are your salvation.” This from the barbarian.
“And your damnation.” The harlot suggested with a suggestive smirk.
“This is your turn to make a deal, Alith Anar.” The barbarian took over now, leaning forward.
“Shadow King.” The girl added.
“Rightful Lord of Nagarythe.” The robed figure burbled.
“Dancer in the Dark.”
“Our last pact was broken. The fiend had aspirations greater than what we offered. It is not the throne, the isle, the sword, or revenge that he wants. It is the world he would have.” The barbarian commented. The others nodded. “But you are perfect. Like him, you are dying. Like him, your cruelty is an art. Like him, your will is iron. Unlike him, your only ambition is justice.”
“Treachery.”
“Immortality.”
“Revenge.”
Alith Anar processed the information, and it stung him to be compared to the Malekith. The lists struck at his multiple natures and drew them together into one mismatched picture, his crimes, his virtues, and the grey areas in between. “What…what do you want?”
“To forge the pact anew.” The barbarian answered automatically. “We ask this of you, if you will handle the burden. We have a mutual enemy, a mutual betrayer. There is power in this pact, it was this pact that allowed our enemy to triumph and thrive. What we did for him we will do for you a hundred times
49 over.”
“Why…why ask?” Alith Anar struggled. “Why not just bestow it…And control me?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” The girl chirped. “Besides. It never works that way. We have different eyes, Shadow King. What is obvious to us you could never grasp in a thousand years and what is plain as day to you we would look over as trivial. Since the Witch King has the same eyes this is practical. You will accept this, your hatred demands it. This is your only chance to kill the monster who thought he had you slain, to avenge once and for and all the crimes against you and best of all, prove that you are the better elf.”
“What…what do I get?”
“You will get what you need.” The barbarian replied. “It will be enough. We will be everything to you, Alith Anar.”
“Life!” The girl chirped.
“Death!” The robed figured added.
“Perfection of form!” The harlot shouted.
“Clarity of mind.” The barbarian finished.
“What is the cost?” Alith Anar pressed.
“Nothing to you.” The robed figure spoke. “Strings create resentment. Resentment breeds distrust, and distrust will result in failure. This is a gift and a mission. We know you better than you know yourself.”
The Shadow King’s head fell back to the ground. The dull ache in his stomach was accompanied by the pangs of uncertainty. This was the highest form of heresy he could commit, and at first he rebelled. But then he realized his position, not just on the forest floor of the Anulii with an arrow in his belly but the steps he had taken to get there. He had spit in Caledor’s face. Burned men alive, crucified others. He had done what needed to be done, and everything had abandoned him. The Phoenix King would not fight, the Everqueen would not lead and the gods of his fathers were gone. The Shadow King clenched his hand into a fist. “Damn them. They drove me to this…” He turned back to the Chaos Gods arrayed before him in mortal form. “Give me…the power to do what the cowards could not. I accept.”
All four of them smiled, but the barbarian spoke. “Very well then. Rest. When you awaken you will be in a different place. It might seem terrible to you but it is where you should be. The power will grow, and when the time is right you will take your revenge. Savor the in between time. Suffering spreads to all corners, all peoples. The shadow of Malekith and his mother extends over the whole of the world. It will be something to watch.”
Alith Anar smiled, and then drifted off to sleep. He dreamed of war, and the will to power. He dreamed of blood.
50 The Beginning of the War By Eldacar War of the Beard
As the prow of the Dragonship knifed through the churning waves, great sheets of white foam were tossed up, sending droplets of salty water into the face of the lone elfmaiden standing at the prow of Caledor’s flagship, the Indraugnir. Nairalindel’s golden tresses blew back from her face in the wind that raced past, and her white robes rippled in the air. In the distance, she could see the shores of that land named Elthin Arvan by the elves, the land that she, for some unknowable reason, had to reach. Why was something that the Everqueen, for all her wisdom, could not discern. She could only trust that the gods would reveal more to her in time.
Not far from her, a small group of elves stood unobtrusively. While they made a show of doing various little things, such as checking the sails, coiling rope, or gazing into the distance in a similar manner to herself, their purpose was clear. Caledor, or Imrik as he had once been known, wanted Nairalindel to be protected at all costs. Whether it was out of some feeling or another that he held for her, or if the reason was merely political, she did not know. But the Everqueen was grateful, because she alone among those Asur fleeing from Ulthuan had truly seen into the blackness of the evil that held Malekith’s heart and soul.
Malekith. That he had risen against the rightful ruler of Ulthuan was one thing. But he had made a pact with the Dark Gods, had betrayed everything that his father Aenarion had stood for. Nairalindel did not know how he could have done such a thing. And if this was not bad enough, she was forced to acknowledge him as her uncle. He had been the half-brother to Yvraine, her mother and the previous Everqueen. The same blood ran in their veins, and she had grown to despise him for it. He called himself the Witch-King, and it was a fitting title for one so steeped in the dark magic that he needed to survive the aftereffects of the wrath of Asuryan. She was jolted from her thoughts by the sound of a voice behind her.
“Milady, would you like to prepare for our landing in Elthin Arvan?” The speaker was one of the elves who currently protected her, Prince Lathaniel. By something more than coincidence, she knew, he was also the only survivor of the group who had rescued her from her captivity at the Evercourt in Avelorn. Nairalindel shook her head, and the young elf bowed and once more backed away, his hair blowing about his face. Nairalindel turned back to her examination of the distant shores. Soon she would know why they were here, and where they had to go next. Her attention was rapidly drawn back to the approaching shores, though, upon the cry from one of the elves in the lookout. And as they drew closer, they could see the extent of the carnage.
The entire beach that they approached was littered with bodies and wreckage. The casualties numbered into the hundreds by the looks of things, and there were but a few battered and bloody soldiers standing over the remains of the fight with grim determination. Something had happened here, that much was certain.
51 ***
“They’re all dead,” the soldier muttered softly as Haldir tried to question him. Nothing more would he say. Just that same phrase, repeated over and over again, as he sat with his head between his knees. Turning, Haldir strode back to Caledor, bowing.
“He refuses to talk,” the Caledorian said with a slight shrug. “All he talks about is that they’re all dead.”
“But who were they?” Korian murmured softly. “And who killed them?” While his questions brought no suggestions from the small advance party of elves, there was a great deal of shifting of posture and wary glances being exchanged among the group. Who, indeed?
***
“I want them brought back,” Malekith hissed in a low, threatening tone as he faced his generals within the throne room of Anlec. The black steel throne that he rested upon suited him well, and his face was twisted in disgust at the seeming incompetence of his generals. “I want Imrik’s head and Nairalindel in my dungeons, you fools, and I have no time to waste!” His voice had grown wilder, and even his closest and most trusted advisors backed away slowly. Recently, he had been slipping further and further down into madness, and only few could calm him. “Narkathe! Why have you no results?” The leader of the Black Guard, Malekith’s personal bodyguard, stepped forward in response to the question of his king.
“Great King, we were unaware that those rebels against your rule still had some fight in them. Your generals assumed, rightly at the time, or so we thought, that they had been scattered to the winds.” As Malekith’s face darkened once more, Narkathe hurried on, speaking rapidly now. “Your rulership of Ulthuan will not be contested, for there are none who have a claim to the throne. Arcanaus has reported success in his campaign through Caledor, and once we have drawn the Dragon Princes to our side, our strength and power shall increase a hundredfold. You are already mighty, and soon, you will be the greatest king to ever live.”
“Perhaps, Nakarthe, perhaps,” Malekith said, settling back into his throne as his eyes took on a faraway look. “Yes, I will be the greatest king, one to whom all the world will bow to in adoration.” Abruptly, his eyes snapped back into focus as he looked sharply at his foremost noble, Prince Furion. “Furion,” he said in a clipped tone, “What would you recommend to be the best course for pursuing these rebels? They have fled from Yvresse, taking the Everqueen with them, and they are without a doubt making for the colonies in Elthin Arvan. Should I give command of an army to my generals for them to give chase immediately? Or perhaps it would be best if my rulership of Ulthuan was utterly cemented first?”
“I would recommend, great king,” Furion said with a deep bow, careful to speak with the utmost deference and respect to his lord, “that you immediately give chase to these rebels. With your control of Ulthuan all but absolute, nothing short of a massive military force could even hope to break your rule here, and this will leave you free to give chase to the fools who follow Imrik.”
“Perhaps,” the Witch-King mused. “Command of the army shall be given to Kasiliath. Yes, he will be the perfect choice to lead my conquering armies to Elthin Arvan. The Dwarfs will bow eventually, but for now, crushing the last remnant of Imrik’s supposed loyalists shall show to the world that I reward my allies and punish my enemies.”
52 “Great king,” Nakarthe said carefully, “Are you sure as to your choice of leader for this campaign? Perhaps there could be someone else more able, more experienced. If it is your wish, I could offer some alternative-”
“It is not my wish,” Malekith said sharply, overriding whatever Nakarthe had been about to say. “I have made my choice, and Kasiliath will lead the army to Elthin Arvan. I will not tolerate insubordination, Nakarthe, and any who attempt it will meet the same fate that Imrik shall soon face.” He half-stood, as if he would carry out his threat right then and there, but he was halted by the image of beauty striding in through the doors to the hall. Morathi, the Queen Mother of Ulthuan.
“My son,” she said in that soft, silken voice, “There is no need to make threats. You have made a wise decision in sending Kasiliath in pursuit of the traitor. And will you not stand behind him to ensure that no mistakes are made?” At the sound of the Queen Mother’s voice, the face of the Witch-King, so stormy of late, was suffused by a dreamy, almost lost expression. Morathi smiled softly as she boldly strode up the dais to caress the side of her son’s cheek. “You are the greatest king ever to rule Ulthuan,” she whispered to him, “Greater even than your father. You will lead us into a new age of peace and prosperity. The Dwarfs will bow before the might of the Dark Elves. All the world will bow before your glory.”
“Alith Anar,” Malekith murmured softly, shaking his head in confusion. “The crown. He stole it.”
“Shh,” his mother said, placing a finger on his lips. “Leave the fool to me. I have devoted the best available to tracking him down and slaying him, and soon, your rightful crown will be returned to you. Soon, my son. But not yet. We must all have patience, even the Emperor of the World.” Malekith mumbled something, and closed his eyes, leaning back against the metal throne. When he opened his eyes, the madness had retreated. For now. Morathi smiled once more at her son, and then moved to his right, where she stood with a hand on the arm of her son. “Is there anything more that must be brought forward?” she asked the hall. With no reply forthcoming, the Queen Mother nodded, and with a wave, signaled that the court was dismissed.
***
She walked in a field of white roses, smelling their fragrance. Above her head, the sun moved quickly through the sky, and engraven once more upon the glowing face was the rune of Quyl-Isha. That, more than anything else she could see, hear or feel, told Nairalindel that this was yet another dream, a gift from Isha. The sun moved towards the east, and the rune traveled with it. Wreathing the sun was the white fire of Asuryan, while in the west, that black storm cloud gathered once more, as if preparing itself to chase after the fleeing sun. The message was clear. They had to go east once more. The image before her eyes seemed to glow brighter with Nairalindel’s acceptance and understanding of the message, and then the scene abruptly shifted. She stood on the edge of a cliff, looking towards the doors of a great keep, the home of the mountain-dwellers. A grim throng of Dwarfs marched from the open gates, armed and armoured for war. Here, the song of Isha changed to one of sorrow and loss, but before she could begin to understand why, there was one last shift, and then the song was telling her to wake.
***
“We must go east,” the Everqueen said, iron in her voice as she confronted the leading Princes and Caledor while they sat in debate over the fate of the Asur. “Yes, we have come to Elthin Arvan, to the
53 empire of the Dwarf race, but it is not yet far enough. There are still many long days before us before we can reunite ourselves with the gods.”
“I disagree,” Cambragol said, shaking his head in response to her impassioned plea. “We have come this far, and Malekith would not dare to risk the wrath of the Dwarfs by invading their lands with an army to destroy us. Here, we may build up our strength, and perhaps one day take back Ulthuan, and kill the usurper once and for all.” He looked at Nairalindel. “I cannot justify-”
“A premonition?” Caledor asked, overriding the Sapherian. Cambragol fell silent, but he, too, watched Nairalindel as she nodded in response to the question that the Phoenix King had asked her. Caledor moved towards the center of the small pavilion, where the maps that they had of Elthin Arvan rested on a table. “East,” he murmured, tracing a path through the World’s Edge Mountains, the heart of the Dwarf empire. “Or west,” he then said, his finger shifting as it moved across the land and sea to Ulthuan. He remained there for a long moment, then raised his eyes, and looked around at his nobles, the unspoken question clear in the air.
“I follow you to the ends of the earth, my king,” Haldir said with a deep bow.
“West,” Cambragol replied immediately, his eyes intent. “We can retake-”
“East,” Prince Lathaniel said when Caledor’s eyes shifted to him, ignoring whatever the Sapherian had been about to say. On the young elf, those eyes perhaps remained fixed for a moment longer than they had with the others. Then the Phoenix King’s eyes moved onward to the others.
“I follow,” Anrol said brightly, that grin creeping onto his face once more. In the back of the group, one elf stifled a laugh.
Caledor moved around the circle, and once the last Asur had voiced his opinion, his eyes returned to the table and the maps in front of him. Then lastly, he looked to the Everqueen.
“There is something else that you should know,” Nairalindel said softly. “You must send emissaries to the Dwarfs, to secure an alliance before Malekith can.” Caledor nodded, his eyes still on the maps of Elthin Arvan. There was so much to do, and so little time in which to do it. But the Phoenix King vowed to himself that no matter the cost, he would do what was best for those who had declared him to be their king.
***
The iron-shod boots of the young beardling rang out with metallic rhythm as the young Dwarf escorted the three elves through the corridors of Karaz-a-Karak, pointing out the different and varied examples of stonework as he did so. Clearly, he was oblivious to the impatient stares that the three Asur directed at his back in between stops. Still, despite all the waiting for him to explain the particulars of the many and varied ways to cut stone effectively, reaching the throne room of the Dwarfhold didn’t take long at all. Stopping outside, the three elves shifted noticeably, partly with unease, partly with wonderment at how long it could possibly take.
“This is stupid,” Haldir muttered to Narmacil in Tar-Eltharin,. “What do we need the help of the short folk for anyway?” His tone showed clearly his impatience at being here and his need to continue
54 onwards as soon as possible.
“Help,” Anrol agreed, grinning from ear to ear, ignoring the marked looks of exaggerated patience on the faces of the other two elves as he did so. Neither could understand the reasoning of Caledor and Nairalindel in sending this idiot along with them on such an important mission, but they were loyal subjects of the Phoenix King, and they would obey his commands. It didn’t stop them from ignoring the once-great warrior whenever possible, though. Anrol was prevented from speaking any further, however, by the opening of the huge doors, towering far above the heads of the elves.
Beyond that door lay a huge hall, the vaulted ceiling ascending far into the darkness, beyond the light granted by the numerous torches and glowing runes carved into the pillars of the hall. Lining the walls was the elite bodyguard of the king, the Hammerers. Clad in armour of the finest Gromril, and bearing rune-encrusted weapons forged by the greatest Runelords of Karaz-a-Karak, they were not warriors with whom one would readily give battle. Each bore himself with dignity, and one and all carried their weapons as if they knew well how to use them. Surrounding Gotrek’s throne were even more Dwarf warriors, with long beards reaching almost to the floor as they observed the approach of the Asur, oblivious (or ignoring) the fact that even though they stood several steps above the elves, they could still only look them directly in the eyes. To the side of the throne stood another Dwarf, one of ancient and noble blood if the eyes of the elves did not deceive them. Nor did their sharp vision fail to notice that the hand of this particular dwarf had been replaced by one forged of solid Gromril, and engraved with powerful runic inscriptions. This was clearly, at least to the eyes of the elves, an indication that this Dwarf, young though he seemed, was the heir direct to the throne, Prince Snorri Halfhand, the only surviving son of the High King.
On the other side, the left, were two more Dwarfs. One was dressed in fine runic armour, a figure of power and dignity not unlike that of Gotrek himself, while the other was clad in a flowing robe. And to the puzzlement and amusement of the three ambassadors, here and there in his beard they could see pink ribbons. Dismissing this utter absurdity from their minds for now (despite Anrol’s unsuccessful attempts at fighting back laughter at the sight), they turned their attention to the figure seated on the throne in between his son and the two heralds, who watched the three elves as the rune of Azulmer shone brightly above his head.
Gotrek was a solid Dwarf in what seemed to be his middle years, and despite his size, every inch of him exuded nobility, strength and skill. Clad in glowing rune-encrusted armour, his hand never strayed far from the handle of the axe resting against the arm of his throne. All three elves had heard stories about that axe, that it had supposedly been forged by one of the Dwarf Ancestor Gods for the greatest warrior of the Dwarf race. Of course, they were only rumours, after all. Behind the throne, and scattered all through the hall, were Dwarfs of varied age and rank, ranging from the youngest of beardlings, fresh from their first battle, to the grizzled veterans of countless years of waging war against the Greenskin menace.
With some trepidation, the three elves stepped through the doors, beginning their walk down the center of the aisle lined on the edges with more of the king’s elite Hammerer bodyguard. Despite the outward confidence that Narmacil and Haldir exuded, within, they were more than slightly nervous at this display of might. Anrol, on the other hand, bumbled along happily, making astonished noises every now and again, commenting on all the ‘pretty patterns’ he could see on the armour of the guards. As the three elves reached the bottom of the dais, even they were forced to look up at the imposing spectre of Gotrek Starbreaker upon his throne. Glancing at each other, Narmacil stepped forward first.
55
“We, emissaries of the chosen children of Asuryan, greet you, King Gotrek, in the name of the Phoenix King Caledor I, blessed of the Gods, and the true king of Ulthuan. I am Prince Narmacil of Saphery, and my companions are Haldir Firestorm of Caledor and the former Prince Anrol. We have come here on the orders of our king to ask of your aid in resolving a matter we have recently been confronted with.” To his credit, the elf met the cool, calculating eyes of Gotrek with confidence. The High King of the Dwarfs did not immediately reply, but instead conferred quietly with his son and another Dwarf, possibly his herald. Following their brief discussion, Gotrek motioned that Narmacil should continue.
“As I am sure you have heard, there was recently a war on our island home,” he began. “For all our efforts, the usurper, Malekith, was able to defeat us and bring himself to a position of power. He cares not that he was rejected by our gods, and has declared himself to be the Witch-King of Ulthuan. We represent the few High Elves who remain loyal to the true king, Caledor, and we have come here to ask for your help. We have settled around the edges of the forest of Athel Loren, and would ask that you lend your aid in defending the new kingdom that we have built for ourselves.”
As Narmacil finished, Gotrek sank back into his throne, his expression thoughtful. Minutes ticked by as the High King of the Dwarfs sat there, lost within his own thoughts. If it had not been for the fact that his eyes were awake and alert, the elves would have thought him to be asleep. And given the general dreariness that they found this hall to put forth, they wouldn’t have ruled out the possibility, either. Finally, Gotrek straightened on his throne, for he had reached a decision.
“You have our permission to maintain your empire on the borders of Athel Loren,” he instructed the elves, his deep, booming voice resounding through the throne room of the Dwarfhold. “However, the Dwarf Kingdoms will not actively provide assistance to you and yours. Should you wish to trade with the nearby Dwarfen settlements, then you are more than welcome to, but that shall be the extent of the assistance we will grant. You have our permission to house yourselves on our land, and that will be enough.” His tone showed that he would not tolerate any protest to this ruling. “Moreover, we cannot allow innocent Dwarfs to become caught between your ‘war’, however strange it may be. For that reason, you must defend yourselves should you wish to survive. This audience is at an end.”
The three elves watched Gotrek for a few moments, bowed, and then turned and walked out of the hall.
***
The prow of the Dragonship crashed through the water as the sails, filled with magical wind, billowed out. They had set sail from Ulthuan a week ago, and soon, they would draw close to the shores of Elthin Arvan. As the Witch-King looked down upon the mighty armada from atop his most recent acquisition - a forcibly tamed dragon, battered and broken to his service - the largest fleet ever to sail the seas of the world, he could not help but feel a sense of victory growing within himself once more. He was the ruler of Ulthuan, the commander of loyal warriors, and had been chosen by Khaine himself. ‘Witch-King’, he was called, by both his allies and enemies. Idly, his hand reached for the hilt of his sword, that mighty blade. Destroyer, it was called, for it was capable of shattering the magic of his enemies, defeating them before they had even struck a blow. He would have to reward the priest who had created the blade for him. Hotek, the elf was called. A loyal follower. Soon, he would reach Elthin Arvan, and revenge would be distributed to those fools who had fled from Ulthuan. Yvresse was now a smoldering ruin, its cities torched, and much of the inhabitants now dead. Such was the price to be paid for hiding the enemies of the undisputed ruler of the elven race, and soon, the Emperor of the world.
56
Yes, soon, he thought. But not yet. Malekith knew what he had to do next, and with a telepathic command to his mount, he soared higher until he was above the clouds that moved through the sky at a stately pace. And so it was that on dragonback, Malekith made his way to the east, to the World’s Edge Mountains and the Dwarf Kingdoms.
He would have his revenge.
***
It was a quiet night, the old Dwarf reflected, leaning on his axe as he looked to the sky. The stars glittered above, and the double moons shone brightly as they granted their light to those who walked the world. All of his contemplation was immediately washed away, however, by the image of the fast- approaching Dwarf Thane, one of the rulers of Karaz-a-Karak. Dumac Thunderbrow, he was called, the brother to Fafnir Thunderbrow. Dumac stopped in front of him, and idly stroked his long brown beard.
“A quiet night, is it not?” the younger Thane asked of the sentry, his tone clearly indicating friendliness to the guard, and the warrior relaxed slightly. “It has been a troublesome few weeks,” Dumac continued, turning to face the road approaching the doors of the stronghold. “Elves asking us for aid, asking for help in this ‘war’ they are embroiled in amongst each other.” Dumac shook his head sadly. “Truly, I will never understand the Elgi. To fight and kill one’s own kin is something that not I nor any other Dwarf will ever truly understand, I do believe.” Dumac’s musings were cut short by the beating of wings. As one, he and the sentry looked to the skies, where they could observe the vast black shadow blocking out the light of the stars. The shadow of a dragon, and it was descending towards the hold, landing on the road leading to the entryway. And the hands of the Dwarfs left the hilts of their weapons when they saw that this dragon had a rider. An elf, by the looks of him, though Dumac couldn’t tell for sure. In any case, the figure was walking towards the doors, and despite the relative warmth of the night air, a chill raced down the spine of the Thane. There was something not right about this elf, but he couldn’t for the life of him discern what.
“Guard,” he ordered, his voice crisp, “Call for assistance, and ensure that the Dragon is watched at all times. It poses a threat to the hold, and we must guard against such threats with all the strength we possess. Is that understood?”
“Yes, my lord,” the guard said. Dumac nodded, and then headed for the ladder. He intended to meet this elf, and perhaps then he would be able to understand why he had that terrible feeling of wrongness in his gut.
***
“Greetings, Gotrek Starbreaker,” Malekith proclaimed in a soft, melodic voice that carried to every ear within the great hall. “As the former ambassador to this great empire, I felt it to be my duty to inform your majesty of some recent changes that have occurred on the Isle of Ulthuan, the homeland of the elven race.” Malekith was clad, as always, in the black Armour of Midnight, his helm in place, and despite the obvious darkness of the metal, he had enacted glamour magic around it to ensure that those who observed him could see only what he wished them to see. Such was the subtlety of his magic that even the greatest Runelords of the Dwarfs were unaware that they were being deceived in such a manner. Fools one and all, these short folk. Yet, they might prove necessary in the future, and so he
57 would suffer them for now.
“As was my right,” he continued, “I have ascended the throne of Ulthuan, and have been chosen by Khaine the War God as the sole ruler of my island nation. However,” he continued, “as with all changes of power, there will always be some dissent among the populace, and such it was that I encountered resistance to my rule. A band of treasonous murderers, led by one called Imrik, deigned to defy my rule and proclaim that his right to rule was greater than mine own. Taking the name Caledor, he strode through the Flame of Asuryan and declared himself as the Phoenix King.” Malekith continued, describing those events that had pitted the island against itself in the bloodiest war seen since the Great War Against Chaos all those centuries ago. “And so,” he ended, “I have come here to ask for your assistance in cleansing the last of the rebels who stain the honour of the elves with their claims.” As he finished, he was aware of the murmurs running throughout the great hall as Dwarfs conferred with each other about this latest development among the elves. Yet through it all, Malekith was acutely aware of Gotrek’s gaze, a flat stare that never shifted from his face… his metallic face. Finally, one Dwarf stepped forwards.
“Your story is an interesting one, Malekith of Ulthuan-”
“King Malekith of Ulthuan,” the Witch-King corrected, his tone sharp as he fought down fury at their denial of his rightful station. How dare they! Yet his train of thought was broken as the Dwarf continued speaking.
“… and it will most likely please you to know that those whom you seek have constructed for themselves a small kingdom on the borders of the forest your race calls ‘Athel Loren’. Should these truly be the rebels you seek, then we will send our hopes with you that this threat is quickly ended.”
Malekith bowed deeply, fighting a victorious smile. At last, Imrik and Nairalindel were within his grasp. And the elf who had freed the Everqueen… he would pay above all for defying the true king of the elves and stealing his bride-to-be. The son of Aenarion could not resist it any longer, and a smile crept over his metallic face as he left the hall, delicious thoughts of torture running through his head. He would have his revenge.
Yet through all of this, Gotrek’s eyes had never left the figure of Malekith. Something was terribly, terribly wrong here, the Dwarf High King could tell, and he motioned his son closer.
“Father?” Snorri asked. “What is it you wish of me?”
“Go to the Elgi near the forest,” he instructed his son. “Tell them that Malekith is coming, and that he plans on exterminating them for good. They must flee if they are to survive.” Gotrek looked at his son’s face, and saw the expression of confusion there. “Go, Prince,” he said in a steely tone. “Lives depend on you.” Snorri Halfhand took one last look at his father, then nodded and quietly exited the throne room. Gotrek sank back onto the Throne of Power, his mind spinning with unanswered questions.
***
Eldacar strode down the main street of the town that the Asur had come to call ‘Tor Taerthelas’, his frustration clear on his face. They had been here for weeks now, and it made no sense as to why. Nairalindel had been prophesying that they must continue to the east, over the World’s Edge Mountains, and yet some elven lords, most notably Cambragol, had been resisting. They still believed
58 that they could retake Ulthuan from Malekith and once more reclaim the elven homeland, oddly enough. And Eldacar could see no logic in that decision, for if Malekith had cast them out once, then the pitiful group that now gathered here would have no chance at all of doing so. And, of course, Malekith would eventually find them, of that the relatively young elf had no doubt. They needed allies, and the three elves that had been sent to Karaz-a-Karak had been turned away. The only thing that the Dwarfs had granted was the promise that there would be no reprisals against the growing settlement, for all that was worth. Idly, he looked around, and realised that he had once more arrived at the eastern gate. And on the other side of it was the forest of Athel Loren.
“Prince Lathaniel!” the voice called, jarring him from his thoughts. Turning, he confronted the young elf, one of the new recruits from the colonies who had joined this remnant since their recent arrival in Elthin Arvan. “The Everqueen has requested your presence in council with the Phoenix King immediately,” the young elf continued. Eldacar nodded and moved up the street, shifting his sword into a more comfortable position as he wondered what could require his presence. He was, after all, little more than a bodyguard in truth, despite whatever weight his opinion carried in council. He was even more confused when, upon entering the small hall that Caledor had taken for discussion about their future, he came face to face (or to be more accurate, waist to face) with a Dwarf. And despite everything else about the Dwarf, one thing was painfully obvious. His metal hand.
“This, Prince Lathaniel, is Prince Snorri Halfhand, heir apparent to the throne of Gotrek Starbreaker,” Nairalindel said smoothly. “He brings dire news from King Gotrek.” Eldacar looked back to the Dwarf, confused.
“Malekith was at Karaz-a-Karak some weeks ago now,” the Dwarf Prince explained. “He claimed that your people are rebels against his rightful rule, and that he has been seeking to cleanse you for some time. My father the King thought it best if I were to warn you of his approach. Even now, he draws near, and I was told to say that you must flee if you are to have a hope of surviving to one day take back your homeland.”
It was as if he had, with those words, struck dumb the entirety of the council. Their faces were painted with shock as they tried to digest the message that Snorri had brought them. Of the elves present, Cambragol was the first to recover.
“We need not run,” he proclaimed. “With the new recruits we have garnered from the colonies, our strength has increased by half from what it was before we arrived in Elthin Arvan. Malekith would surely not bring much of his army to destroy us, for to do so would risk an uprising in Ulthuan from any rebels who still oppose his rule. We should stand, and fight, for we do have holds within this part of Elthin Arvan, and if we retreat to those, then we stand a chance at survival.”
“I disagree, Cambragol,” Korian said with a shake of his head. “Even if we do survive this initial onslaught, Malekith can merely bring more of his Druchii from Ulthuan. You know as well as I that he has many more numbers available to him than we do, and because of this, we simply must flee. We need to follow the prophecies of Nairalindel and travel to the east. Without our gods, we are nothing, and we must regain our link to them before we can think about challenging Malekith.”
“You would advocate that we run again, after all we have been through?” Cambragol’s voice was incredulous, and it only became louder as the Sapherian continued. “All I have ever heard is that we should run. Why run? I care not for the choices that the rest of you make, but I will stand and fight. No
59 longer will I run from this so-called ‘Witch-King’. We have done enough of that already. I say that we fight!”
“I stand behind Cambragol,” Ashnari Doomsong declared, moving to the Sapherian’s side. Soon, both sides of the hall were shouting at each other. Eldacar and the other guardians of Nairalindel moved closer to her, loosening their weapons in their scabbards, for it looked as though the argument would soon turn bloody. Snorri Halfhand moved to Eldacar’s side, watching the two factions shouting at each other, shaking his head in disgust.
“Enough!” Caledor’s voice resounded amongst the Asur. As they always did, the arguing elves fell silent, and turned to watch the Phoenix King. Caledor looked over the gathered elves, his eyes sorrowful at his realization of what things had come to amongst his people. Yet, he was resolute in his decision. “I go east,” he said. “With Nairalindel.”
“I will not,” Cambragol replied stubbornly, crossing his arms in defiance.
“Nor will I,” Narmacil of Saphery declared. “I have had enough of running.”
“I, too, will remain,” Haldir followed on, and Ashnari was quick to voice his agreement.
“I think that the decision has been made for us, my king,” A grim voice came from the doorway. Korian stood there, looking out, for in the skies above Tor Taerthelas there circled a dragon and rider. It didn’t take much to discern who the rider was, for there was only one elf who rode a twin-headed Chaos Dragon. Malekith had come. And then, the army was at the gates.
***
Chaos. Such a beautiful word to describe the panicking Asur. The Paladin of Khaine chuckled softly under his breath as he watched these few remaining followers of Imrik attempt to assemble some sort of line to defend against his conquering troops. Kasiliath knew that his brother would be here somewhere, perhaps hiding behind what those elves that assembled to face him. But then, Cambragol had always been like that. So willing to allow others to do his work. Kasiliath knew better.
The Black Guard of his liege marched with the Highborn, their armour glinting in the sunlight and their deadly blades raised high. With such terrifying warriors at his side, who would dare to stand against him? Unsheathing his sword, Kasiliath raised the weapon and signaled an advance. Today would be a day to be remembered. Today was when they crushed the Asur once and for all. Kasiliath searched the Asur line, and felt a wrenching in his gut as he looked upon the face of his brother. Cambragol raced along the line on horseback, shouting encouragement to the warriors lined up to confront his advancing army.
“Cambragol!” Kasiliath shouted, lifting his spear in a salute to his brother. The eyes of the Asur widened in shock and recognition, before Cambragol drew his twin swords from their scabbards. And so it was that while the two armies met in battle around them, hacking and slashing at each other with all the pent-up exhilaration as these two forces finally met in battle once more, the two brothers, the only descendants of Tathel Sapherior, met in combat for the last time.
“It is good to see you again, brother,” Kasiliath murmured softly as the two faced each other, weapons
60 at the ready. “Convey my regards to your wife, should you be the victor today. From what little that I saw of her when last we met, she was a worthy wife for one of your… status.”
“I would not sully her ears with the sound of your name, brother,” Cambragol replied coolly, his twin blades in the guard position. Despite all the raging battle around them, none stepped near to the two brothers, and it was as if they stood on a deserted field as they confronted each other. “But enough of this idle talk,” Cambragol continued. “Let this end.”
“As you wish,” his half-brother responded, raising the spear. The two remained frozen for but a single moment more, allowing each other to relax and prepare themselves for the battle that was to come. Then, as if on some hidden signal, they leaped at each other, weapons flashing through the air to crash together with a resounding ring of metal on metal as the scions of the Sapherior line met each other with weapons drawn for the first and last time.
Blades whirling, Cambragol came forward with a simple two-step routine, alternating between high and low thrusts while he slowly advanced. Kasiliath gave ground freely, working his spear like a quarterstaff as he sought holes in his opponent’s defence. Making measured thrusts, he reversed his backward motion, stepping in close and jabbing the butt of the spear into Cambragol’s ribs. The High Elf retreated, shifting into a defensive routine as Kasiliath went on the offensive. With the greater reach of the spear, he was ideally suited to this method of attack as he consistently pushed Cambragol back through the Asur lines. Snarling, the other Sapherian used a double-cross parry and then went back on the offensive, driving his half-brother back with a flurry of blows. Sucking his chest in, Kasiliath narrowly dodged an attack that would have gutted him had it connected, but for it he took a gash on his arm. Still, he accepted the wound, and then dropped to one knee, his spear lancing upwards to puncture Cambragol’s armour and leave his brother wounded.
“Impressive,” the Sapherian Prince said with grudging respect. “You are indeed a worthy opponent, Kasiliath.”
“I am the Paladin of Khaine,” he replied simply, before he lunged again. Cambragol executed a graceful jump over the spear tip, one of his blades lashing out in an attempt to snap the shaft in two, an attempt that Kasiliath easily blocked.
To any observing their fight, it would have seemed that the two moved with preternatural speed, for none could even follow their weapons as they danced the dance of death. Indeed, the two had been locked in combat for less than a minute already, and they showed no sign of slowing down.
Cambragol pushed forwards, his blades flashing once more as he took advantage of his ability to strike from both sides at the same time. Kasiliath ducked under one blade and blocked the other, then spun to his feet and kicked out, his spiked boot impacting his brother’s chest with a snap as the armour buckled under the force of the blow. The Paladin of Khaine continued his advance, the spear striking measured blows against Cambragol’s own weapons. There was another brief flurry of blows as Cambragol went back on the offensive, and the two parted, Cambragol with only one blade, and Kasiliath with a broken spear. Discarding the remnants, the Paladin of Khaine unsheathed his sword and turned to confront the Sapherian Prince. Raising the weapon in salute, the two adversaries rushed at each other again. This would be their last confrontation.
Shifting to a two-handed grip on his blade, Kasiliath met the initial attack with strength that surprised his
61 brother. Little could Cambragol know that Kasiliath was now deep into the dance of Khaine, that dance of murder and death that so personified the War God of the elven race. Sword flashing in response, the bright ithilmar blade moved in a figure eight pattern as he struck at his enemy’s sword again and again. Cambragol met these attacks with increasing desperation, but he had wasted too much of his energy earlier in the fight, and now, it was beginning to show. Kasiliath bore down on the older elf without mercy, his sword whirling through the air to strike Cambragol’s own blade again and again. Then, midway through his final stroke, the Paladin of Khaine altered the direction of the blade, and instead of knocking the sword from his brother’s hand, he simply chopped the hand off at the wrist, cleaving through flesh and bone.
Howling in pain, the Sapherian crumpled to the ground, his lifeblood fast ebbing from his body. Kasiliath stood over his fallen brother with utter calm. The song of Khaine flowed through him, and he knew what he must do.
“Fear not, Cambragol,” he said softly. “It will be quick.” As he brought the blade down onto the neck of his opponent, he registered the look of gratitude in the eyes of the High Elf. Cambragol had been a worthy opponent, the best that he had yet faced in the centuries of his life, and for that reason alone, Kasiliath vowed that he would spare the Sapherian’s wife from the wrath of Malekith, whatever it took.
Flicking droplets of blood off his weapon, Kasiliath strode back into the fight, leaving the corpse for the crows to feast on. He had a battle to win.
***
“Run!” Caledor shouted, and the horses leapt into motion. It was only a small group of elves, numbering amongst them Nairalindel, Eldacar, Caledor himself, and a few of the other Asur who, despite everything that had happened, still trusted Caledor to lead them to freedom. Snorri had gone missing in the fighting that had erupted in the town, but there was no time to wonder as to his fate. All that they could do now was continue to flee from the advancing Dark Elves, and hope that they could outrun this general of Malekith’s, this ‘Kasiliath’, or so he was called.
It had been some days now since the Druchii had attacked, but by all accounts of the other fleeing elves that they had passed, Kasiliath hadn’t spent long at the town, instead heading directly in pursuit of this small group of elves. And he was gaining. Soon, he would catch up to them, and every Asur there knew what would happen if that was to happen. And this, if nothing more, only drove the few of them remaining to continue riding further and further to the east, pursuing Nairalindel’s strange visions.
So it went. Day after day, always running, always heading to the east. From time to time, they would stop, and split up, one group returning to the west in an attempt to hold back Kasiliath’s forces and a few riders heading to either the north or the south in an attempt to distract the Paladin of Khaine, while Caledor, Nairalindel and the others continued onwards. As they rode, elves fell behind, unable or unwilling to continue, yet still the small group pressed on, Nairalindel’s prophecies ringing in their ears. Finally, Caledor reined in his steed on one of the lonely mountain passes within the World’s Edge Mountains. Kasiliath was close enough now that they could see his army advancing up the ravine behind them. They had finally been cornered. Caledor drew his sword, and the other elves followed suit.
“No,” the Phoenix King said as he saw them ready their weapons, willing to die alongside their king. He pointed to Nairalindel. “Go with her,” he continued. All the elves understood what Caledor wanted them
62 to do. He was going to buy them time, and hopefully allow them to escape.
“Phoenix King, are you sure about this?” Eldacar asked. Caledor never took his eyes of the approaching army as he replied.
“Yes.” Caledor reached up and removed his crown. It had been worn by Aenarion the Defender, the first Phoenix King, and now he handed it to the young elf. With a nod, the prince placed it inside his robes, where it would be safe. Caledor drew lifted his sword, but before he readied it, he turned to Nairalindel.
“At last,” she said softly as she met his gaze, before closing her eyes. “I understand.” When she opened them again, those blue orbs blazed with a bright inner fire, perhaps the last remnant of the sacred flames of Asuryan. “Men'thala vasaroiei'vasilei, Imrik.”
“Men'thalara vasaroiei'vasilei, Nairalindel,” Imrik replied. And then he kicked his steed into motion and charged towards Kasiliath’s leading regiments. His cry would echo in the hearts of the watchers forever after.
“None shall pass!”
***
“It is good to see that you have returned, King Malekith,” Gotrek said to the elf standing at the bottom of the dais. “I trust that your campaign against these ‘rebels’, as you call them, was successful?” Malekith’s eyes were dangerous as they looked back to the Dwarf King, and Gotrek was trying hard to dismiss any dangerous thoughts that he might be having. He knew well of Malekith’s proficiency with the arts of elven magic, and had no wish to test the power of the elf, especially since that this was a private audience. Gotrek was regretting agreeing to it even now.
“That is one way of putting it,” the Witch-King replied, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Still, I must ask you: were you aware that just before my general attacked their little settlement, their Phoenix King had fled towards the east? It took some days for my elves to catch and kill him. One would almost think that somebody had warned the Asur that my warriors were coming. Strange, wouldn’t you say?”
“Very much so,” Gotrek said coolly in response to Malekith’s subtle probe. “Perhaps there is a traitor within your ranks? Given this war that you have engaged in amongst your own people, I would not count such a possibility as unlikely.” Malekith waved a hand at this, dismissing the claim.
“Impossible,” he said lazily. “Had there been any traitors amongst my ranks, they would have been immediately crucified and left for the crows to feast upon. No, the traitor of whom I speak was not, I think, an elf.”
“Are you implying that a Dwarf would do such a thing?” Gotrek said indignantly, straightening in his throne. “Because I warn you that such a matter is not to be taken lightly, and-” He was cut short when Malekith hefted a cloth sack.
“It is not just any Dwarf that I suspect,” the Witch-King continued, “But rather, one Dwarf in particular.”
63 “You believe that I warned the Asur of your approach,” Gotrek finished Malekith’s train of thought. “What would lead you to such a wild conclusion?” Malekith’s laugh was truly insane as these words left Gotrek’s mouth.
“Wild? No, not wild at all, considering this,” Malekith said. And then he reached into the bag and drew forth a severed head. And worse, it was a head that Gotrek recognized. Snorri’s face was frozen in that last expression of terror and loathing that one possesses in the last moments before death. And to add insult to injury, Malekith had shaved off his son’s beard.
“You dare!” Gotrek snarled, standing from his throne and lifting the Axe of Grimnir. Malekith laughed in his face, and tossed the head at his feet. Then, the Witch-King of the elves unsheathed his own weapon and advanced on the High King. Now, Gotrek could see the truth of this monster, this scion of Chaos hiding within the flesh. How could he not have seen it before? Hefting the Axe, Gotrek readied himself and shouted a cry for help, hoping that his bodyguard would hear him and answer the call as he prepared to face the advancing image of death. Malekith had dropped his façade of light and goodness, now, and nothing more than utter evil emanated from his form, the pure energy of Chaos. His eyes were bright with madness as he clenched his fist, dark lightning crackling around his fingers. The Armour of Midnight shone forth with a terrible dark light, seemingly absorbing the power of the magical energies inscribed on Gotrek’s axe, armour, throne, and even stealing the strength from the runes carved on the walls of the throne room in utter defiance of the powerful Dwarfen magical defences. Where were his guards? Surely they had heard him by now, as he called for their aid once more.
“Your guards cannot hear you now, foolish Dwarf,” Malekith said with a sneer as he raised his hand, that black lightning gathering in strength as the Witch-King prepared to unleash the strength of his magic on the lone Dwarf opposing him. “Nobody can hear you, and nobody can help you.”
Malekith had spoken the truth. The guards on the outside of the doors never heard the screams.
***
Malekith had left soon after his private audience with Gotrek, saying that the High King wished for time alone to consider what he had been told. Out of respect to Malekith for his great friendship with King Snorri Whitebeard, the Dwarfs left Gotrek alone. Yet as the hours passed, they grew more and more worried. What was their king doing within the throne room? Finally, Dumac and Nordri, one of Gotrek’s heralds, grew tired of waiting and pushed the doors open. What confronted them was a scene out of a nightmare.
Blood painted the walls and floor of the room. In some places, the runic inscriptions had been blasted apart by an otherworldly force, and the blood had been used to inscribe the rune of Khaine throughout the room. On the floor in front of the throne lay a desiccated, shrunken corpse, and beside it was the fallen axe, the runes dulled and lifeless, as if their power had been torn free of its bindings. Every Dwarf present recognized that corpse, and they also recognized the severed and shaven head next to it. Gotrek had been murdered by the elves. Snorri had been murdered by the elves. And on top of all this, Gotrek’s long and flowing beard had been ripped out of his skin.
Nordri’s howl echoed through the room, a howl of pain, loss, and failure. Dumac could only fall to his knees at the sight. They had failed. Elves had murdered their king and his heir.
64 “The elgi want a war,” Dumac growled, lifting his axe as he made an oath to the Ancestors. “They’ll get one.”
65 The Human Race By Eldacar War of the Beard Campaign
Humans. Such an odd race. Tall, yet not as tall as the elves. Strong, yet not as strong as the Dwarfs. Their lives are but brief flickers in the great fabric of destiny, yet there may be yet hope. The Elder Races battle, spilling their blood onto the grounds of that land which they have dubbed Elthin Arvan, and all the while, destiny itself has begun to unravel. The Great Plan has faltered, and the very future of all lies on the edge of a blade.
***
The council hall was abuzz, the commanders of the Asur hard at work discussing their next move. The recent assault on the fledging city of Tor Taerthelas by Kasiliath, the Paladin of Khaine, had left them partially crippled. Moreover, the Phoenix King and Everqueen had traveled to the east in search of the gods, trailed by Kasiliath on the orders of Malekith.
“I want to know more about that forest,” Imrik’s son said, pointing out the window towards Athel Loren, his voice impassioned. “We know next to nothing about it, save that there is great magic bound within. If we could find a way to harness that force, to turn it against Malekith-”
“No, son of Caledor,” another voice said. “I do not think that to be the best option. Some of our number have already been lost to that place, and I will not allow more loyalist elves to be slain. Athel Loren is to be left alone, and none are to go near.” The speaker was an aged elf leaning heavily on his staff. Long white hair fell down almost to his waist, and his piercing blue eyes pinned every member of the council to their respective positions. Sethalis was old, to be sure, yet there was some inner spark that remained within him, a stubborn defiance to surrender to Malekith while there was even a hint of strength within his body. “We will not cower within a forest and hide. Do you think that the Witch-King will be daunted by the prospect of a forest? He will simply burn it down around us. The only option open to us is to attack, to hit them and hit them hard, for we have no other choice available to us.” Sethalis looked around carefully before he asked his next question, and every elf in the room was hanging onto the end of his sentences. “What has been done about this young race, these ‘humans’, as they have been dubbed?”
“My lord,” Tahl said carefully, “The members of this council are of mixed blessings. Perhaps it would be better to leave them to take their own path. They are no threat to us.”
“Spoken like a true Caledorian,” Sethalis murmured. “Young Prince” – he emphasized the ‘young’ – “you have plainly forgotten the simple and obvious facts. If we do not extend the hand of friendship to these humans, the Dwarfs will. Or if they do not, then the Witch-King will have them as his slaves. These humans are indeed a threat, for while they may not be elves, they have numbers, and that is something that we most assuredly lack. I cannot allow either of our enemies to gain control of them, and neither should you.” Sethalis turned to the window that Caledor II had pointed out of earlier, his eyes on the forest near to the town. “I want an embassy sent to the greatest of the human tribes. They call
66 themselves ‘Unberogen’, and I suggest that you take a group of mages with you. Their abilities will prove useful for when you attempt to understand what this lesser race is saying.” Sethalis turned to face the members of the council. “Am I understood?”
“Yep,” Anrol said, eyes bright. The elected leader of the Asur pointedly ignored the idiot, and assisted by his walking staff, exited the room.
***
As the elves strode through the camp on horseback, they pointedly ignored the stares of the humans. Uncouth, disgusting beings, they were, yet their help would be needed. Crude weapons were scattered around this place, ranging from iron axes to clubs. Here and there one could see more finely-made weapons, most probably Dwarfen-forged, but for the larger part of things, the weapons and armour of the humans happened to be in-keeping with their appearance.
Tahl shifted the reins, wishing that he was back on dragonback, fighting the minions of Malekith. That was where he should be. But no, he was stuck here, because Sethalis wanted him here. Caintal and a grey-robed mage were behind him, and both of the Asur Princes had their hands close to their weapons. Before the three elves was a tall human, and by the looks of the odd headdress he wore, this was the chieftain of these ‘Unberogens’.
“If you would, mage, allow him to understand us,” Tahl ordered. “I want to get this over with.”
The mage stepped past him and faced the human. Raising a hand, he traced a pattern in the air before him, murmuring a soft incantation. When he stepped back, the human remained transfixed for a moment, before shaking his head and eyeing the elves.
“Beware, Prince Tahl,” the mage said softly. “There is a great destiny about this character. His line will bring forth one who will be known as a saviour. Perhaps.”
“We have no need of your advice, mage,” Caintal said coldly. “You were brought along to facilitate their understanding of our language, no more.” The grey-robed elf only smiled, and then moved away, mounting his horse in preparation to leave.
“You show great courage in entering our village, stranger,” the human said bluntly to Tahl, his eyes dark and filled with anger. “Your people raid our lands, kill our warriors, and have taken our women and children. You have even taken my own son from me. And now you come into the heart of our land. What do you want?” As he spoke, his hand rested near the handle of a large axe, and from the notches in the blade, he most certainly knew how to use it.
“We are the Asur,” Tahl proclaimed in a loud voice, trying to assuage their fear and anger. “The elves, the First Speakers, Eldest of the many races in this world. Unlike our dark kin, who have raided you, slain your people, and stolen your children, we have come here to extend the hand of friendship to your people on the behalf of our leader, Prince Sethalis. As you lead the largest of the tribes, we have been instructed to offer this to you first and foremost. And as a token of this alliance, we bring you this.” Tahl extended his hand to Caintal, who brought forward a scabbarded blade wrapped in silk. Handing it to the chieftain, the two of them stepped back and allowed the human to heft the weapon as he ripped away the silken covering. The glittering ithilmar blade was engraven with runes of magic, and the hilt
67 had been inlaid with gold and precious gems. The face of the human lit up at the sight of the magnificent double-handed greatsword, for not only was it possessed of powerful runic magic, it was easily light enough to be lifted in one hand. The pommel-stone glittered momentarily, a soft blue flame shining from within the depths of the sapphire as the human hefted the weapon. Clearly, he had used blades before, and though his handling of the sword was nowhere near the skill of an elf, he made a credible attempt at doing so, as much as Tahl hated to admit it.
“You seek to buy me with gifts, and think that we will so easily forget the wrongs that have been done to our people? The smaller folk to the east have offered us an alliance, and why should we take your offer over theirs?” His eyes were as hard as steel.
“Because we will not always be here,” Tahl replied. “We wish for your aid in expelling those of our race who have stolen from you, and eventually, our plan is to retake our homeland. But we cannot force the Dark Elves from this land without your aid, and the Dwarf race wishes for nothing more than our complete and utter destruction in the barbaric fashion that they have become accustomed to.”
“Nobody would give away such a weapon without some ulterior motive,” the human said. He was right. The lords on the council had protested when Sethalis had told them what they were giving to the humans in return for their aid and friendship, and none of them had liked it. Those weapons were powerful, and now that Ulthuan and Vaul’s Anvil was lost to them, it was likely that they would never be able to produce such blades again.
“All we ask for in exchange for this weapon is your friendship, chieftain of the Unberogen, and your warriors to aid us in fighting our dark kin and the short folk, both of whom seek, even now, to destroy us for crimes that we have not and never would commit.” Tahl paused before continuing, in order to give his words greater weight. “Will you promise an alliance on your behalf and that of any others who follow you?”
The chieftain watched the three elves for a moment, somehow failing to notice the magic worked by the mage, magic of persuasion and trust. After a long pause, during which the human watched the elves carefully, he slowly nodded his assent. Raising his palm, he slashed his new sword across it, and motioned that the elves should do the same. The Caledorians, however, balked at the notion. A blood- oath? Mix human blood with their own? Laughing softly, the mage dismounted and drew forth his own dagger, slashing his palm. As the two others looked on, he sealed the pact. If they had looked closely, they might have seen the flickers of golden flame darting through the linked hands into the body of the human, sealing his line’s destiny, but they had turned away, unwilling to watch elven blood mingle with that of a lesser species.
***
As they moved on towards the next human tribe, the mage sat quietly while the two Princes conferred. So little did they know, he thought. For the grey-robed mage had seen destiny, and knew the terrible danger that they were all in. And, he vowed, he would do everything within his power to prevent such a fate from befalling this world. The plan set in motion by the Old Ones had to continue on, and Tathel would not allow it to fail.
68 The Traitor By Eldacar War of the Beard
They came with the night. Under the command of Lonicera, Priestess of Slaanesh, and Tarlis the Enraptured, the Druchii, in an act of desperation, had launched a furious assault through the Dwarf lines. And now they had finally arrived at their goal. The lonely mountain road stretched up before them, winding its way through a steep canyon as it showed them the path to Karaz-a-Karak, the newly constructed and greatest hold of the Dwarf Empire. All along this path, the sharp rocks drove into their feet, making the footing treacherous in places for the remaining elves. They were fewer now than they had been, the desperate assault on the Dwarf lands having sapped the once-great army of much of the strength it had possessed during the initial assault. However, their morale had never been higher, for despite all the efforts of the stunted folk to stay their advance, they had been able to carry their objective out, with the ultimate goal of their plan now lying before them, the last obstacle they had to overcome: The great gates of Karaz-a-Karak, the Dwarfen capital.
Dominating the end of this mountain road, the great gates were taller even than some of the oldest and strongest Dragons, forged of stone and Gromril, inlaid with all manner of runic inscriptions. Along the top of the great gate were walled emplacements, from which the Dwarfs who were no doubt hidden within could rain deadly fullisades down upon an approaching enemy. It was a marvel of defensive engineering, and like all Dwarf Holds, it was heavily defended, even moreso because this one hold was the hard core of Karaz Angkor, as the capital of the Dwarf Empire. Yet the advancing army was unafraid of this imposing barrier to their final triumph. They had campaigned through the lands of the Dwarfs almost without resistance, and led by the sorceror Furion, highest servant of the Witch-King Malekith, they were supremely confident of a quick and decisive victory.
Yet Furion had changed since the days of the great civil war against the fools who had denied the rightful rulership of Malekith. Once, he had been a powerful and noble mage, and teacher, servant and friend to the Witch-King, and the highest general in Malekith’s armies. Indeed, he had been so devoted to his lord and master that Malekith had seen fit to share the fruit of the Black Tree with him, granting the sorceror a place by his side for all eternity as an immortal. Yet Furion’s experimentation with the Dark Winds of magic had taken a toll on both his body and his soul. Hunched over in the saddle of his black horse, his form was twisted, though this was concealed somewhat by the silken black robes that clothed him from head to toe, and his gauntleted hands gripped the reins as if they were a lifeline. Yet even now, red eyes gazed forth from the blackness of his hood, and any who looked into those terrible orbs would know that they faced death were they to impede this figure, the greatest of Malekith’s servants.
Furion watched the gates in utter silence, as if taking stock of the immense magical force concentrated within them, before he turned and brought the full focus of his terrible gaze on the elves following him. There were general flickers of uneasiness in those elves who he fixed those eyes on, and once he had moved on from them, as if some sort of judgment had been passed, those with less control of themselves than others could be seen to exhale in seeming relief. The moment he began speaking, though, all were attentive, hanging off the least of his words.
69 “You have done well,” he said in a soft, rasping voice, “To bring me this far. We have fought our way through the lines of the short folk, pressed through them at the Underway, and through your efforts, before us lies the ultimate goal: the doors to the inner hold of Karaz-a-Karak. Yet despite our power, the short folk are not to be underestimated. They have consistently dogged our path ever since we began this offensive, and they will not surrender to us now. I will endeavour to open those doors from the inside, and once I have done so, your orders are to enter the Inner Hold and kill every Dwarf you encounter. There are to be no exceptions to this. Do I make myself clear?” At the salutes of obedience to this most revered of Druchii, Furion nodded once at Lonicera and Tarlis, and then turned and slowly rode up towards the inner doors. As he did so, he emerged from the shadows of the canyon into the light thrown by the torches stationed around the entrance to the hold, the Dwarfs on duty shouting in alarm as they brought crossbows, bolt throwers and all manner of mechanical weaponry to bear on the lone elf.
Furion reached the doors, and paused in front of them as if seeking his next action. Slowly, he raised his hand, before pounding once, twice, three times on the stone, the echo of the knocks resounding in the valleys and canyons around him and, he didn’t doubt, down through the halls of the Dwarf race. The sorceror coughed, wiping the blood onto his robes. By Khaine, how he hated this disease that ravaged him, the price to be paid for delving too deeply into the Dark Arts. He could not deny the power that it had brought, a mastery of magic rivaling that of the Witch-King himself, but the cost had become something that he could not and would not pay. And so he was here, about to betray the entirety of the army of loyal followers who lay in wait further down the path that led to this door. A final duty to his lord Malekith, the Witch-King and ruler of Ulthuan, and then he would have his freedom.
“Help,” he said in his soft, rasping voice, hoping that somebody, anybody, would hear him and open the doors. If anybody was listening, they showed no sign of coming out to aid him. He tried again.
“Please,” he rasped, struggling to raise his voice, unwilling to make any attempt at drawing on the Dark Wind to aid him. “There is a great army… they are coming to destroy you-”
He looked up in surprise as a small door in the gates before him opened up with a grinding noise that ripped into his sensitive ears. He could see the Dwarf figures marching out and surrounding him, and felt no remorse when a heavy object connected with the back of his skull. Indeed, the darkness that engulfed him was a welcome relief from the pain.
***
When the Dark Elf came to, he was on the floor of the great hall of Karaz-a-Karak. Surrounding him was row upon row of finely armed and armoured Dwarfs, all ready to defend their hold from the attack of the Dark Elves. Gromril armour adorned their bodies, and their massive hammers rested over their shoulders in some sort of Dwarfen salute to the Dwarf Lord who now addressed him. Furion ignored the short one for how, instead choosing to look around, and take in the sight of the hall. From the banners of war to the elegantly crafted stonework, the eyes of the elf roved around, fixing his eyes upon the runic defenses in place. Here, Furion knew, was where Malekith had slain the weakling Dwarf ruler, Gotrek. The aftereffects of the forces unleashed that day still lingered in the air, and despite all the efforts of the stunted ones, and the symbol of Khaine on the wall burned as brightly as ever. Furion knew the secret of that magic, a form of manipulation that only a very few mages had the courage, skill or wisdom to grasp. He was prevented from continuing this line of thought, though, by a heavy Dwarfen boot that slammed into his ribs, knocking the sorceror onto his side and causing him to groan in pain.
70 While he writhed on the ground in agony, the second Dwarf present stepped up to look at him.
“I am Thane Morgrim of Karaz-a-Karak, cousin to Prince Snorri Halfhand,” the Dwarf announced. A long black beard spilled down his chest, and despite his lack of height, Furion could tell that this Dwarf had the strength of an ox. Broad shoulders supported gleaming Gromril armour that covered the Dwarf, and a glowing rune axe was hooked into his belt, and as Morgrim knelt down low to face the sorcerer, he could see the anger and hatred for his race in those eyes, a forceful gaze that Furion matched with one of his own. Yet whatever effect he may have had on those elves who followed him, it was nothing to this particular Dwarf.
“I am Furion,” the sorceror said, trying to draw himself upright in order to maintain some dignity before this armada of furious Dwarfs. His efforts were rewarded by another swift kick that sent him sprawling once more. Silently, he cursed these short fools. Soon, he would have his revenge, and his freedom. Soon. “And,” he continued between breaths, “I am here to deliver a warning to you. A great army-”
“Enough,” Morgrim overrode him. “Speaking further would only confirm your lack of knowledge about the Dawi, elf. You have obviously come here seeking shelter from your companions who even now wait beyond these walls. Even more, you will soon claim to be a traitor to your kind, one who wishes to aid us, and you have every intention of opening this hold up to the elves who wait without these walls. Your armies may have forced their way to the doors of the inner hold, but they will go no further. Yes,” he said with contempt as Furion’s eyes widened in apparent shock. “We knew all about your attempts to remain silent. We know your name, Furion. You are one of the highest servants of the Unbaraki Malekith, are you not?”
“I am.” As the sorcerer spoke these words, there was no fear in his voice, nor was there unease. Just a confidence bordering on arrogance, yet the Dwarfs merely attributed it to the natural elven attitude. Morgrim nodded grimly at these words, motioning to another Dwarf to step forward. He looked familiar to the sorceror, for some reason. Perhaps he had been one of the Heralds of the High King on the last occasion that Furion had visited this place, or perhaps not. He turned his attention back to Morgrim, who was speaking once more.
“You know of the wrong that Malekith has done to the Dwarf race, and I do not believe for one moment that you feel a shred of remorse for his actions, nor would I expect you to.” Morgrim’s voice echoed throughout the chamber, reaching the ears of every Dwarf present. “Your execution will not redeem you or your king, but perhaps it will go somewhat towards the rightful vengeance that the Dwarf race is owed by your cowardly actions, Furion of the elves.” Morgrim paused to look the elf in the eye, and whatever he found there, he grunted in acknowledgement and stepped back, allowing the other Dwarf to come forward and end it. “Is there anything you wish to say before you are executed?”
“Long live Malekith,” Furion replied as the axe came flashing down.
***
He ascended from his prison, the form of the being released from the material world to fly free upon the Winds of Magic. As he did so, the vastness of the energy surrounding him permeated his senses, going deep into the core of who and what he was. The spell was in motion, and now, nothing could stop it. His spirit form descended through the stones, as it flowed along. Runic inscriptions were undone by this ancient form of magic, all their power bypassed and rendered useless as the force of the spell stole the
71 energy for itself. The blood of the caster, willingly sacrificed to empower the spell, was a far greater force than any could possibly comprehend.
Soon, the spirit was glowing brightly with energies, power that any with the witchsight would be able to see. A shining beacon in the Realm of Chaos, he could feel the boundless daemonic forces surrounding him, tearing at him, trying with all their might to devour him body and soul. Reaching his goal, with one great sweep, the strength of the spell was expended, energies crackling around him in a storm of Chaotic power. An observer from the material world would have seen the runic inscriptions upon the gates to the inner hold smoke and burn as the magic binding them was undone, yet that was nothing compared to the utter destruction that Furion faced from the other side. He could feel himself slipping away as the dark void of death called, yet with one final act, he smote the gates with the full force of the energy remaining to him, shattering the runes and breaking the stone, leaving the doors wide open for the conquering Dark Elves to enter. His task was done, and as he faded away, he didn’t even notice the daemonic forces tearing him apart piece by piece in their wild scrabbles for that which would help satiate their eternal hunger.
Perhaps it was a good thing, for knowingly or not, Furion had doomed the Dwarf capital with his actions. Even then, there was a rumbling sound as the aftereffects of the shock resounded deep within the earth, the clarion call to signal the death knell of Karaz-a-Karak.
***
As the Druchii raced through the halls, engaging the defenders in vicious hand-to-hand combat, few of them, if indeed any at all, noticed the brief tremors that had begun to wrack the hold itself. All that the two sides could focus on were each other. For the Dwarfs, these elves had not only slain Gotrek Starbreaker, but they had now invaded the ultimate symbol of power in the Dwarf Empire, and such an affront could not and would not go unpunished. Thane Morgrim led the countercharge into the ranks of the elves, his runic axe cutting a swathe through the lightly armoured elves. Fast the elves may have been, but in this sort of close-quarters combat, all that speed went for nothing when compared to the sheer strength that the Dwarfen guards were bringing to bear. Ithilmar blades bounced off the armour of the rampaging Dwarfs as they pressed through the elves, Morgrim at their head as he bellowed for the elven leader to come forth and face him in combat.
As the tremors began to increase in force, however, both Dwarf and elf alike noticed the change, finally realizing that it had naught to do with the chaotic nature of the combat. There was one brief moment when all those within the halls froze in terror, and then the elves turned and fled in panic. The great halls of Karaz-a-Karak began to shudder as finely forged stonework gave way to the fury of the earth itself, toppling to the ground to shatter. The Dwarfs moved with steady coolness, dispersing to the hidden exits of the hold to escape. Morgrim alone turned and fled deep into the halls, seeking the Book of Remembering. Karaz-a-Karak was doomed, and Morgrim knew that, but he would not allow the Book to be destroyed. High King Durgan Bloodbeard possessed the Great Book of Grudges, but as he fled deeper and deeper into the halls, now possessed of the twin book, he only became all the more resolute that it would not be lost.
Such were his last thoughts as the rockslide came crashing down upon him. He never fully wakened from his unconscious state to acknowledge the hands that dug him free from the rubble, the lone Dwarf who carried him through deep and secret passages, unbeknownst to all but the most ancient of Runelords, and he never even had a chance to thank the stranger for placing the Book of Remembering
72 next to him before leaving Morgrim on one of the passes within the World’s Edge Mountains, within walking distance of Karak Eight Peaks. All he remembered from the brief flashes of consciousness were two kind blue eyes, weighed down by wisdom and understanding, and a long white beard.
73 Enemies at Home By VictorK War of the Beard
They were a dervish of black and knives as they entered the room, moonlight flashing from their blades as they fell on the unholy congregation. Shrieks issued from formerly confident mouths, their cries sure proof that what they thought was secure had been violated. There was a fresh ringing of steel as swords were drawn and then disregarded as the lives of their masters were taken by a quick slash of the knife. It was the favorite tactic of this cult to employ massacre with their faces hidden behind black cloth and their daggers slicked with poison and blood. Most were Nagarytheans, others were simply skilled in the craft the Shadow Warriors had perfected. Each one of them considered themselves Druchii, the blood being spilled was all the same. The work was quick; it had to be, lasting no more than a minute or so before all those with strength to wield a sword were growing cold on the floor. The others, the weak and the infirm, were dispatched with silent cruelty on the part of the murderers. The room was cleared of living bodies, save for one.
The clandestine priestess pressed up against the unholy altar where she had worked her treachery. Lithe, ivory fingers traced the impromptu runes she had carved on its surface but felt them cold. Their power had been drained, and while the fear that coursed through her veins was not an unwelcome sensation it did leave her cold. She didn’t dare speak; she was content for the moment to watch the black figures who had slaughtered her congregation go about finishing their grisly business. They worked silently, moving the bodies to the side without meeting the glance of the priestess. She tried to call on the powers of her god but her knees trembled at even that meager attempt. Her assailants had come on at the end of the ceremony, the priestess and her powers were utterly spent and they knew it. It was why they didn’t pay her any notice. She wondered, with a mix of terror and anticipation, what they planned for her.
The leader, who would remain unnamed for the whole of the coming troubles, finally turned his gaze on the priestess causing her naked form to draw in a quick breath. He turned away, gesturing to two of his compatriots in black before approaching the priestess without a hint of fear. “Do you know who we are?” He demanded.
“Malekith.” She hissed, the words passing through the thin spaces in her teeth.
The leader turned up his masked head and laughed. His eyes shone with mirth as he met the Priestess’s gaze. “What if I told you that there was an elf, one of some renown, who not long ago stood in that place that rejected the King you forsake and collected from it the promise left behind by our greatest god?” The priestess snarled, but was helpless to just watch. “You, witch, are the cancer that eats at our kingdom. We,” He gestured to the figures in black, “Are the cure. The ashes of Asuryan live on, but we must prove worthy to the trial he and the others gods have put before us.”
“And you mean to destroy the cult of a greater god?” The priestess sneered.
The leader nodded, and then turned away again with one foot on the dais and one of the floor. “Bring the chains. Bind her to the altar.” The two others complied while the rest of the band watched. “My only
74 regret,” He began, turning to the priestess. “Is that you will enjoy this one part. I will, however, rest well tonight knowing that not even you can pervert what is about to happen into passion.”
The priestess sneered as her wrists were clapped in irons and the opposite end of the chains attached to the altar. “You sacrifice me on my own altar?” She spit in the leader’s face, the black cloth that covered his nose and mouth catching it. He didn’t bother to wipe it away. “You fools.” She lost her footing as she was roughly pulled back, secured with her arms outstretched.
The leader just shrugged, taking a long pin from his belt and stepping up to the priestess so that they were almost touching. He showered her its head, the Tar-Eltharin symbol of Asuryan on it in gold. “So that your demon gods will know who sent you when they devour your soul.” Without any further warning he plunged the tip deep into the priestess’ sternum, eliciting a shriek of mixed pain and glorious pleasure. She sighed contentedly and began to laugh.
“Misguided fools! Cut me open, revel in my innards, use me…You can’t truly harm me!”
The leader just turned away and began to lead his group out of the hidden chamber. “We must be quick. We’ve tarried too long.” He gestured to one of them, obviously female. “Ilyanna. Finish it.” That was the only name to be spoken. The girl nodded, Sapherian to those who could tell the subtle differences in the elven form. She contorted her fingers into an elaborate shape and put one over the other. She began to chant, and the priestess recognized the words. It filled her with dread.
“You cannot command that power! It is gone, fled away from this land and forsaken this people! You cannot command it!” She shrieked, struggling against the chains she was now not so sure she enjoyed.
Fires exploded from the beams of the building and from the bodies of the deceased. It took root on the altar made of stone and rose from the cracks in the masonry of the floor where below nothing but earth lay. It was when sparks began to fall on the priestess and burn her flesh down to the bone did the leader remind her: “Not gone. Not forever. This too, shall pass.”
They left the burning building and melded with the shadows with the tortured cries of the priestess on their backs.
***
In the weeks and months that followed Ulthuan erupted into conflagration. Emboldened by the strike on the hidden Cult of Pleasure the Cult of Asuryan and other organizations, some of whom called for the fall of Malekith himself, stepped up their attacks. What had been a secret war was exposed almost nightly in the great cities as fires consumed buildings and whole councils of nobility were found dead with the mark of Asuryan on their corpses. In retaliation the Cult of Pleasure rose up out of hiding and commanding the full weight of its influence fell upon anyone who opposed them. Both cults were outlawed but that did not prevent sympathizers from marching in daylight and burning the houses of suspected cult members. The city guards were in panic as the conflict escalated and were often caught in the violence. Word reached Malekith in Tor Alessi even as his cities were in flames and his streets clogged with rioting.
***
75 “How is it possible,” The Witch King wondered aloud from his room atop the highest tower in Tor Alessi, “That these two cults who I have outlawed are threatening the peace of my realm when their numbers, estimated by my most esteemed spy masters, do not constitute half of a modest city guard?” He turned his dangerous gaze on the advisers brave enough to come before him. The room where the King of Ulthuan commanded his armies in their war against the Dwarfs was littered with maps and the scars of more than one angry outburst. Fury was running just underneath the Witch King’s words. This was common in these days, as it had been at the height of the Sundering and as the enemies of Malekith were being purged from the isle.
It was the captain of the Black Guard, Nakarthe, who stepped forward and dared his lord’s wrath. “With all the respect the supreme lord of all elves is due he does not see the whole picture because it has been accurately reported to him.” Malekith clenched a fist but waited. “To say that this is a battle between two outlawed cults is false. They were the spark that started the fire but it fell on willing tinder. This clash…” He wandered forward, gesturing to points on a map of Ulthuan were the great cities were marked out. “…Has exposed whole veins of discontent and deviancy that we had only begun to put together. Word from Tor Yvresse is that nobles loyal to Imrik and their families have joined the cult of Asuryan in their attacks. The poor who feel they have been ill-used by the nobility are also bolstering their numbers. Social societies have taken up arms for either side, all is chaos. Adherents to the Ruinous Powers of any stripe are seen with the Pleasure cultists on their now nightly raids. Rumors from the Chracians, while I know this to be false, is that demons have been sighted. Pure fancy, but it serves to highlight the nature of this conflict.” Nakarthe paused, trying to gauge Malekith’s reaction beneath his mask before continuing. “It feeds on uncertainty, ignorance, anger and greed. We have long expected that the remnants of dissent would make themselves known but not like this.” He shook his head. “No one dreamed there could be violence like this. The governors of the cities that you appointed write that they are afraid for their lives, that they fear that their houses and fortresses will be sacked and all will be ruin.”
Malekith nodded, simmering in his rage as he turned to regard Tor Alessi. “I will not allow this disparate movement, spread across my isle, to merge into a force that would begin a second civil war.”
“No group is explicitly calling for your removal, my Lord.”
“Idiot!” Malekith cried, wheeling on Nakarthe, “If a King cannot keep order it doesn’t matter what the rabble put on their signs or in their papers…They all say one thing, and that thing is REBELLION! It is spelled out clearly in their attacks, the fires they sow…dissent, disobedience, ANARCHY! With every firebomb, every murdered official that goes unanswered MY rule is challenged and subtly eroded. Especially now that Gervaus has betrayed us.” The Witch King was suddenly sober. “Damn you, Furion. Damn you, Irulthan. All the incompetence that has lead to this place where I am caught between two insignificant distractions while my prize waits…I saw their banners some time ago, the livery I thought had been trampled into the mud, there to lay forever…The Asur who I once mastered with ease at the height of their power have, in this wild place, managed to confound my armies.” He paused. “I fear for the outcome of this war, Nakarthe. Yet I fear even more for those who might lose it. My wrath is worse than anything the Asur or the Dawi could produce.” Nakarthe imagined a feral grin on the Witch King’s features.
“We will not fail you, my King. Even now we are reclaiming ground, and-“
Malekith waved his iron hand. “There will be time enough for excuses on your execution day. I have
76 formed my plan. I need a force that is undeniably loyal. Do you command this force, Captain?”
Nakarthe nodded. “Yes, my Lord. The Black Guard is as always devoted to you and you alone.”
“As I suspected.” Malekith replied with some smugness. “But this is not a conventional war you will be fighting. It will require the cunning and inconspicuous nature of the Shades…Yes.” The Witch King drew himself up and faced Nakarthe. “Captain, you are invested by my with all the authority necessary to suppress this rebellion at home. You will have at your command the full weight of the Black Guard and the scouts who call themselves Shades. You have command of the cities and any life that you find opposed to my rule or my laws is yours to take at your discretion. Go. Draw up your forces.”
Khalir stepped forward, acting again as liaison for the trapped Irulthan. “But, my Lord, removing these forces will weaken our armies in the field! Surely you can’t think that this crisis deserves the full attention of your most elite troops when the Asur at our gates and the stunted ones have Lord Irulthan trapped, as well as the forces of Tarlis and Lonicera! It is madness!”
Malekith merely shrugged his iron shoulders, looking out over Tor Alessi once again. “Obviously they have contributed little to your effort if we are in as sorry a state as you say, Vraneth. You will simply have to make do without them. You are all dismissed. See to my commands.”
Both Khalir and Nakarthe felt the King’s barb but they bowed and left the Witch King’s chambers, scurrying to complete his orders.
***
Word of the troubles in Ulthuan reached the cultists operating in the New World as they worked to turn the outcome of the war, whatever it would be, towards the purposes of their god. Though Garadehl and Shandiar Aminaith tried to control the sentiments of their followers it was not long before Malekith awoke to smoke over the towers of Tor Alessi and word reached his ears that members of the Cult of Pleasure had been found burned and chained to their altars in an attack that mirrored the one that broke the great conflict wide open. They worried for their movement if it had fallen to violence so easily. Asur who heard of the conflict had to ask the same question even while they celebrated Malekith’s troubles. Would the world they were trying to realize be any better than Malekith’s tyranny? Was it all fire, all ruin? In the end they dismissed the question and went back to war. The answer was being played out every day while two continents were consumed by flame.
77 Dragonslayer By Alithwar War of the Beard
Lythra'ndrar. Lythra'ndar the Beast, the mortals call me. But other than to fear me, they know nothing of me.
I am a Dragon, the third born of Kalgalanos the Black. I am older than the world itself, and my wisdom is unsurpassed.
I remember when the Old Ones came to this World. How they shaped it to their will and created mortal being to bind to their will. My kind never went further than to make an agreement with them. We will not interfere in their work, nor will they meddle in our lives. Thus we lived in peace, flying across the mountains and the seas.
Until the Fall happenned.
The project of the Old Ones had failed out of some unknown reason. The gates they constructed collapsed, and many evil creatures spilled onto this plain of existance. The Dragons that abided in Ulthuan joined forces with the Elves, which we didn't understand, but accepted as a fact. They even let some of those being to become their masters and to tame them to their wills. Fools, they all were.
We of the Old World fought alone. Many of us died before the Elves banished the Portal North, but we made our enemies pay in blood. What hurt us the most is that those fallen to the forces of the Portal were revived and made a mockery of their previous selves, ravaged by magic and driven insane by what they had seen.
Me and my kin made few dealings with the outsiders following that. Many went their separate ways, some to the sea, some to the forests. Some never had a home, rather venturing from land to land in search of whatever they were looking for. The war left scars on all of us, and our distrust of the other races grew stronger each day. Creatures from the Underworld came to attack us, seeking to kill us and take the riches we have accumulated over the years. Foul Goblins and Skaven, swarming in unmeasurable numbers, appearing without warning or pause. The Dwarves, whose greed could overturn world, sent scouting expeditions, armed with many new weapons to bring the hoard to their strongholds in the mountains. Many lairs were overrun and our numbers dwindled further still.
But we have survived. We have learned to adapt to the situation, and learned that the World was not such a beautiful place we thought it to be in a ages past. We have become a grim, lonely and hunted species, and we feed on those who wish us wrong.
And yet again I hear footsteps and see fires on the entrance to my cave. Yet again they disturb my rest. This won't take long. Then I shall return to my sleep.
**********
78 Laughter and singing came from the inside of the Dwarven brewery in Karak Drazh as Madrak Hedraz, spokesman of the Dwarf city commanders walked towards it, whistling along the way. He knew things were going well on all fronts and that, unless the Mountains fall appart, it was only a matter of time when they wave to the Elgi as their ships move away from the shores of the Old World.
Except for his daily amount of beer, he came to announce that a call was issued for brave Dwarves to slay a mighty Dragon laying in his lair in the North of the World Edge mountains. The Dragon in this whole thing wasn't so important - it was his riches that mattered. Roumors have spread that he lies on an unimaginably large pile of gold, gromril, diamonds, equipment of war and peace and many other things. He knew in an instant that the first place to look was the brewery.
Often the most visited point of a Hold, breweries were also the place for bold adventurers. Yes, many of those that swear on their life and honour to go along often end up staying at home for many reasons - realising what they had promised when they sober up, noticing they would fancy the cossiness of a fireplace rather then an uncertain faith facing Elgi, Dragons and what ever devilry they find along the way. Or that their wife is too strict to let them go. That often happens too, smiled the spokesman.
He opened the door widly and shouted "Undal, pour me a beer. Its be a long day."
The eyes of the crowd turned to him and a few hellos came from those still awake, as well as a few curses. "Yes, Tundir, I will return you the money from last week - I'm just a bit short now, that's all.", he apologized to a Dwarf with a long beard sitting at the other side of the room.
"You're a Dwarf. You're always going to be short." returned the veteran drinker, on the large amusement of his half unconscious friends.
Madrak turned around towards the bar and looked around the room as he was waiting for his pint. A place to relax indeed. The brewery was full of visitors and the waiters ran, as far as that's possible for a Dwarf, around the room, delivering refreshments. Or more accurately beers, since other liquids were rarely requested.
Many of the younger population already passed out, drowned in alcohol. Those that didn't were trying to keep themselves awake, but only barely. The older generation talked or sang with their drinking companions, or trying to occupy someone with an old story from times long past. One of those was now climbing to his chair and exclaimed "I shall now tell you a story."
Those who knew him already began to smile. Fortis Mors, a red bearded Dwarf. Hotheaded and brag loving like his old father, Grugni rest his soul, thought Madrak. Whenever he told a story, everyone knew it was going to be either about his great tactical achievements or the winning of his lavishly decorated armour. He was well liked for his unresting spirit, which also included apologising to the many of his kind he offended or beaten over the years.
"Have I ever told you how I won this beautiful armour I am wearing?" Most just rolled their eyes and said no, because he would have got into a fight with the one who said yes, and just told the story anyway. So everyone ordered another beer and prepared themselves for a long listen.
"Ah, yes, it's a wonderful story. It begins one sunny day of August when I was walking down the road from my house..."
79
**********
"And thus I took the armour away from him, laughed at his face for losing and asked for a re-fill."
The beer keg that the bartender slammed in front of him was the thing that woke Madrak. His stories were interesting, yes, (if slightly exaggerated) but only the first fifteenish times. They sure were a medicine for not sleep, though.
He realized that this was the time to say what he wanted to say, as the crowd slowly began to wake up. He went up to the middle of the room, climber on an empty chair and knocked with a keg on the table.
The most effective way to wake Dwarves, he smiled.
"Oi, you lot! The Lords asked me to deliver a message to you all." The visitors raised their heads (and beards) as he got their attention. "Word has spread to our city that a lair of one of the Dragons in the Mountains holds riches that could helps us in the war, not to mention some other that you could keep for yourselves, of course. Now they're searching for good, brave Dwarves to take up the mission and go kill the damn thing before the Elgi do. And we woulodn't want that happening, now would we?"
A great 'booo' went from the gathered crowd, and Madrak knew he came to the right place.
"Now, any vollunters?" Most of the crowd raised their hands. Dwarves might not be the fastest creatures to take up a task that involved going up on the surface one part of the journey and be in mortal danger the other half, but gold always could fire them up.
"Good, good. Now I'll be going. Think it through 'till the morning and then I'll meet you on the central square of the Hold. Aye?"
"Aye!" roared the assembled drinkers.
With that, Madrak stepped from the chair, finished his ale in one sip and, saying goodbye to those he knew, headed home. This was a good night.
**********
It was little before eleven o' clock in the morning and the sun was shining bright as the spokesman arrived on the square. To much of his surprise, there were only four Dwarves sitting on the square that were waiting for candidation. Did he drink too much and specified a time, or did he get up too early?
"Hey lads, are you the only one here?" Said Madrak with a tone of disbelief. "Aye, we are. There was a group of young 'uns, mind you, but they decided to rather go for a drink when they saw you weren't coming. But I said that we should stay, a proper Dwarf never rises 'ere with the sun anyway." Remarked a brown haired Dwarf with a large scar running down his face. "I'm Zaki Bok, by the way. Of Karak Ungor."
"Madrak Hedraz, spokesman of the King. Pleased to meet you. So that's the situation, then? Alright, so I
80 guess you lads heard what this thing is about. You'll have to travel all the way to the World Edge mountains, even across the surface at some points, and slay the Dragon. Then you take what the Lords have requested, and all else is yours. All of this must, of course, remain in silence, for the Elgi also have their plans for killing the beast, and we don't want them to brag about with killing someone important. Everything else, inculding the maps, the food and beer you'll get in the Command just before you begin your journey, which should be..." he looked at the sun, "in about five hours. Is that alright with you?"
The assembled warriors all nodded their heads in agreement.
"Alright then. I bid you farewell and wish you all to come back safe and sound. May Grungi be with you. Now be on your way - finish your bussiness here and get packing - we've got no time to loose."
**********
The sun was coming down on the Hold and its rays were reflected off Madrak's Gromril armour as he stood on one of the towers in the gateway. He was looking as the team of soon-to-be Dragon Slayers departed. Either that, or they will be killed by the Dragon. Both options were equally possible, and he weighed them in his mind. Ah, well, the only thing to do now is wait. Wait and hope.
**********
As they walked through the deep underground passages made by the Dwarven smiths and architects, the four Dwarves felt they were being watched all the way long. Sounds of quick feet, flickers of eyes in the dark, traps... all pointed to that. They were just waiting for the attack. For the time being, Zaki was busy studying his maps, deciding where to go next, and Hazkal marveled at the lavishly built halls and passages. And it was truly a thing to be proud of.
Rune encrusted and decorated at their crafting, the supporting statues he deemed worthy of a king's hall of other races, yet it was only for a hall of no real worth. The stone floor, although largely unworked upon, stretched from one side to the other, and it was beautiful in its simplicity. In the distance he saw bridges that connected the two sides where a deep hole cut through the mountains. At the same moment that Snorri the Gobbobiter coughed, a low pitched screech, like that of a mouse, rang and echoed through the hall. At first a dozen, but slowly increasing, rat like figures lept out of the darkness and attacked the team. Everyone ended their work and drew their weapons. Hazkal managed to fire a few bullets from his trusty rifle, but the flow was overwhelming and he swung the A xe of the Eagle Kings at an incoming enemy.
"Skaven!" Yelled Snorri, picking a glowing sword from a dead body. "I think we already see that, Snorri", replied Zaki, trying to repel the oncoming wave. a group of creatures clad in black were closing a circle around Hazkal and snarled at him, only seconds away from attack. They all jumped, but Zaki jumped as well, and helped him cut down his attackers. "I guess I owe you one, Engineer." said Hazkal with a smile. "Yes, I guess you do."
The fight thus raged on, until at one moment it stopped. They got Snorri's hand bandaged because of another close contact as the one in which he lost his finger to a Goblin, except that here the Ratman bit into his arm, at which he bit the creature's arm off. During the bandaging, he claimed that if a Goblin's nose tastes like watered down ale, then this surely tastes like Elven wine. Or, if it possibly could, worse.
81 The agreement was reached that they go over the bridge immediately, lest another attack comes. Then they will continue onward to Karak Norn to get their stocks full, and walk the few miles left to the North to reach the cave. Just a little more and they would do what they came to do. If they don't die in the attempt. And take down a few of 'em Dragons with me, thought Hazkal.
**********
"I think we've been somewhat outrun." Concluded Zaki as he leened over a cliff. They emerged from the undergound a few hours ago and followed what was thought to be the right way to the Dragon's cave. And it seems it was, for a group of five Druchii sat around a fire with a couple of rabbits burning for lunch.
"What do we do? Don't tell me we're going to try to reason with them?" asked Zaki sarcastically. "Aye - either that or we'll be forced to use different means of reasoning." said Hazkal.
The Dwarves slowly went down the mountain road, their weapons on their shoulders. All of the Druchii looked up, stopping with their lunch and putting their hands at the weapons. They rose from their seating and walked over to the end of the road to participate in this strange meeting.
"Oi, Elgi! What are you doing here?" shouted Snorri in a non diplomatic way. "It is none of your concern, Dwarf. And what is it that you are searching for?" replied the Dark Elf in the same tone. "Well, since you were nice enough to ask, we are searching for a Dragon. I would say that's what you're doing, as well."
The Druchii looked at each other quickly. "What a coincidence. So how do you propose we solve this problem?" asked one of them, already knowing what the answer will be. "I think you lot should be on your way and let us do the job. You're gonna be killed anyway." "And if we should not?" "Then we'll just have to show ya what it means to pick a fight with a Dwarf."
Thus, the two sides drew their weapons, the Druchii their elegant, long, curved blades, and the Dwarves their hammers and axes. Blow after blow was exhanged, but neither side could best the other, until the Dwarves began to get tired. They formed in a defensive circle, though, and continued to fight even harder. Thus, they bashed a few Elvish skulls, not killing any of their opponents, but hurting some pretty badly. They realised that the fight was over, and that it was better to retreat to fight another day.
"Damned Elgi. If they only knew how to fight." exclaimed Fortis, as they sheathed their weapons and continued on the last part of their journey, up and then through the mountain to the cave of the monster. Snorri only hoped they could cook some Dragon meat as well as take the gold.
**********
After the hard climbing up the mountain, followed by the complains and grunts of those less well built of the Dwarves, they arrived at an big opening, with a long corridor and a large staircase at the end. They took a deep breath, and slowly began to descand down the range to the abode of the Dragon. The air was hotter and dryer as they went deeper through the caves full of bats and rich ore. Some parts had enough width to hold an enormous amount of people, while with some they barely managed to crawl through. Finnally, their fires uncovered a writing on the wall.
"Its written in old Dwarven runes, actually. It reads: 'Here lies Lythra'ndrar, child of Kalgalanos, bane of
82 mortals, keeper of riches. Beware ye who enter - death comes silent and quick." said Zaki, looking at the stone made doors of the room. "I think its time to go in, lads."
Although with fear in their hearts, the four Dawi aligned on the door and pushed them forward. With a loud, screeching sound they opened, and what uncovered before their eyes was something they would never forget. A room that, in its capacity, was equal, if not bigger than, the largest halls of the Kings, filled with mounds of riches that streched for what seemed a mile high. And upon it laid Lythra'ndrar, the Dragon of old.
"Grungi... in my wildest dreams..." said Hazkal, left brethless by the sheer scale of what they had found. After the first wave of amazement passed, they realised that, in order to get the job done, they would have to slay the beast laying on it. And it truly was a beast - spanning from side to side of the room, the blue scaled monster was a sight to behold. It looked asleep until the ground began to shake.
"I think it knows we're here."
And he was right - the great beast first opened its eyes, then rose from its extravagant bed and spread its magnificent wings. The Dwarves only had a second to throw themselves aside as the creature belched flames at the entrance. They tried to get close to the Dragon from all sides, but it was hard, as every time one would get too close, it would either fly up or scare the Dwarf away with flames or claws. Hazkal was the first to strike a blow on the Dragon with his rune engraved axe, but it meant nothing against the ancient sorcery of the beast. It gave the others time to get there, though, and the creature found itself under attack from all sides. His hard scales threw one part of the hits away, while his claws took care of the other. The Dwarves, on the other hand, were protected by their heavy weapons and the Gromril amour they wore. Some less then others - Fortis was slow to evade a hit from the left claw which pierced his heart and he lay still, mortally wounded by the Dragon's punch. But they fought on, receiving many wounds in the process. Just as they began to lose all hope that was left, a red mist began to descend in front of Snorri's eyes. Since he was a child, it tended to happen when he was extremely angry, and it made him do some strange things. Given new strength, he left his weapon and threw himself at the Dragon. It tried to shake him off, but he didn't have control over himself, his only thought to kill the beast. He climbed all the way to its head and stuck his fingers in its eye. Driven insane by the pain, the creature began to stumble across the room and the Mountain itself shook from its steps. Snorri grabbed tight and blinded the Dragon's other eye as well. Hazkal and Zaki used the chance and took swings and the beast's feet. Under the sufferings, there was a moment of silence as the Dragon slowly, but surely, stumbled across the room. It threw the Dwarves from their feet and caused a few avalanches on the outside. Snorri barely managed to escape a sure death beneath the heavy creature.
They picked up Fortis and closed his eyes. Although grieving, they moved on with their mission lest someone who saw and heard what was going on with the mountain came to further inspect. As much riches as they could carry, they stored in big, magical bags they were given in the Hold; the bags could hold thrice the weight they normally could. They also grabbed the enchanted weapons they came to collect.
Fortis Mors they burried beside the Dragon's body, beneath the earth, as benefits a true Dwarf. They all said their goodbyes and with tears in their eyes, set on the journey back home.
83
**********
Thus it seems that I go to sleep forever. It certainly wasn't what I expected, but maybe it is better this way. I will finnally leave this World and cross to the next. I leave my soul in the hands of my Creator, and my riches to whoever takes them first.
Now I shall go to sleep. Forever...
84 The Forest Awakens By Eldacar War of the Beard “We don’t have long before the armies of the Witch-King arrive,” Cambragol said as he addressed the assembly of elves. “I know not why your father has betrayed us, Halfhand,” he continued, addressing the Dwarf, “But I suggest that you leave now, before the word spreads and you are attacked.”
“My father would never break his word,” Snorri replied, slamming his Gromril hand down on the stone table, ignoring the deep crack that appeared in it as a result. “To imply otherwise is to insult both his honour and that of his family. My family.” At these words, Imrik’s son laughed in contempt. He ignored the exasperated looks that the rest of the council were giving him, and instead focused his sneering face on the Dwarf Prince before him. Caledor II was tall, well over six foot, and he used this to his advantage, staring down on Snorri imperiously like a judge about to pronounce his verdict.
“You father betrayed us, stunted one,” he began, ignoring the now-horrified Cambragol, who had his hand half-raised in protest. “Is this how you treat allies? By going behind their backs and making agreements with tyrants and Chaos-loving worshippers? No wonder your race has never had the courage to expand as we elves have. Our kingdoms reach to the farthest corners of the world, and yet you refuse to even come out of those holes in the ground that you live in. I suggest that you run as fast as your short legs can carry you, cripple,” he continued, nothing but contempt in his tone, a denial of the fact that Snorri was even intelligent. “Otherwise, I might just have to chase you down myself and kill you for this betrayal of trust.”
Nobody spoke. The entire hall had gone utterly silent, as all eyes rested on the Dwarf Prince, the councilors wondering what he would do next. Snorri watched Imrik’s son for a long, long moment. And then he exploded into motion, his axe coming to his hands almost of it’s own accord as he brought it up for a mighty overhead chop into the elf standing in front of him. Yet even as the offending elf hurled himself away, the White Lion standing at attention nearby, Caledor II’s personal bodyguard, attacked as well, his own axe coming around, the wicked axe-blade aimed at Snorri’s neck.
“No!” Cambragol shouted, but it was too late. The last thing that the Halfhand saw before blackness obscured his vision was the laughing face of Caledor II.
***
Caledor II stumbled in between the trees, always glancing back, the image of his pursuer engraven into his memory. He had watched with horrified eyes as the rampaging Dwarf Slayer had chopped his bodyguard in half before retrieving the stolen axe and coming after him. He had nothing to do but to flee into this magical place. Perhaps if he hid here for long enough, the Slayer would give up. Despite his knowing that such thoughts were pointless, he held onto them, for they were his only lifeline, his hope of survival. Behind him, the smoke of a thousand pyres – funeral pyres for the defenders of Tor Ylanthar, slain by the axes of a thousand thousand outraged dwarfs – rose into the sky.
Turning full circle, he glanced around him briefly before continuing onwards, stumbling as he pushed aside the brambles closing in around him This part of the forest was far from the often sunny clearings
85 during the day, for he was deep within a dark, twisted place, where the trees were gnarled and twisted, stretching upwards towards the skies as if hungry for the light of the sun. At another time, Caledor would have been nervous and fearful of this strange place when moving through, but there was no room in his head for anything more than the thought of escape from the Dwarf and that deadly axe. Before long, he emerged into a clearing so dark that the only light granted came from the dimming torch. Shadows darted through the trees around him, just outside the light of the torch he carried.
“Where are you?” he called out, traces of panic beginning to show in his strained voice as he drew his sword, feeling the comfortable weight of the blue-glowing blade. “What are you? Come out and face me!” The only answer was a low growl from behind him, and as he turned, his eyes widened at the sight before him. Golden eyes, skin like the bark of trees, and a hungry expression. Then the torch went out.
***
“The Dwarf forces are closing in on us,” Sethalis said in a worried tone of voice as he addressed the council. “While the news coming from the front lines is chaotic at best, we do have reliable reports that speak of an assault on both Tor Ylanthar by the Dwarf armies. And if the Druchii in the north continue their attack, I fear that soon, Tor Taerthelas and Athel Loren itself will come under attack by these barbarians of the mountains and Malekith’s Chaos-worshipping servants.”
“We know what they want, though, don’t we?” Tahl said with something approaching confidence. “The Dwarfs, that is.”
“Dinner?” Anrol asked with a puzzled expression on his face, an answer that resulted in the rest of the council present pointedly ignoring him as they continued their discussion. Tahl reached into his robes and drew forth a heavy item that practically glittered with runic energies, tossing it onto the cracked table. The Asur had retrieved the Gromril hand from the corpse of Prince Snorri Halfhand, preferring to keep it themselves rather than risk inciting the wrath of the vengeful Dwarfs. Of course, it was something of a moot point now.
“If we just give this back to them and explain what happened to their Prince-” Tahl began, but Sethalis cut him off.
“Don’t be foolish,” he reprimanded the Caledorian. “We have killed many of their own people, and brought them into a war that was never any business of theirs. The Dwarfs are not a forgiving race, and they will not stop until either we leave Elthin Arvan, they have fulfilled all their promises of vengeance against us or when we’re all dead, whichever event happens first. Giving this Gromril hand back to their race may have worked had we attempted it earlier, but the antics of Imrik’s son clearly kept such an option from being viable. Sometimes I wonder how one as great as Caledor could have had such a worthless child, but there is no point dwelling on the past. What we must deal with is the future, no matter how bleak it may seem to us.”
Further discussion was halted, however, by the panting elf who burst into the room, eyes flashing about wildly until they settled on Sethalis, who was the only elf completely calm in the face of such terror and panic.
“Narmo,” the elf panted. “Narmo Eressea. He vanished into the forest, saying something about it being foolish to wait any longer, that we have to move now. He’s insane. Only death has met those of us who
86 ventured in between those trees, but he went in anyway!” Sethalis cursed.
“Organise a search party,” he instructed. “This council meeting is adjourned,” he announced, “until we have found and retrieved either Narmo Eressea or his corpse.” The grim tone of his voice was a clear indicator to the assembled elves of which option he thought to be the most likely. “Imrik’s son has recently vanished within that same forest, and it is well-known that despite his faults, he was one of our finest warriors. If he has been slain…”
“No loss,” Anrol muttered, just loud enough for the rest of the council to hear. Sethalis gave him a slightly amused glance before he turned back to the elf who had brought the message.
“We leave immediately,” he said, and as before, his tone of voice was not lost on those remaining in the council hall. “I will lead the search party-”
“No, Lord Sethalis,” Caintal Caelnalin disagreed. By virtue of a recent victory against the Dwarf High King in battle, he had been granted the name ‘Kingslayer’ by the rest of the elves. The problem of how he hadn’t killed his opponent had been ignored, of course, but nobody objected. “We know that Loren is alive,” he continued, “And given how many elves have already been lost within, I do not feel that it would be a good idea for you to lead the search party. If you die, then we will be without a leader in a time where a strong one is sorely needed.”
“And who will lead a search if not me, Caintal?” Sethalis asked pointedly. “Many of our commanders here must soon return to the front lines of the war, so they cannot spare the time to lead a search for a lost elf.”
“I will lead the search party,” Caintal said, straightening as he confronted Sethalis and ignoring the confused and puzzled glances that were being sent his way. He knew why they were so curious, though. As a Caledorian, most would have expected him to always be on the front lines of the war when possible, fighting to repel the Dark Elves and Dwarfs from their new home in Sarthailor. For most of the elves from Caledor, this would be the case, but Caintal wasn’t like that. Rather, he was a scholar first and foremost, more concerned with discovering the world around him than with fighting in the name of the Dragon Princes. “I know that I am not the greatest warrior amongst us,” he explained, “but of all here, I have learnt the most about the forest and the dangers it presents to any who enter. I am sure that there are others who are capable of taking on my other duties while I lead the searchers to find Narmo and bring him back alive.” Sethalis watched Caintal for a long, long moment, his mind clearly at odds with the logic in the scholar’s words. Yet finally, he nodded slowly.
“Very well, Prince Caintal,” he said, though there was a strain in his voice as he made the announcement. “You will lead a party of searchers into Athel Loren to search for our lost brother elf.”
And so it was that with the decision made, the council members moved silently towards the doors, to begin their preparations for traveling to the front lines. Or in Caintal’s case, to begin searching for either Narmo Eressea or his corpse.
***
Narmo moved through the darkening forest without trepidation, elven boots making no sound upon the mossy ground. He had no reservations about his decision, for what he was now doing should have been
87 done ages ago. Nothing had attempted to attack him, and the forest seemed to be even welcoming his presence, though he knew not why. Putting the thoughts out of his mind until a later time, he continued down the paths that had revealed themselves to him. This forest was an ancient, magical place, he knew, and more than that, it felt… alive. It was a feeling that he couldn’t explain, but it was the truth. It was threatened by the barbaric stunted folk and the Chaos-worshippers who had stolen Ulthuan from the Asur. Perhaps it wanted his help? Ignoring the cries that were coming from the search parties behind him, he picked up his pace and continued ever-deeper into this strange and mystical forest.
***
It had been some time now since the search had begun, and those who had taken part – most of the remaining elves in Tor Taerthelas – were beginning to despair of ever tracking down the missing elf. Silently, Caintal cursed the fool for both his disobedience to a direct order given by the Council and his willingness to throw his life away with the fascination he shared with the forest. Looking to the skies, he could well see that night was beginning to fall, and to remain within this place when the sun went down would not be the wisest of moves. He was about to call for the retreat when Prince Giladis emerged from the surrounding vegetation, a look of amazement on his face. Since he had shed his scales, the elf had begun to form a cult based around the memory of Torothal, one of the gods who had abandoned them. Caintal did not condemn his choice, for he himself had done things in the name of Khaine that he was not proud of at all. The gentle heart of a scholar still beat strongly within his frame, yet he was still afraid, as always, that the bloodlust of Khaine would one day overcome him completely. And that day, he knew, was when he would be no better than those he fought. He drew his attention back to what Giladis was saying with some urgency.
“…think that you should see this,” the other elf was saying in a soft, awestruck tone, as if all the dreams of the Asur were about to be answered.
“Very well then, Prince,” Caintal answered. “Lead on, and show me what it is that you have found. Remember, though,” he continued, “we do not have long before the sun sets, and we must get everybody out of this forest before that happens. If we need to, then we shall continue searching on the morrow, but none of us can remain within the boundaries of the Waystones when night falls.”
“I don’t think that there will be a need for that, my lord,” the other elf replied, a secret smile flickering about his lips, his eyes alight with a fire and hope that had not been seen in any of the remnant for a long time now, ever since the Everqueen had left, as Caintal thought about it. “Not now, not ever.”
Motioning to the scholar, Giladis stepped back into the undergrowth, and the rest of the searchers in the small group followed, brushing brambles and the brush out of the way as they pressed forwards. Soon, the forest began to lighten, and they made good time. And when they emerged from the treeline, the sight before them was truly awe-inspiring.
A large clearing was laid out before the elves, with ancient oaks lining the edges, their shady boughs leaving all but the center of the glade in a shadowy darkness that twisted and writhed with the gathered magical energy in this place, an almost suffocating pressure to even Caintal, a warrior and scholar with little to no magical talent at all. To the mages accompanying him, though it was invigorating, and more than one gasped as the full force of the energies present struck them, their eyes lighting up with inner fire at the power flooding through them. As the setting sun shone through the gap, it struck the branches of the largest and most ancient of trees that any of the elves had ever seen. It was older than
88 even the ancients of Avelorn, larger than the tallest of the spires of Tor Alessi, and it practically oozed magical energy from every leaf. Resting at the top of a small rise, the elves could see that Narmo’s trail ended before a small opening at the base, a hole that led down into some sort of tunnel beneath the roots.
Watching the elves from one of the huge branches was a mighty green dragon, ancient eyes regarding the approaching strangers with a mild curiosity, and even the most arrogant of Caledorians bowed their heads before this mighty being, perhaps even a representative of the spirit of the forest itself. Silently, the gathered elves approached what would come to be known as the Oak of Ages, careful not to antagonize the dragon. Narmo’s body had vanished, with only blood remaining before the entrance to the hole. Perhaps there had been some sort of sacrifice performed here, but thanks to the magic present within the glade, none of the mages of Sarthailor could say for sure.
Welcome, the great voice resounded in Caintal’s mind, a voice of almost impossible power and majesty. I am Ceithin-Har.
“I am Prince Caintal Caelnalin of House Caeln,” Caintal declared in a loud voice, trying to mask his fear of this mighty creature, one who could destroy him with ease. “We come here, great dragon-”
I know why you have come here, child of Asuryan, Ceithin-Har cut him off. Narmo Eressea entered Athel Loren of his own free will, and you seek to return him to your lands forcibly. Yet there are greater matters at stake here than the fate of one elf. The dragon paused momentarily as if gathering its thoughts, and then communicated those memories to the small group.
Caintal fell to his knees as memories, thoughts and emotions rushed into his head. The Dark Elves and the Dwarfs came to the forest seeking to burn and destroy all before them, he now knew, for he saw with the eyes of Ceithin-Har, and with the eyes of the forest itself. At the connection, it was as though some primal part of his very soul answered the call of the hunt that the forest demanded, needed, to restore the balance. He could feel its pain as tree after tree was felled, the snows of winter preventing any possible attempt at striking back against those who were causing so much pain. The memories and thoughts continued, and then, as if it had all clicked into place, Caintal knew what he must do if he were to save both his people and the ancient consciousness of Loren itself. Staggering to his feet, he ignored the howls of pain coming from the other elves as the presence within their minds jabbed deep within like a knife, twisting. He, too, could feel the pain, but something welcomed the changes it was working upon his body. The tree was close now, the gap in between the great roots seeming to glitter as ancient magic twisted and curled about it. And then, with a hoarse cry, the elf hurled himself into the Oak of Ages – that was the name of the tree, he now knew – and accepted his fate voluntarily.
***
He floated in darkness, aware only of a – something – surrounding him, holding him tight, powerful magic being worked on his mind and body. At first, he resisted the intrusion, but as time wore on – he had no sense of anything in this place – he slowly grew to acknowledge the spirit for what it was, a power that sought only to aid him.
He accepted the intrusion, the strength of an ancient soul flooding through his once-weak body. With the strength came memories, thoughts of times long past, when godlike beings walked the lands, teaching. He was a silent observer as the ancestors of the elves came forth from the southern lands, and continued
89 to watch as they vanished from the land to the islands far away. He saw the rise of the great races as the gods of the elder days taught them the secrets of power, ancient spells, runic incantations, and the arts of drawing upon the energies of the Aethyr, the source of all magic.
Throughout all of history, the forest had lived, ever since the awakening when it had first been planted. Mystical currents flowed through the trees, touching once-lifeless spirits and bringing them forth into the world, alive and aware. And now, he knew, they were a part of him, and he of them.
He watched as the gateways collapsed, as Chaos energy poured into the world in a defiance of the natural order. He saw the rise of Aenarion, his final triumph, and his final defeat. And as the images became those of the here and now – though such things were meaningless within the timeless world he now resided within – a great rage began to build within his frame as he watched the vacancy that the departure of the gods had caused. It changed him. Thousands of years could have passed. Only minutes could have passed. He knew not, and he cared not. But when the time came, he knew that he would be ready. The cry of the hunt began to build within, and soon, it would have a release.
***
As the first rays of dawn lanced across the sky, illuminating the first morning of the spring, the Oak of Ages began to glow in the reflected glory of the sun on this most joyous of mornings. As the forest began to awaken, Dryads and Treemen alike gathered at the edge of the clearing, all eyes fixed upon the great Oak of Ages. And then, as the sunlight fell fully upon the tree, it happened.
A blinding white flame erupted from the tree, wreathing the powerful figure who had stepped forth from the communion with the forest. Caintal Caelnalin was gone, and in his place was an image of terrifying power and beauty.
Standing more than ten feet tall, the living personification of the forest was clad in a cloak woven of what seemed to be shimmering mist. With a rack of antlers crowning his head, the avatar had long brown and curly hair flowing down to his shoulders, draping the upper part of his body. It had remained humanoid in form, though the flesh was now tinted green and had become awesomely muscled, though still lithe and quick-moving. In one hand, the figure clutched a great vine-wreathed spear inlaid with carved symbols that glittered with the intense magical energies that had been bound within. Across his back was also slung a powerful bow, and in his left hand he grasped an intricate, curled horn. The lower half of his body was that of a powerful horse, his legs ending in hooves and a loincloth covering his waist. As the two hounds following on his heels bayed to the rising sun as they greeted the spring dawning, their grey coats glistening with early-morning dew, the spirits of the forest bowed in homage.
Hail Orion! Ceithin-Har proclaimed. All hail the King of the Wood!
Some few elves had survived the long, torturous night, and now, as the Lord of the Forest stood before them, their eyes began to blaze with a primal fire, their senses alive as they bathed in the radiance of the sun and the invigorating magical energies that surrounded the glade. And when the newly-birthed Orion put his lips to the horn to blow a long, resounding note that rang through the forest, it struck a chord with the Wild Riders, igniting the hunting fury that rested deep within their hearts. With a mighty roar, Orion charged to the west, the sun at his back as he raced to confront the armies in Tor Ylanthar, his loyal Wild Riders right on his heels. The Wild Hunt had begun.
90 A Fateful Duel By VictorK War of the Beard
Clash at Tor Ardansal
The walls of the transplanted home of the horse lords had long since tumbled to the ground and the streets they once protected had flowed more than once with the blood of myriad races. At the moment, and no one knew for long it would last, the banner of Malekith flew from one of the few remaining spires in the city. The city commanded the western edge of the Etheinspear road, the mostly hotly contested area in the whole of the Olde World and the key to defending Tor Alessi from the oncoming Asur and Dawi. The Druchii had not been in place more than a few weeks before the first Dawi banners appeared on the horizon, bearing down on them from the south.
“What do you make of them, Khalir?” Irulthan stood on the southernmost rampart, clad in his full black armor with his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes shot contempt at the approaching Dawi.
The high commander’s subordinate remained silent for a moment, just behind Irulthan’s shoulder. “What do you mean, my lord? They are Dwarfs. There is little to them but rock, iron, and a bad odor.” Khalir clasped his hands behind his back, eyeing his commander’s head.
Irulthan snorted angrily, his gauntleted fingers rapping against his upper arm. “Explain to me then why we’re standing in this rubble heap on the defensive rather than conquering? Your flippant attitude is beginning to annoy me, Khalir. If you continue to fail me you will be dismissed.” By the time the high commander was finished speaking his voice had lost its angry edge and slipped into absolute confidence. “Now. What do you make of them, Khalir?”
“One of the southern forces, my lord.” Khalir answered with obvious distaste in his voice. “More than we can handle at the moment.”
Irulthan waved a hand at Khalir, dismissing his words. “Nonsense. We will hold or we will die, this position commands the Etheinspear Road, and if we hope to hold it against the Asur this end must be anchored. Besides, Malekith will have our heads if we retreat again.”
Khalir smirked as the true reason for Irulthan’s strategy emerged. “Very well then. Anticipating this I have already called up our forces, they will be in defensive positions within an hour.”
Irulthan nodded. “I’ve had enough of this war, Khalir.” The high commander confided, his eyes narrowing into the distance. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ve not had my fill of Dawi blood or treasure but the longer this war goes on the more I feel opportunity slipping away. Malekith’s strategy was sound, but…I don’t believe he anticipated this. We’ve scored our victories, we’ve made them bleed but I would rather it be settled. I fear we’re exhausting these soldiers who could employed to more useful purposes."
No, you fear for your own hide, ‘lord’, Khalir thought.
91 “With this in mind I will be taking command of the front line.” Irulthan turned to Khalir, gauging his subordinate’s reaction. “You will take the second, here at what remains of the wall. I expect we’ll be forced to withdraw once the fighting really starts so I expect you to bleed them, is that understood?”
Khalir nodded. “Once again, my lord, I have already prepared.” As he spoke a regiment of archers in dark livery marched towards the partially collapsed section of the rampart. “There is one more thing, lord. Our scouts have reported that the banner of Gotrek Starbreaker is at the front of this army.”
Irulthan quirked a brow as the archers took position, looking at the approaching Dawi again. “Starbreaker? The Dwarf that Malekith dispatched? How is that possible?”
“Not him, sir.” Khalir replied. “His herald. The one without the beard and the orange crest, one of their slayers. He carries the banner, I suggest that we try and eliminate him, no doubt the Dawi are whipped into a frenzy at the sight of it and we must conserve as many of our soldiers as possible.”
Irulthan nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind. See to our defenses, Khalir.” With that the high commander of the Druchii forces in the Olde World descended across a rubble strewn gap in the wall to where his body guard waited. Khalir watched him go, a frown forming on his features before he walked back to where the archers were lining up and called their captain aside for a few words.
***
It was everything the Dawi expected it to be. The figure of his rage stood apart from the rest of his loathsome brethren, his form backlit by the siege fires of an already ashen city. Nordri howled, the sound rumbling up from the depths of his stout form to roll across the battlefield like thunder. He called the name of his adversary, the specific syllables of which could not be heard over the din of battle. But the intention was clear and the figure jerked towards the sound, his cape swirling behind him in the wind created by the fire. That he recognized the Dwarf with the orange crest among a sea of crests was without question, and Nordri welcomed it. “Know my face,” he grumbled, “know it as well as the day ye looked on it and swore your broken oaths. Know it as ye will, the last face ye shall ever see.” When Nordri broke with the orders of the Thanes leading the army every slayer could see it. The banner of Gotrek Starbreaker, the late High King of the Enduring Realm, flew from the pole on his back and called all eyes to him. A sea of orange broke from the regular army, sapping its strength for the bloodlust of a single Dwarf.
The figure perceived the challenge, and Nordri saw him raise his wickedly curved sword and point his iron shod claw of a hand at the approaching tide. The former herald broke into a run, the banner on his back swaying with each footfall he took towards his enemy. The cruel heads of many halberds appeared at the figure’s back, the signature weapons of the Black Guard betraying their presence. Nordri spat as he ran, he wanted nothing to do with them. At least not yet, the others would take them. Those slayers around the herald gave him a wide berth; it was an unspoken agreement that when the moment came it would be Nordri and Nordri alone who took the life of the figure who now stared down at Nordri. The Black Guard had not yet come up to the rise, yet it was already clear that they would give this figure the same deferential treatment that the slayers granted their leader. It was a duel, a sacred engagement that went across lines of race or creed and bound the participants together until only one walked away.
A slow litany began to issue from Nordri’s mouth, the string of Khazalid that he had promised himself he would utter on this day when the greatest criminal of them all was in his sights. He called out Malekith’s
92 crimes against his people, recalling the moment in the throne room when the formerly fair prince had revealed his true countenance. He traced the steps of the Druchii across the olde world, repeated the names of the holds they had violated and the sons they had taken before their time. With a mournful cry he lamented the fall of Karaz-a-Karak and the death of Snorri Halfhand. Nordri had seen the line of royal Dawi blood drained nearly to empty by these invaders and now he was ready to exact a few drops in vengeance. A flare of fire from the city illuminated his foe while he was just meters away, the sudden burst of light illuminating his foe. The Witch King’s armor was awash with the crimson light, reflecting back on Nordri. He was as terrible as he had been when he had taken the life of his King, the horrible iron mask contorted into a wicked smile and a crackling, burnt laugh issuing from the lips beneath. Now it was the time for vengeance.
The light from behind the Witch King died out, replaced by a wall of dark points that dimmed the battlefield. The arrows fell swiftly on the attacking slayers, no matter how tough they considered themselves to be they were without armor and Dwarf flesh was no match for elven barbs. Nordri didn’t even see what had happened as he was spared from the attack, but something in his rage driven mind was unsettled when the Witch King before him howled and lurched forward on shaky feet. His sword fell from his hands just as the halberds from the leading Black Guard clattered to the ground. Malekith was exposed, falling to his knees amidst the rubble, his crowned head looking down on Nordri as he climbed the slopes.
It was then that the illusion broke. The image of Malekith diminished and disappeared entirely, leaving a lesser Druchii in its wake. Nordri howled at being denied his prize, and as he prepared to close the last steps he raised one of his axes and aimed it for the throat of his victim.
***
Irulthan watched his doom approach, torn between the fear of his imminent death and the rage at knowing that he had been betrayed. His back and legs were on fire with pain, he could feel the shafts as they protruded from his skin. He was paralyzed to act as Starbreaker’s herald prepared to take his life in one stroke. The Druchii High Commander’s lips twitched, struggled to bring out the words that were stuck in his throat. The irony of it all seized him. The elf he had wanted to lead this whole adventure had taken steps to succeed him. “Khalir…” Irulthan spoke before his head was separated from his body by way of a slayer’s axe.
***
“You fool!” Khalir screamed at the captain of the archers, marching quickly in the direction of the line. The captain just stared back at him blankly, confusion spreading on his features. “The High Commander was in the line of fire!” The new High Commander wasted no time in unsheathing his sword and severing another head. The captain was silenced. Khalir fumed along the rampart, looking out towards where his line was about to be overrun by the largest slayer force he had ever seen. The only not of hope was that the whole of the Dwarf line had been thrown into disarray by the de facto desertion of its entire slayer contingent. Now command was his, in truth he had been calling the shots for some time and even wore Irulthan’s title while he was absent but he never owned it. Now the responsibility was fully his, and despite his initial misgivings about assuming command he knew that this was the will of Malekith. Irulthan had failed, a new leader was needed. Besides, the former High Commander was given a death on the battlefield. It was fitting.
93 Khalir turned towards the burning heart of the city and called down to his lieutenants. “Draw up the army! Lord Irulthan is dead and we must move quickly before we are overrun.”
The Druchii’s commands were met with the sounding of a dozen shrill horns. As one the Druchii army, bottled inside the ruins of Tor Ardansal, surged forward towards the impending breech. Bereft of his steed Khalir took to the front on foot, gripping his sword in both hands. He would not be commander unless he survived this day. In another twist of fate that meant he would have to avenge the death of the elf he had betrayed.
***
Leaderless the Black Guard could not hold the front against the slayers. Nordri was at the center of the bloodshed, dispatching Malekith’s finest with each sweep of his heavy axes. More than one an enterprising Guardian had taken hold of his banner pole and more than once had Nordri been forced to disarm his attackers. He could feel the momentum turning towards the Dawi as surely as he could feel the hot blood on his face and chest. The Black Guard were fading, falling back to the relative safety of the city’s shattered walls. Nordri paused, the corpse of Irulthan far behind him, to watching the Black Guard retreat. He could see the banners of the true Druchii force coming up behind them out of the ruins which gave him more than enough reasons to charge forward. He would bleed this army dry.
Many of the Black Guardians were cut down as they fled the slayers, parting like an iron curtain as they filed between the lines of the Druchii regulars to reform. It was then, when the battle was about to joined anew, that Khalir and Nordri first caught a glimpse of one another. The Dwarf was hardly recognizable with his entire body drenched in Elgi gore. Khalir looked the part of High Commander. He was aged but still healthy and lithe, though the two handed sword in his hands was beginning to look a little heavy for him. Neither had the luxury of being able to pause and consider his opponent, the weight of the forces behind them kept them going forward. In the end they indulged in it. Nordri issued his guttural warcry and Khalir made his own call to bolster his spirit. In the middle of the two armies, they dueled.
Khalir had fought enough of the Dawi to know that he had to strike first. With a speed that belied his age and the weight of his sword Khalir lashed out at Nordri. He was rewarded with a cut along the Dwarf’s meaty forearm, causing the slayer to lose his grip on one of his axes. A lesser warrior, or a saner one, would have been thrown off balance as blood gushed from the wound but Nordri let the axe drop without a second glance. Khalir’s eyes widened, he had underestimated the tenacity of the Dwarf. The High Commander turned his blade just in time to block a blow from the slayer that sent him reeling backwards. The slayer was gripping his remaining axe with both hands, the muscles in his arms bulging as his fingers enclosed the axe’s haft in a death grip.
As Khalir stumbled back there was no one to catch him. A challenge was a challenge and both sides respected the clash between the two combatants and would not interfere, some without regard to honor but with fear of what the winner would do to them if their kill was not really theirs. Nordri was unstoppable, forcing Khalir to employ every bit of agility available to his aging frame in order to avoid the wide but quick arcs that the axe cut through the air. Khalir could not back up forever, but he had the advantage of reach and speed. The tip of his sword dared Nordri to continue his reckless advance, weaving around the Dwarf’s defenses to nick away at his flesh. Even if he was ambivalent towards the pain Nordri could not ignore the threat to his life and the danger the tip posed to this throat. He wasn’t ready to die yet, not until the oath was repaid. The slayer’s attacks slowed and Khalir took advantage,
94 tentatively lunging and feigning to test when he should go back on the offensive. Nordri would have none of it.
Nordri released one hand from the haft of his axe. It was the injured arm, but he employed it as if it were carved from stone. The slayer wrapped his fingers around the blade of Khalir’s sword. The edge was sharp and blood sprang anew from the wounds it cut open but with no force behind it the slayer’s hand was safe. The pain didn’t bother him. The move caught Khalir off guard, no elf or Dawi he had ever fought had employed such brazen tactics. Nordri didn’t note nor care about the surprise Khalir showed. He tugged, using his strength to pull the elf off balance. It was clear that he aimed to cave in the High Commander’s skull with a single blow but Khalir managed to shift his body so that the axe came down on his shoulder pads, crumpling the armor with ease.
Khalir cried out as pain shot down the length of his arm, causing his fingers to lose their hold on the hilt of his sword. Instinctively he let the blade go, using Nordri’s slight delay in removing his axe to punch the Dwarf across the nose with his good hand. Hitting the skull of a Dwarf was like punching the side of a mountain but it had the desired effect. Nordri’s eyes began to water and Khalir delivered another blow, disregarding the cracking sounds that came from his own hand. He broke the slayer’s nose before he drove his knee into his face. The slayer reeled back, wiping the blood from beneath his nose while Khalir retrieved his sword.
Pain shot through both of Khalir’s arms when he hefted his sword over his head, daring Nordri to attack. The Dwarf obliged, but rather than finding the elf’s armor of even his flesh with his axe the blade rang true against the tempered elven steel. This was the most equal portion of the battle, the part where the poets would later compose stanza after stanza extolling the virtues of the combatants and lauding their heroism. This is neither a poem nor an epic. The blows were savage and Khalir’s muscles were taxed to their breaking point. More than once he felt that his body was going to give out on him. For his part Nordri was gaining strength. This was the Dwarf’s fight to lose, Khalir was deprived of his speed and his reach. Nordri was fighting the battle he wanted to fight, the kind where strength and endurance determined the victor. For all their noble qualities an elf could not match a dwarf where these things were concerned. The final swing of Nordri’s axe knocked Khalir off balance, driving the tip of his blade into the ground.
Khalir struggled to lift the sword but could not. His muscles ached from the blows he had received from and given the dwarf and the steel of his sword could not be removed from the detritus. Perhaps to shame the elf, or perhaps to vent his frustration Nordri brought his axe down on the flat of the sword, shattering the precious steel. Freed of the weight Khalir seized the opportunity and swung the hilt of the broken sword towards Nordri in a last, feeble gasp of resistance. It cut across the dwarf’s face, popping the grape of his eye and eliciting his first howl of pain. Something primal seized Khalir as he drew that ragged cut, a desire to live and to have the opportunity to see Ulthuan again when the war was over. This dwarf was not going to stand in his way. The High Commander of the Druchii army howled and charged Nordri, stabbing the broken sword anywhere it could find purchase. The dwarf was overwhelmed and both tumbled to the ground.
The fight lasted scant moments after that. With his arms pinned and half his sight taken Nordri was unable to resist as Khalir’s improvised weapon struck him again and again. His blood poured out, onto the ground, over his chest and onto Khalir’s hands. The Druchii spent the last of his energy in the wild act of death, finally ending it when he plunged the blade through his adversary’s neck down to his spine, where it stood upright. Khalir stumbled to his feet, his chest heaving with the effort of each burning
95 breath and his eyes, wild with fear and adrenaline, locked on the image of Starbreaker’s banner as it lay in the rock. “Take it.” He commanded, pointing a shaky finger at the banner. The army regulars crowded around him, having beaten back the slayers. When no one moved Khalir shouted the order again, his entire body trembling.
***
Late in the night following the duel on the ramparts while Khalir was tending to his wounds the soldiers of the regular Druchii army went about fulfilling his orders. Gotrek Starbreaker’s tattered standard was laid out on the rampart while one of the soldiers painted the Rune of Khaine over it in red paint. The others busied themselves with Nordri’s body, tying lengths of rope around his wrists and preparing to hang him over the side. The work didn’t take long, there wasn’t much dwarf to work with and the work with the rope was simply. They lowered Nordri into place first before affixing his banner over him. They didn’t take much pleasure in the work, they were eager to get back to their campfires and their food. Unfortunately they would never make it.
The first was killed by the throwing axe. The others were cut down by two quick strokes of Grimnir’s blade. The work was nearly silent. Working quickly the assailant pulled Nordri’s body back onto the rampart and cut his bonds. With a snort of derision he pulled the hilt of Khalir’s sword from his neck. There wasn’t much time left so he hefted the slayer’s body and started to leave, climbing down the rubble back towards the dwarf camp. “Ye were made of tough stuff, son of Grugni.” The figure murmured, patting Nordri’s corpse. “Ye died for your oath, can’t ask any more of a dwarf. No tears over your body, no, but maybe a long, cool sleep.”
In the morning Nordri’s body was wrapped for transport back to Karak Eight Peaks while Gotrek’s defiled banner flew over the ramparts of Tor Ardansal. It was as if the High King had been betrayed all over again.
96 The Last Blaze By VictorK War of the Beard
Even in the midst of full retreat the dead were given the full honors owed to them. Four small forms, bundled in white cloth with their heads facing towards the distant World’s Edge Mountains lay upon the talus slope of Karak Harn. Fires, lit in the deep of the battered hold and spreading from the southern fields of Avalaer and the fringes of Loren, sent up great clouds of smoke the turned the whole world grey. It was the sky of war that had followed the armies of all nations no matter where they marched. The mountains still smoldered, the fields and forests were used up and the cities themselves were not spared from the ruin of hungry fire. There was precious little fuel left, everything was burned up. All sides knew that the war only had one good blaze left, and then it would be spent. Enmities would fall by the wayside and the combatants would retreat. There would likely be no words; words could not end this war any more than they could have prevented it. Kings and statesmen could not end this war, they who had loosed it on the Olde World. Generals and soldiers were the most impotent when it came to the work of peace, no one believed they could end it. The War of the Beard, the War of Vengeance, the War of the Exiles and the Wild Hunt would only end when loss and fatigue weighed so heavily on the heart of the combatants that they would no longer have the strength to lift their weapons. But there was still one blaze left before the fire went out.
The last of a race whose greatness was spent in the blood of heroes gathered to honor those who had just recently passed into the halls of legend. They had no names among them, each feeling small in the shadow of the corpses they presided over and diminished by the burden of leadership that now fell to them. “Gotrek Stormbreaker.” The first of the Dwarfs, a Rune Lord, called the name of the first corpse. “Let Grugni bear witness to this Dawi. He who took the Citadel of Vaul, who marched from the gates of Karaz-a-Karak now buried to the heart of the Oathbreaker’s realm, we take your grudges on ourselves and honor your memory with the blood they demand.” He paused, moving to the next. “Grogan Heldenhammer. Let Grugni bear witness to this Dawi. He who reclaimed Karak Kadrin from the Oathbreaker, who added the lands from the World’s Edge to the Grey Mountains to the Enduring Realm, we take your grudges on ourselves and honor your memory with the blood they demand.” The Rune Lord stepped back and another Dwarf moved forward. “Thurngrim Widowmaker. We have no grudges to take from you, who took Grimnir’s oath. We do not lament your passing, and it is not ours to celebrate. We will miss your axe.” The new Dwarf paused, looking at the last corpse. It took a moment for the words to come. “Durgan Bloodbeard. Uniter of the Clans, leader of the Dawi. We cannot give you the funeral you deserve. Accept this, and take your place at Grugni’s side. You took the whole of the Enduring Realm’s grudges upon you; we accept them back with heads bowed.”
Every Dwarf present bowed their heads, but their moment of silence lasted only a few moments before they moved forward and hefted the shrouded corpses on their shoulders. Asur and Druchii banners could be seen in the distance, Karak Harn, like the rest of the northern lines now that the impetus of the offensive had been spent, were bending. The talus slope in front of Karak Harn was being overrun by dark riders, a sweeping advance of Druchii horsemen that threatened to overwhelm the Dawi defenders. The retreat of the pallbearers was slow and measured as a curtain of Dwarf warriors, mostly
97 the aged Longbeards and the youngest of fighters at this stage in the war, closing behind them. The Dawi did not look back.
The curtain was torn asunder as dark purple bolts of power lanced towards the Dwarfs and exploded the loose rock beneath their feet. A sorceress, surrounded by a dark nimbus interwoven with streaks of purple, emerged at the base of the slope amid a host of dark riders. The bolts flew from her fingertips into the host of Dwarfs, opening the way for the ravenous riders to take from the pallbearers their most treasured prize. The measured withdrawal turned into a rout as the dark riders closed, lowering their spears to pick off the old and the untrained Dawi. The Dwarfs broke into a run, trying to reach the gates of Karak Harn before the tide of Druchii was upon them. Never mind that the gate was broken and the walls of the fortress were far from complete after centuries of war. Weighed down by the bodies they were carrying the pallbearers soon fell behind the rest of the Dwarf throng, though not a single one looked back. Their duty was on their shoulders, if they had to be wrapped in the same cloth (a luxury the Druchii would most likely not allow them) then so be it.
One of the purple bolts struck the slope ahead of the pallbearers, throwing them and the bodies they carried to the ground. The rune lord rolled over on the slope, looking up wide eyed with the realization that he was going to die. The sorceress moved closer ahead of the dark riders, her hair splayed out around her in a mane of sensuality. She cackled, her thin fingers reaching for the fallen Dwarf, energy gathering between them. The Rune Lord fumbled for his hand axe but the magic was affecting his senses, making his fingers clumsy while his doom approached. He glanced at the white shrouded Dawi he was going to let down, and redoubled his efforts to at least get a hatchet free. The effort turned out to be unnecessary. The sorceress collapsed to the ground at the Rune Lord’s feet, the haft of a throwing axe sticking up from her forehead. The Dwarf blinked, rising to his feet in time for another, older looking Dwarf to land on the slope in front of him.
Snorri Whitebeard, Grombrindal, the White Dwarf of legend, turned to face the Rune Lord and the other Dwarfs. “I come back to you now, at the turn of the tide.” One of Grimnir’s axes was held firmly in one hand while his back was turned defiantly towards the approaching dark riders. His great white beard, even braided, hung down to his ankles and spread out from his face. “I do not come to witness the ebbs and flows of armies, that time is spent.” The White Dwarf spat. “The tide turns now towards peace, or at least the end of war. As I led you once I will lead you again, but first there is blood to be shed.” Grombrindal grinned the wickedest grin that any of the assembled Dwarfs had ever seen. “And there is a grudge to be repaid.” With these words he turned towards the dark riders, charging alone into their midst. Seeing this lone Dwarf with his wild white hair challenge the whole of the Druchii army rallied the defenders of Karak Harn, and what had been a routed turning into a juggernaut march towards Avalaer, and from there to the sea itself.
***
“Describe him to me, this Dwarf.” Malekith was unusually sedate as he looked over the tops of the towers of Tor Alessi, smoke rising in the distance where the Asur had laid siege to the Talienence wall. The end was approaching and he felt that there was still a part for him to play. The Witch King had been absent from the battlefield but perhaps that was ending.
The emissary struggled for words. “He is a Dwarf, my lord. His beard is longer than most and he seems to command the whole of the Dwarf armies now that word has come down that their Uniter, the stand in for the High King, has been killed by Iamagra Verdigger.”
98
Malekith waved a hand. “Details, I want the details!” The Witch King shouted, turning on his emissary. “Any one of them could command their armies that’s how it works! If your beard is long enough and there’s enough dirt on your hands you too could be the leader of the Dawi armies, it’s the details that make the difference!”
The emissary stumbled back. “He has a white beard, Lord Malekith!” He stammered, gazing up at the terrifying visage of his lord. “And he wields a runic axe, the likes of which we’ve not seen…Our sorcerers cannot break it and no steel stands up to it!”
The Witch King turned away, thinking for a moment. “A notorious white beard. The axe of Grimnir.” He was almost whispering. “I know this Dwarf, I have seen him face to face, when I still served the traitor Bel Shanaar….” The Witch King paused. “I knew him. We were allies in an old war, the war my father waged. I thought him dead, to tell you the truth.” The emissary grew fearful; the voice of his king was uncharacteristically soft and spoke to a rare moment of clarity. “If he has come back then there will be no stopping him. That is the way with these High Kings; the oaths of a thousand Dwarfs are on their shoulders and the grudges of a whole people on the edge of their axe. Why do you think I killed Starbreaker to open this war? On the field he would have been the engine of our destruction.” Malekith paused, and then turned away from the window, walking towards the end of his throne room. “If he returns he returns for me, for the oaths I have broken. I swore them to his face and then spit on him. So be it.” The Witch King turned to his emissary and the whole of his court. “Call together my armorers and fetch my weapons. Soon the last blaze of this war will come, and if we are not careful we will be consumed.”
99 The Coming of Sethalis By Tahl War of the Beard
Tahl closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the air, its sharp coolness filled his lungs. He calmed his beating heart and extended his will. All around him the winds of magic were filled corruption, The land which once shone with unparalleled brilliance was now tainted. For the hundredth time Tahl wished his father was present. The older more powerful mage would have told him what each dark strand meant…He had perished however in the great cyclone of magic. Though in times when the world seemed still Tahl could often swear he could hear his fathers voice call out in the winds.
Opening his eyes Tahl tightened his grip on the reigns of the great dragon Tygrus. Taking a deep breath he felt his chest press hard against his cuirass. From behind his helm he steeled his eyes, Over the next hill lay their destination. Tygrus beat his mighty wings and allowing them to clear the hill. “Malkieth…what have you done?” Tahl didn’t need to turn his head, he recognised Alithwar’s voice. Black smog rose from the city, The once shining jewel of Ulthuan had been smashed by the foul traitors. “We are too late” Rammessesis voice muttered from behind him. Looking down Tahl couldn’t understand it. How could the city fall so quickly? True they had got caught up in fighting in the north but the city should still have held. Surely the druchii number’s weren’t that great?
Suddenly Tahl heard a horn sound, its sweet and sorrowful tune filled his very heart. Looking down at the centre courtyard Tahl saw them. Fighting, Their could be no more than five of them and yet they fought. The druchii were filling the courtyard and yet these five fought. Anger flared in Tahl’s eyes, Tygrus needed no command he already knew. Closing his great wings he fell to the ground. The flutter of wings could be heard as his fellow dragon lords also attacked. Tygrus hit the ground, his claws dug deep into the paved courtyard.
Drawing his sword Tahl took small satisfaction in the fear and surprise in the invaders eyes. The remnants of the Caledorians now stood between them and the defenders. A druchii commander turned to shout orders. Tygrus spoke first. Words of fiery vengeance. His fiery breath was coupled by all his kin who stood beside him. Leaping from Tygrus, Tahl charged. From the flames they charged. Their anger surpassing all fear. Tahl ran reaching the first druchii his step didn’t falter as he plunged his sword deep into the traitors chest. Drawing it out he slashed at his companion, blood splattered across his face. His eye caught movement to the left. As he turned a druchii Halberd fell. Gritting his teeth Tahl swung his shield barely blocking the blow. Lord Kheral slashed at the attackers back. Nodding his thanks Tahl resumed the battle. Two more druchii fell to his wrath before he began to think clearly. His anger dimming he looked around, all around flames burned at what was once the main entrance to the throne room. The druchii had been pushed back to the entrance of a lesser street. Taken by surprise the lords now held them back. This small boon would not last. Tahl knew that even now the druchii were marching here, soon they would once again fall.
100 Turning his eyes fell upon Lord Sethalis, The old lord knelt beside a dead body. Tahl walked up to the old lord, his sword still dripping of blood. Sethalis looked at him tears in his eyes. “ I have served Aenarion, I have served all his heirs. I have failed them, The others fled to Athel Loren. I remained, too proud to leave our homeland” Anger shone in the old elfs face. Tahl felt anger well up inside him Sethalis perhaps the oldest lord in the court was often ridiculed as a staunch conservative, preserving the old ways. Yet Tahl had liked him, Sethalis had spent so long in the kings court many had forgotten what house he actually hailed from. Now none would know what province had birthed such an elf. All records of his birth had fallen into druchii hands and their was few elf’s old enough to truly remember. Yet here in this courtyard filled with blood and flame none of this mattered to Tahl.
“I am a fool. I thought that I alone could hold back Malkeith’s vast legions. I fought in the first war, and in the sundering…” Sethalis spluttered, Tahl’s eyes snapped to the dark arrow that had pierced Sethalis’s side. Kneeling beside the old lord Tahl pulled it out. Perhaps it was the effect of the dark poison or perhaps it was the shock but Sethalis spoke on. “…We should’ve retreated to Athel Loren…Ships remained behind… hoping you would arrive…leave me…go!” the old elf spluttered. Tahl ignored him and placed his hand on Sethalis’s wound. Breathing deeply he accessed the winds of magic once more. Tainted, most of them sung low slow tunes of death and despair. Searching Tahl found one, its sweet song sung of hope. A final light against the dark tide. Tahl drew it forth sending it into the wound. He felt the poison recall, the flesh close. The poison had gone too deep, the arrow wound too deep. Tahl simply didn’t have the skills to fully heal the old elf. Sighing he looked at the wound, the blood had stopped flowing at least. It would have to do.
A crashing sound like thunder echoed out across the courtyard. Tahl turned The druchii had forced their way back in. Standing at the front she stood, long purple roes flowing down her body. Purple lightning streaked down her form. Volley after volley the fowl sorceress attacked the Dragon lords. Her magic increased a hundred fold with the tainting of the land. Before her the lords of Caledor had united, each holding out an open palm. Though the great Caledorian knowledge of magic had withered as time had passed these lords still threw up a defensive shield. Even their combined might wouldn’t hold out forever against the Sorceress’s evil. Tahl watched as beads of sweat dripped down from Alithwar and as Haldir gritted his teeth. Sheathing his sword he picked up Sethalis, and mounted Tygrus who was with the other dragons behind the magic wall. The old lord positioned in front of him they moved beside the line of Caledorians.
“get ready to drop the sheild, we must leave Ulthuan. Ships are waiting to take us to the old world.” Tahl informed the brave souls who stood against the tide. Haldir looked like he wanted to protest, to fight on. To die in the defence of Ulthuan yet deep in his heart of hearts he knew it was already lost. “now” Tahl muttered. The shield was dropped and once more Tygrus yelled out flame. Tahl took a little enjoyment at the Sorceress’s scream of fright as she hastily threw up a shield to block the flames.
Rammiessesis shot past Tahl’s ear followed quickly by Alithwar and Kheral and Haldir. Finally Tygrus himself launched into the air. Looking down Tahl surveyed the city, what was once beautiful and strong was now corrupt and black. “I promise in the name of Vaul and Asuryan and all the gods that I will return here and they will know my fury!” Sethalis spluttered more to himself than to anyone.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Tahl stood amongst the other lords in the room they had claimed as ‘the council chambers’ They had argued for days over troop movements and tactics. Standing beside a table a map was laid out. Little
101 gold silver and bronze figures depicting each legion. Suddenly the great oak door creaked open Tahl turned to see Sethalis walking in. A fine wooden walking stick lay in his hand. His robes fluttered slightly as he limped down the stairs and made his way towards the map. Tahl moved to greet him.
“My lord Sethalis… you are not well, the healers ordered you to rest” Tahl suddenly lost his vision, pain seared across his forehead. Blinking the world came back into focus. The end of the walking hovered for a few minutes above Tahl’s temple after he had struck it. “I will find no rest till our lands are whole once more. I will not leave this war in the hands of you young upstarts” he said his eyes flashing across the room. Tahl watched as the old stubborn lord strode up to the map and looked down at it accessing the situation.
102 Oaths and Oathbrearkers By VictorK War of the Beard
A thousand Druchii warriors stood on anchored stone piers and looked west across the ocean. Black ships bobbed uselessly next to them, their sails furled tightly beneath the spars which stuck out garishly from the masts; strong arms with nothing to carry. To the Druchii who watched the sea with sunken faces and forlorn eyes the object of their obsession might as well have been an inland lake. Only the regular occurrence of the tiniest ripples reminded them that they were not looking at a sheet of glass. The mid-autumn chill hung heavily over the docks since there was no wind to give it a biting edge. One by one the Druchii started to sit down until they resembled a pack of refugees more than the soldiers of one of the finest armies in the world. With the wind dead they were trapped on an island, bordered to the west by the sea and to the east by the equally vast army of Dawi that had closed around the city walls. With no wind there was no escape, the ships were useless and the roads were suicide. There was nothing left to do but fight. The Druchii stood again as the sound of drums began to pick up in the distance.
“I have killed the wind.” Malekith told his lieutenants as he looked down on the harbor of Tor Alessi where the Druchii regulars were turning away from their ships. “So there is nowhere for you to turn to. No mercy in the arms of the Dawi, no rescue but through me.” The Witch King turned from the window and brought his attention to the angry men standing with him in the throne room. “You know what I expect of you.”
“Suicide.” Khalir Vraneth sneered at Malekith through his mask. “Every other ship has set sail from this wretched continent except the ones sitting in the Tor Alessi harbor. Why have our sorcerers not been instructed to summon the winds? Would the great Witch King have this city for his tomb? You are right on this one thing, my lord, that there is no mercy in the Dawi. For your own sake you must evacuate the city.”
“No.” Malekith said, turning his attention and his favor from Khalir and on to the other, younger lieutenants who had replaced his senior commanders, many of whom lay dead on nameless fields from the Chaos Wastes to sandy lands of the south. “It isn’t finished, Khalir. Grombrindal still walks Elthin Arvan and I cannot leave until I have seen to it that he is resting beneath it.”
“Is one king not enough?” Khalir pressed, stepping forward to impede the Witch King’s path.
“Bel Shanaar was not enough. Why should Starbreaker be any different?” Malekith shrugged off the criticism and ignored Vraneth entirely, turning his back to him. Beneath his mask Khalir sneered, his fingers tightening into a fist. The broad surface of his king’s back invited the point of a dagger but such an act was impossible with the room filled with Black Guard and lap dog lieutenants. Besides, it would not bring back the wind. Khalir’s frown then deepened, for he understood Malekith’s strategy now. “You know what I expect of you. Unflinching loyalty and bravery in the face of the enemy. Grombrindal will be at the forefront of their armies if I know my old friend, so this is a holding action only. Most of your command will be Black Guard; they will not turn from the walls. The normal soldiers have no place to
103 flee to so they will stand. If any elf turns from his post you are to execute him immediately. Our scouts report that the Asur have halted their advance and allowed the Dawi through. They are of no concern to us; we have won our war against them without question. In another two generations there will be no such thing as an Asur, only a degenerate, bastard creature part ape and part forest demon. I must commend you on that; we have achieved the goal that we set out to achieve. All true elves have been brought under the rule of a single king. When Grombrindal dies we will have completed our last objective. The line of kings will be ended and the threat of the Dawi will be extinguished forever. These folk are made of base clay and stone, they are as dull and stupid as the earth that spawned them without royal blood.”
Malekith pressed pass the line of his lieutenants to where the Black Guard was waiting. One of them stepped forward, a bundle of crimson cloth cradled in the crook of his arms. Very carefully the Witch King lifted the front flap of the cloth and revealed the rune covered blade of his sword, Destroyer. “All you need to do is stand on the walls. I will direct the battle so that it conforms to my plans. You are dismissed.”
Darkness spread over Tor Alessi, but it was due to no sorcery of the Witch King or any product of the nature that Malekith held at bay. The Dwarfs burned as they advanced, the smoke not just from trees, but whole forests loomed at first as a mustard blot on the horizon before migrating towards the sea and settling as a dark haze over the city itself. As the sun set, however, it was lit up in every brilliant color of autumn in a display that made every man who looked on it forgive the water in their eyes and the stink in their noses. It was against this backdrop that Grombrindal chose to begin the last siege of Tor Alessi, bringing the fire that ringed the city from the west to the east to its very walls. The lieutenants there now knew why Malekith had instructed them to kill any elf who left his post. The Dawi throng spread out across the plain in front of Tor Alessi, turning the peninsular city into the focal point for a new island as the mass of Dwarfs stretched from shore to shore and back to the burning forests. In fact it was as if the mass of burning trees was slowly marching on Tor Alessi itself as the Dwarfs carried with them the branches they had set alight to brighten their paths but also to spread that fire to the last bastion of the Druchii in the land of Elthin Arvan. The beginning of the siege was abrupt. There was no gentle roll of drums or the call of horns to warn the defenders and bolster the hearts of the besiegers, there was only the snapping of cables and groan of machines and then a sky full of missiles.
The sun acquiesced to the light of the Dawi fire, slipping beneath the waves and surrendering the city of Tor Alessi to night. The first volley of missiles crashed into the walls of Tor Alessi, shaking their foundations and the defenders on top of them. They held, however, as they had throughout the whole of the war and numerous sieges from the Asur. The defenders crouched on the ramparts with bows in hand and eyes either cast down on the grey stone itself or out towards their attackers had expected that, for the reality of siege was familiar to them. What widened eyes and straightening backs across the whole line of defense betrayed that they did not expect was the sudden surge of the entire Dawi army even while their machines reloaded. The advance was as orderly as every other motion the Dawi had initiated throughout the war, and any hopes that the defenders had that the Dawi would waste their numbers on a vengeful charge were quickly dispelled. Along the wall Malekith’s lieutenants seemed to grasp that notion and stood, shouting orders for the rest of their soldiers to join them. Soon the walls of Tor Alessi bristled with arrows drawn back to their killing positions. They were loosed and the order was given for fire to remain constant but even to the lowliest archers the effort was like tossing sand into an ocean wave to hold it back. They fired only with a mechanical regard to what happened to their arrows, for their interest was on the ladders and hooks that were now becoming visible among the Dawi.
104 Malekith watched the advance and a second volley of Dawi artillery from his position atop one of the many towers that defined the Tor Alessi skyline. “The Dawi are committing suicide.” Khalir Vraneth commented at the Witch King’s side, his attention focused on the still young siege. “They will never tear down these walls nor can they scale them without a mountain of corpses.” His gaze shifted to Malekith. “In the meantime your little duel will have cost us the garrison.” Malekith simply shrugged.
“You do not have my sight, Vraneth, so I will forgive your ignorance. Stand back.” Khalir clenched his teeth but did as he was ordered, joining the Black Guard. He heard Malekith begin to mutter under his breath in a tongue that he didn’t understand, his blood quickening as he felt the winds of magic intensify around the area. Something subtle but powerful was being woven onto reality by the Witch King, who Khalir had to remind himself was most likely the preeminent mage in the world. He tried to keep his eyes on Malekith throughout the casting but he found it difficult, for something gnawed at his mind while he watched the Witch King control the flow of magic until it became unbearable and he had to look away. The Dawi were closing on the walls and the arrows of the defenders were not making significant progress in thinning their ranks. Still, the ascent up the wall would be all but impossible, Khalir concluded, especially if Malekith supported the garrison with his magic. He began to relax his shoulders and let his breathing become a little bit shallower; the general of the Druchii was still on edge but the shock at the size of the Dawi army had worn off and the memory of facing these formidable warriors throughout the long war was softened by their curious if not suicidal tactics.
The questionable peace of the moment and the intellectual complacency that Khalir had begun to cultivate shattered as the sound of tolling bells rolled across the battlefield as if both armies were part of the same congregation in a cathedral of war. Khalir could feel his armor vibrating from the tremendous blow, but more ominously he heard and felt the armor around his legs rattling as the foundation of the tower was affected by the tone. Instinctively he looked to his king, whose arcane mutterings had intensified into a rapid declaration as he invoked the words of power to assist him in controlling the flow of magic. The shaking intensified, as if an earthquake had broken out directly underneath the city. The tone of Malekith’s voice followed the rising tensions in the earth and their expression in the city until he was shouting into thin air about things that no one around him could understand. Then, without any new tone or signal to warn the defenders the shaking stopped and the city was still. Malekith’s voice slowly began to fade back to muttering until finally he was silent.
After the last syllable escaped Malekith’s mouth the gate to Tor Alessi exploded from within. It was as if the mortar laid centuries ago had decided that they would no longer bear the weight of the stones and the gate and so threw them off. The stones, each as long as a tall elf and as thick as a dwarf were tossed into the air like cordwood, spiraling out of control until they smashed into the earth. The disruption was momentarily at the center of the Dawi line. For some soldiers the war ended then and there as they were crushed, but for others, the gaping hole in the Dark Elven defense was nothing more than an open invitation. The Druchii on the wall saw and felt the gate destroy itself, but with the tide of Dawi with ladders and hooks approaching there was little any individual elf could do but look at the wall, take note of the blocks, and hope that they didn’t fall on him.
***
Grombrindal sidestepped a falling stone block, his eyes narrowed and his lips turned down in a sneer of rage. He spat on the ground, working his old fingers on the grip of the Axe of Grimnir. The White Dwarf turned to Bron Baraz, though his feet never stopped moving him forward. “I knew Malekith could not stop the Anvils,” he grumbled, the words barely distinguishable from the guttural rumbling that escaped
105 his throat. “And I suppose I accept the collapse of the gate when the whole wall should be rubble.” He snorted with derision, eyeing the gap in the wall. “Take your men and push for that gap, and I will be with you. The unbaraki has invited us into his city.” Bron nodded, falling back from the implacable Grombrindal to convey the White Dwarf’s orders to the Longbeards and Thanes waiting on his word. Snorri kept his pace steady; there was no need to hurry now that the defenses were down. The banners of the Black Guard, the last elite regiments in the land by his reckoning, were beginning to fill the wide gap left by the collapsed gate. They might as well have been a welcome mat as far as the White Dwarf was concerned.
When the Black Guard set their positions, hoping to substitute a forest of halberds and armor wrought an ocean away for the ancient stone of the gate; Snorri called for the Longbeards around him to take their heads and broke into a run. The first battle of the last siege of Tor Alessi went as Malekith, observing the clash from his tower, and Snorri, fighting it amidst the broken iron and stone, expected it to. The Black Guard held but died, taking a few Dawi lives with them in death but ultimately being pushed back and overwhelmed by the tide of Dwarfs. Snorri’s battle at the gate preceded the wider clash along the whole length of Tor Alessi’s walls, for the Dawi did not hesitate, laying ladders against the stonework and throwing hooks onto the ramparts. The time for arrows and missiles was over; the bloody work of the last battle of the War of Vengeance was finally underway. It was nothing new, though centuries of bloodshed had not yet made it routine.
For Grombrindal, however, bloodshed was why he was here and not sleeping away the remaining years of this world in the cool darkness. He reminded a Black Guardian of that fact when he crushed his armor and his chest in one blow from the Axe of Grimnir. He reminded another as the blood of his comrade sprayed onto his face. None of them could touch him and none of them really tried. A few allowed instincts to take over and launched themselves at the apotheosis of all Dwarfs with the full intent to drive the tip of his halberd through Snorri but were dispatched with contemptuous ease by the prey. The others held back, each weighing the glory of killing the Dwarf with the wrath of Malekith, who would be denied a chance to meet his nemesis face to face. But these concerns were fleeting, since Grombrindal was accompanied by an entire army and they were just as eager to spill Elgi blood as their leader. Soon, there were no Black Guard left at the gate. Dawi flowed into the city like water, some marching into the streets themselves and others spreading along the interior of the wall to trap Malekith’s last garrison. Snorri Whitebeard joined those moving into the city.
Part of the Dwarf was relieved and part infuriated as he realized that the city was empty, for the civilians who had failed to stop Malekith had fled. He briefly entertained the idea that the king himself had left the sinking ship like a rat. Perhaps other sorcerers had redirected the force of the Anvils and Malekith was safe on Ulthuan, far outside the reach of Grombrindal. Or so he thought. There were ships in the harbor and he would use them. The White Dwarf would sail to Ulthuan, and he would find and kill Malekith. That was the only option, and whether or not Malekith died today in this city or a number of years in the future on any rock in the world was of no consequence. Grombrindal tested the grip of his axe nervously and realized, through the haze of his own rage, that this city was very large and very empty. The sounds of battle were behind him but distant, and the press of Dawi bodies behind him had faded until Snorri finally realized that he was alone. Shadows were closing in and the White Dwarf could not see down the streets that surrounded him, nor could he tell from where he came. “Afraid to face me in the company of my kin?” he bellowed. “Is the great King of all Elves so weak that he must face this old Dwarf without having to deal with his friends?” Grombrindal chuckled darkly, even as the Black Guard began to emerge from the darkness, closing off the mouth of the street. “Well, you might as well show your face.”
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“I could not create a better environment, old friend.” Malekith’s voice, altered to resemble his melodic tone before the Flames of Asuryan wracked his entire form. “We should be alone for this.” The Witch King stepped out from behind a row of Black Guard and all anger drained out of Grombrindal’s face as he looked upon the monster. Malekith seemed proud, even if there was no expression on his face visible behind the mask. The feeling was in his posture, the way he held his iron form and displayed the full length of Destroyer’s blade to Grombrindal.
“Oh, Grungni. What happened to you, Malekith?”
Never having seen an elf before, some members of Snorri Whitebeard’s court looked up their noses at the elf who had been introduced as Malekith the Fair. He was fair, among his own people. To the Dwarfs the shining figure in white robes with golden hair that flowed down past his shoulder blades was an aberration. His height, his eyes, even his odor was foreign to the mountain folk who had all noted that he didn’t have a beard. Some of the younger Dwarfs laughed outright at him, others nudged their friends with dopey grins on their faces and pointed at the willowy foreigner. They made Malekith walk the great hall of Karaz-a-Karak past the piercing eyes of naturally critical longbeards and the occasional jeers of the nobles. He turned heads and forced mugs down to the table where they would be forgotten.
Presiding over it all was the High King seated atop the Throne of Power, his head resting on his meaty fist while his elbow was planted on the arm of the throne. His other hand fiddled with the haft of the Axe of Grimnir while he looked down on Malekith with calculated disinterest. The elf prince’s eyes never left the steps that led up to the Throne of Power as he made the walk, never addressing the stares from the lesser nobles. As he reached the base of the pedestal and was about to put his foot on the first step Snorri raised his hand from the Axe of Grimnir and bid the elf to stop. Without looking up Malekith did so. A hundred leering half drunk faces and quite a few snickers replied to the gesture but every single one of them fell dead silent when Snorri stood up and walked down two steps.
Malekith looked up at the High King and then bowed deeply so that his forehead was almost touching the smooth steps. “Hail Snorri Whitebeard, High King of Karaz Angkor, the Enduring Realm.” He rose, gesturing to himself. “I am Malekith, son of Aenarion the Defender. My Lord and father, Aenarion, Phoenix King of Ulthuan, offers this greeting in friendship between our two peoples.”
Snorri nodded slowly. “Then we are well met,” he replied. “Your father is not unknown in these halls, for word of his bravery has reached us and we are honored to have his son as our guest.”
Malekith shook his head. “I am not my father, my Lord. I would not wish to live in his shadow, since I know that no achievement of mine can come close to honoring his memory, but I am bound to try. Thus I have been sent to secure friendship between our peoples and to complete his work on this continent.”
Snorri could not help but allow a grin to cross his features. “If you come in his honour then there will be friendship among our people for all time. If you come to complete this war with my kin…Then I would not be ashamed to call you my ally, and, in time, one of my kin. I do not mean to offend the Princes for we Dawi are not a subtle people.” He looked up and over the heads of his nobles. “But every moment we waste here on talk the hordes of Chaos use against us, so see to your clansmen and your throng. We go back to war.” He looked down at Malekith. “You are welcome in my host, if you have the nerve for it.”
107 “It is my pleasure and my honor to serve.”
“I made some improvements. Adapted to a particular situation.” Malekith’s voice turned back to its true ruined nature, though it carried with it a certain sort of satisfaction. “Does my look displease you, Snorri? You used to chide me about weak elven armors during the war, more than once when I donned this suit I thought of your Ironbreakers and what you told me about armor.”
“Aye,” Grombrindal replied, facing down the Witch King. “I had heard the rumors that ye’d gotten yourself a new set of armor, but I didn’t think that ye would become your armor. Gods, what happened to you?”
Malekith shrugged, stepping forward. “I am not my father, Snorri. Let us leave it at that.” He turned his gaze down so that he could better see the Dwarf. “But in this area I will surpass him. Though you have driven my armies from these shores, Snorri, my realm is secure and I will return to it and still be king. You, however, will go to the grave that you have so far cheated and your realm will collapse.”
The White Dwarf gave Malekith an amused look before he began to laugh. “My realm? Collapse? I will disappear when this is over one way or another, Malekith. I am no longer the king. Nor was Durgan. If you must know, Malekith, Morgrim Elgidum lives and he will rebuild this realm. You have taken so many of us, what is one more?” He hefted his axe, grinning maliciously. “You mistake our flaws for your own. When your head rolls through these streets it spells the end of your people.”
“Well, we will have to put that to the test,” the Witch King replied, stepping forward and swinging Destroyer down towards the White Dwarf. Grombrindal countered with a simple swing of his shoulders, bringing the Axe of Grimnir to bear against Hotek’s weapon. The reaction was immediate and opposite, the magic bound up in Destroyer releasing itself upon impact. Not even the wards placed on that sword by Hotek could undo the work of the Ancestor Gods, but the magic could not simply disappear either. There was a flash and each warrior lost his weapon, Destroyer breaking against the surface of the axe as its magic was released, the shards of the weapon falling from Malekith’s hands to shatter against the ground while the Axe of Grimnir buried itself inside an abandoned shop.
Grombrindal was quick, unslinging a pair of hand axes from his belt and charging the Witch King. Malekith snarled beneath his mask and stepped back, holding out the Hand of Khaine and issuing a blast of magic at his attacker. Grombrindal was pushed back and fell, though he moved quickly to regain his feet.
“Sword!” Malekith called to his Black Guard, eyeing Grombrindal’s progress in righting himself. One of the Black Guard dropped his halberd and unsheathed a short sword, tossing it towards Malekith. The Witch King caught it in one deft motion and turned its point towards the White Dwarf, threatening him with the Hand of Khaine as he did so. Grombrindal stopped short of the Witch King, grinning madly.
“So here he is, the great Witch King with a borrowed blade and a deformed claw. I’m going to enjoy this.”
The humans surged up the hill for a fourth time that early morning, the pale glow of the sun illuminating their backs. King Snorri Whitebeard held the heights overlooking what would become the river Reik and braced himself for another charge from the barbarian cultists. The king and his bodyguard had circled their position atop this hill as flooding and an attack by Beastmen had cut him off from the rest of the
108 army, leaving him deep in the territory of the Chaos worshipping humans. The Dwarfs gritted their teeth and cut the humans down for the fourth time, holding firm against the attack. Each wore a grim expression, but none of them entertained the possibility that this could be the end. The new war, with the Elgi as their allies, was still young and their enemies were scattered and weak after Grimnir had driven them aside on his march to the Chaos Gate. These primitive humans, with symbols they didn’t understand carved into their bodies and foam gathering at the corners of their mouth, were not going to bring down the High King and his bodyguard.
Snorri hacked apart the human that he was fairly certain was their chieftain. He was the most mutilated man he had seen yet that day and certainly the most ornately dressed, if anything these humans wore could be considered ornate. Even with their leader dead they continued to charge. On a different battlefield Snorri might have been able to admire that, but here the press of new bodies did not speak to the valor of the men but indicated just how far their culture had degraded. It was easier to cut them down when they were animals and not the men they might have once been. The fourth wave fell back as the defenders thinned the ranks of the tribal humans and sent those with weaker wills running back to their camps. Snorri looked up and down his line, trying to spot holes that weren’t there before. He was satisfied; these humans might come in a fifth, sixth or even seventh wave, but they would hold.
The High King spat contemptuously down the hill at the humans as they gathered for another attack. “Ye have to admire their tenacity, these humans,” he muttered to his lieutenants. “Kill as many of them as you like but they’ll keep coming. Brains like rocks.” Some of his bodyguard chuckled and Snorri grinned with them. The air between him and the humans shimmered and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. The High King’s grin faded away to a look of alarm and he gripped the Axe of Grimnir with new purpose. “Daemons!” He shouted, and every Dwarf on the line turned pale.
There was a small pop and a feeling of uneasiness before the Bloodletters fully emerged onto the material plane. They howled from a throat utterly foreign to this world, piercing the ears of the Dawi defenders and inspiring fear even in the bodyguard to the High King. They ran up the hill, their cloven hooves covering the distance in the blink of an eye, giving the Dawi barely any opportunity to raise their weapons. The line collapsed around the High King even as he dispelled the leading Bloodletter with the edge of his axe. He stepped back, gritting his teeth and trying to stay aware of his surroundings so that the Bloodletters didn’t encircle him. He heard the cry of the humans at the base of the hill, and knew that they were coming now that the icons of their twisted god had emerged.
The High King parried a blow from the halberd of the Bloodletter but tripped over the body of one of his men. He managed to block another strike and even cut the Bloodletter’s legs out from under him but the others were closing in, and Snorri was still struggling to his feet. He took in a large gulp of air to give him strength, and much to his surprise it tasted sweet, reminding him of his days as a young prince in Zhufbar when he would walk by the shores of the mountain lake…And the Bloodletters were gone. Snorri picked himself up and looked around the devastated hillside. The hoof prints were fresh in the ground, and so was the blood of his bodyguards. The High King walked back to the edge of the hill, expecting to find the humans charging towards him. Yet they were gone too, fleeing to the south.
A golden column of elven riders swept across the field, rapidly gaining on the fleeing humans. At their head was Malekith the Fair, chanting the words of power that banished the daemons back to their realm. Snorri smiled, leaning on the haft of his axe. One of his lieutenants approached him, holding his head where a Bloodletter halberd had cut open the skin. “Thank the gods for Malekith,” Snorri told him.
109 “Oathbreaker!” Grombrindal shouted as he charged the Witch King, swinging his axes with all of his might. Malekith met the Dawi’s challenge and returned the blows, forcing the White Dwarf to a standstill. They traded blows, circling one another as if they were locked in a sparring match rather than a duel. Every few blows the tip of the Witch King’s sword darted through the White Dwarf’s defenses and nicked away a piece of flesh. For his part Malekith’s armor started becoming chipped and dented where the axes raged against it, but the old comrades knew each other too well, and the march of years and procession of tragedies had changed their minds but not their hands.
Finally they parted, the maniacal grin that graced Snorri’s features standing opposite the impassive iron shell on Malekith’s mask. Blood trickled down the White Dwarf’s forehead and over his nose, but if he noticed it he was giving no sign. “Still as quick as ever, Malekith” he told his adversary. “But ye’re rusty. Sure you haven’t been standing in the rain?”
Malekith laughed a hollow, mirthless sound. “I’m surprised you haven’t rotted into the earth, Dwarf. You’re overdue.” He raised the Hand of Khaine and summoned the winds of magic, his mastery of the dark art overtaking Grombrindal and wrapping an invisible noose around his lungs. “I’ve simply traded in my sword for a more useful art.” The White Dwarf twitched as his breathing was cut short and fire burned in his chest.
“Magic? Magic that kills the wind and kills yer men?” Grombrindal struggled to say. “It’s corrupted you, Malekith. No one does to themselves what you did with that armor if their body is whole. You’ve a hole in you, Malekith, and magic won’t fill it. It consumes and consumes.”
Malekith snarled beneath his mask, tightening his grip. “Power, Snorri.”
“Power?” The Dawi gasped. “This isn’t power, Malekith. Power was when I knew you and we cleansed the world of Chaos. Power was the way you knew who you were, Malekith the Fair, son of Aenarion.”
“King of all Elves,” Malekith hissed. “Don’t try to reform me, Dwarf. There is nothing to reform. Do you think in those days I was content riding across this rock fighting humans and beasts? Do you think I did not covet the throne that was rightfully mine?” He shook his head. “You think in terms of years and rocks, I think in eons and power. Those days are gone, and I’m glad. I paid the price for my power, in my body and my kin…But I would do it all over again.”
“Then die.” Snorri threw one of his axes with an almost contemptuous flick of his wrist. The blade struck the Witch King where the Iron Circlet was welded to his brow. He cried out, reeling from the blow and releasing the White Dwarf. Grombrindal charged forward, gripping the small axe in both hands. First he struck the taller elf’s knees, bowing them out before he turned to the wrist and battered away the borrowed sword. Malekith collapsed onto the streets and Grombrindal leapt on top of him, a murderous gleam in his eye. He hacked at the armour of the Witch King, and Khalir Vraneth held the Black Guard back.
The hand axe rang a dozen times against Malekith’s chestplate, the strength of the Dwarf denting and cracking the armor Hotek had forged. The Witch King coughed and cried out, wrapping the fingers of the Hand of Khaine around Grombrindal’s face and throwing the White Dwarf off of him. The two combatants lay on the streets of Tor Alessi but only Grombrindal was able to find his feet, four lines on
110 his face where the Hand of Khaine had dug into his flesh. “Now you die,” he wheezed, hefting the hand axe and approaching the fallen king. “Your head or your heart?”
“You can’t kill me, Snorri…” Malekith gasped.
The likes of the feast lined up in the great hall of Karaz-a-Karak would never be seen again. Likewise, never again would a Pheonix King and a High King ever meet in peace. Snorri Whitebeard sat alongside the newly crowned Bel-Shanaar and shared his food and his laughter. Gold was flowing into the coffers of both races and for the first time in memory peace was the order of the land. Thanes and Elven generals mingled and shared their stories, but at the height of the dinner Snorri stood on the Throne of Power and hoisted his glass. Immediately the Dwarfs fell silent and the elves followed a moment later.
“Tonight we welcome friendship between our peoples, the Kingdom of Ulthuan and the Enduring Realm.” Applause sounded all down the hall. “This eternal bond will guide both of our peoples and the whole world towards a new age of peace, order, and the pursuit of the ideals we cherish. This peace could not have been won without the aid of Elgi and Dawi who I am proud to call my brothers.” More applause. “Rise, Malekith, and be honored.”
Malekith the Fair rose, a humble grin on his features as he raised his hand and accepted the applause offered in his honour. “You fought well and saved my life. Today, and for all time, you are my brother.” Other names and the same relation echoed throughout the night, but on the streets of Tor Alessi only one still lived…
“…You cannot kill your brother.” Malekith almost pleaded, for the future of his life was etched on the flat of that axe blade.
Grombrindal snarled. “Oathbreaker! Dare you throw honour in my face!” His face turned red with anger and the axe shook in his hand. “You use it as a shield when you would toss it aside in an instant! I should kill you.”
“But you hesitate,” Malekith observed.
The White Dwarf nodded. “An oath…” He shook his head. “No. Oaths will not protect you. A king’s blood must be repaid.”
“Yours flows freely.”
“And yours will paint these streets.” Grombrindal said casually before bringing the axe down. He used it as a hammer to crush Malekith’s faceplate until black blood oozed from the shattered metal and the Witch King screamed in pain as the bones in his face broke. The White Dwarf turned to Khalir Vraneth. “Come forward. It’s your head I want.”
The Witch King’s chief lieutenant was stunned and tried to back away, but the Black Guard would not let him. “Bring… bring Vraneth forward,” Malekith coughed. The shafts of a pair of halberds drove themselves into the back of Khalir’s knees and brought him to the ground. Other Guards rushed him, taking hold of his armour and dragging him towards Grombrindal, who without ceremony lodged his axe into the lieutenant’s throat and let it stick there.
111 “You are the worst thing to happen to your race and mine.” The White Dwarf spat on Malekith. “I can levy no greater punishment on your people for failing to kill you centuries ago than letting them languish under your rule.”
The Witch King began to laugh while Khalir gagged away his final moments. He sat up, looking Grombrindal in the eye. “Here I am, powerless and at your mercy, and you still can’t bring yourself to overcome a stupid oath, after all that I have broken?” He laughed. “Then I release you too, Snorri, because it is your kind of stubbornness that will doom your race.” Black Guard came forward and hauled their king to his feet. “Take Vraneth’s head. Call it mine. I don’t care. You will always remember that you didn’t kill me, Snorri, and you will regret it.”
The White Dwarf shrugged and turned towards where the Axe of Grimnir had fallen. “Regret is becoming a monster to destroy one.” He pulled the axe from the rubble and turned back to Malekith, eyeing him for a moment before directing his words at the Black Guard. “Release him, or I’ll kill every elf here.” The Guard hesitated but Malekith nodded.
“Do it,” the Witch King said softly.
“On your knees.”
The Witch King snarled. “Never.”
“On your knees or I remove them.”
Malekith did as he was bid, staring daggers at the Dwarf who had bested him. Without warning Grombrindal swung his axe, cleaving off the top of Malekith’s armour just above his head, exposing the burnt flesh and the patches of bone beneath. The Witch King cried out in pain but was powerless to respond. “The grudges are not avenged,” Grombrindal told him, reaching over to pick up the Iron Circlet. “To do that I would have to take your head, sail to Ulthuan and raze Tor Anlec to the ground before burning the whole island. But this will suffice for now, until a king comes along who has no oath to break with you, who can judge you as the monster you are rather than the hero you were. Now leave my kingdom.”
Malekith was again hauled to his feet by the Black Guard. “You will regret leaving me alive,” he fumed. “I will return, Snorri Whitebeard, and I will finish what I started.”
Snorri wasn’t listening. By morning there would not be a Tor Alessi, and when the fires died down there would be no war. Only then would preparations for the next conflict begin.
112 The Events That Were To Follow By Eldacar War of the Beard
Avalaer was burning, and the northern reaches of Athel Loren had also been put to the torch by the Dwarf army as they marched south, reclaiming land that they had given the treacherous Elgi permission to use for a short time. Yet despite the smoke and flame, despite the vengeance that would soon be carried out, there was nothing crazed or angry in the nature of this devastating army, battle-weary though it was. They had methodically driven the other elves out of Karaz Angkor, and would do the same here. Yet unlike many of his companions, Runelord Dumac was unsettled. Since the coronation of the new High King, the avenging army had quickly marched towards the cities that the outcast elves of Ulthuan had built up over the centuries of warfare that both races had been subject to, slaying all in their wake. But why? Grombrindal had confronted, defeated and humiliated the so-called Malekith the Fair – after seeing the scarred and ruined face, the aged Dwarf had truly wondered what the elven race classed as beauty. And now they continued this war, when news from the southern holds had carried word of massing goblinoid hordes, and strange rumours of rats that walked like men infesting the lower sections of the Underway. And so he sat apart from the rest of the Dawi force as they rested for the night, upon a small hill that allowed him to overlook the expanse of the vast army. It was all so pointless.
“You disagree with your High King,” came the voice from behind him, and Dumac slowly nodded, not bothering to turn and confront the speaker. He knew who it was – had known for a long time.
“Yes,” was all he said by way of reply.
“You don’t want to see the outcasts destroyed.”
“No,” Dumac sighed, dropping his head and closing his eyes, a great weariness slowly coming over him. “I have seen many things in this life – yet of this war, all I can remember now are the young beardlings slain on the end of elven blades. It angered me in the beginning, but now when I see their faces before me, see the face of my own son, all I am is tired. Tired of the war, tired of the bloodshed, tired of the killing. All I want now is for it to end.”
“You may yet have your wish, Runelord,” came the reply. “Even now, a king approaches, though he does not call himself such. And with him, he brings an offer of peace. You will not live to see it, but there is yet hope.”
Dumac nodded, and opened his eyes once more, to look up at the night sky. A slender hand rested on his shoulder, and a feeling of utter calm descended upon the old Dwarf’s troubled soul as he slipped away. There was no pain, no suffering, only peace.
***
Morgrim looked down from the Throne of Power, the Azamar rune shining brightly and the crown of Karaz-a-Karak resting on his brow. In his hands, the High King gripped an axe of incredible power, arcane
113 runes blazing along the length at the mere presence of this elf. Morgrim motioned, and the Gromril-clad Hammerers moved away from the chained and battered prisoner, who raised his head and looked up to the High King, towering over his kneeling form with axe in hand.
“I know that you have no reason to like me, High King Morgrim,” he said in the language of humans – perhaps the only way that the two would be able to converse. “Yet I come to you with an offer, one of peace. Will you hear it?”
“Aye,” the king replied – the spectacle of seeing the arrogant elven leader on his knees was worth it. Sethalis nodded, and looked up, his eyes bearing some measure of nobility and grace even now.
“My people are dying,” he began, speaking the blunt truth, a truth that he had been denying even to himself for a long time. “Some of our number have fled into the forest, and many of those that remained are now dead upon the axes of your race. We are not a forgiving race, or one that will admit to a mistake easily, but I cannot stand by and let my people destroy themselves any longer. The human race has become an integral part of the kingdom that we have won for ourselves – the humans are Sarthailor, and yet the others of my race cannot grow to accept this. All through Tor Taerthelas, there are either elves refusing to accept what is, for better or for worse, the future, or there are elves who embrace it and earn the ridicule of the other side. Yet no matter what happens, there must be peace between our two races, and so I have come here alone and of my own volition, High King Morgrim. I have left instructions for who is to be the next ruler of what we have built in the event that you decide to take my life, and if that is indeed your choice, then I will accept that.”
“The southern lands,” Sethalis continued, “We will return to you, and withdraw what few soldiers we have remaining to Tor Ylanthar, with my word that they will not attempt to strike south over the mountains again. We ask for the land of the human Bretonni tribes to be given to us as ours, to be the kingdom of Sarthailor, but most of all, we ask for an end to the bloodshed, before our entire race is lost.”
“And what is to stop us from reclaiming what is ours by right with force, elf?” Morgrim replied coolly. “You are a broken race, split in two. Why bother coming here and risking your life?”
“Because no matter what else you do,” Sethalis said softly, “If this war continues, then it could well push your race beyond the breaking point. Already, goblinoid hordes are massing in the east, and strange beasts stalk the tunnels beneath your holds, yet all the military might of Karaz Angkor is here, in the western edges of Elthin Arvan, fighting a war that was already won on the battlefields of Tor Alessi.”
Morgrim nodded, then looked to Grombrindal, who stood silently to the side, cloak drawn about his powerful frame. The High King exchanged a long, silent look with the Ancestor, before the White Dwarf slowly nodded, confirming all that the elf had said of the events transpiring in the Worlds Edge Mountains. Morgrim stepped forwards, and Sethalis looked up into his face as the Dwarf lifted Dal Azul.
“You may consider your offer of peace to be accepted, Sethalis of the elves,” Morgrim said, “With but one final term to be met. High King Gotrek Starbreaker and his successor Durgan Bloodbeard was treacherously slain by one of your race, and the blood of a king must be avenged with the blood of a king.”
Sethalis nodded and bowed his head. Though he did not think of himself as a king, the old elf had known
114 that this would happen. It was of no matter. Hopefully, Prince Tahl would see beyond the foolishness and arrogance that many of the Caledorians maintained, so secure in their belief that the elven race didn’t need the humans, refused to even associate with them. Hopefully, he would carry out the instructions that Sethalis had given him. And lastly, Sethalis’ thoughts turned to Nairalindel, and those who had followed her into the east. Perhaps they would discover the gods – perhaps not. We must all make sacrifices, he realised as his eyes met those of Morgrim.
“I agree to your terms,” he said softly, looking the Dwarf High King in the eyes, noble right to the end. And then the axe came down.
***
It was much later, when Morgrim was alone, that Grombrindal came to him.
“Runelord Dumac Thunderbrow is gone,” the High King said softly. “Do you think that the elves-”
“No,” the White Dwarf replied, his cloak drawn about him. “Do not fear for the Runelord’s fate. Dumac knew that his time would come one day, as do we all. Simply thank the Ancestors that he was given the time to see this terrible war out to the end.”
“Where will you go?” Morgrim asked as he turned to see the other Dwarf, pack bundled around him and cloak hiding his features, once more the old warrior that had carried his prone form from the collapsing tunnels of Karaz-a-Karak. It was a foolish question, yet it had to be asked.
“Do not trouble yourself, High King Morgrim Elgidum,” came the reply. “Your people need you. In time, however, you may yet see me again. Look for me in the unseen places. Look for me when the world is at its darkest and when victory seems far away. I am Grombrindal, the White Dwarf, the grudgekeeper and the reckoner, and my watch is eternal.”
115
On the subject of the Hour of the Wolf
This time period is unknown to us in name, but appears around the time of the human Sigmar’s arrival. The reference may be related to their pre-Empire culture and the Cult of Ulric.
116 Bloodied Sand By TimmyMWD Hour of the Wolf
Darias Sethalor looked down at the rabble of humans marching before him. Their latest acquisitions in this slaving campaign, Darias was pleased that his soldiers had captured so many men so quickly. The hot sun of the southern continent was constantly assaulting his fair skin, and no matter how much water he consumed he was always thirsty. His prized Cold One, imported from the lands of west and a status of his nobility, had perished in the depths of the desert and he had to resort to sitting atop a lowly horse. What value Malekith saw in these men Darias did not know, but he was quite aware that by leading these slaving missions he would quickly gain status in the court of the King.
As the Druchii noble scanned the horizon, he could see the smoke from the village they had just razed. Primitive by even the simplest of standards, Darias was amazed that these humans had established the concept of language. As he looked over the village, he saw a second plume rising just to the south. This plume however was not of smoke, and was far wider than the trails streaking up to the sky from the huts. It was the dust cloud of an approaching army.
“Scouts!” the noble shouted. Three elves on horseback galloped up to Darias’ hilltop position.
“My lord Sethalor, what is it” one of them inquired.
Darias pointed to the rising cloud of dust, “It appears the rabble humans are attempting to impede our efforts. Ride ahead and find out their numbers and how organized they are.” The elf scouts nodded, and with a slight twitch of hand the expert horse riders launched their mounts into a blistering gallop that only the steeds of Ulthuan could produce.
Thutep looked to the sky and saw the rising cloud of dust that his army produced, and he let loose a small grin. They will know we are coming, and we will still crush them. From the back of his chariot, Thutep turned his gaze to the seemingly endless rows of troops behind him. The Nehekran Longspears were almost impossible to look at, as their bronze armor reflected the light of the sun back at almost any angle. In front of the infantry to Thutep’s sides were over four dozen mighty chariots, pulled by the finest steeds the King could find. On the flanks of his army, Thutep could make out the light cavalry as they trotted alongside the Spears. These foreigners will quickly learn the mistakes of enslaving the people of Nehekhara.
On the top of the looming hill, Thutep could spot three figures on horseback, no doubt scouts of the invading army. He pointed them out to his chariot driver, “See those men? They are but the first to see the might of our army, the first to witness the glory of Nehekhara.”
Darias continued to trot along the side of the slave column, watching as his soldiers goaded the slow ones into picking up their pace. There was still a day’s march in front of them, and yet he could already see signs of fatigue on the druchii’s faces. Looking back once more on the looming dust cloud, Darias could now see the shape of his three riders returning to him at full speed.
117 As they rode up to talking distance, Darias smirked, “So, have the rabble even brought weapons, or shall we treat this nuisance as if they were beasts for us to hunt?”
The solemn expressions he got in return sent a chill down Darias’ spine. “My Lord, that army is not composed of rabble. They march with four thousand infantry, three hundred cavalry and several scores of chariots leading their forces. I do not know how the humans could have assembled such a force, but they certainly outnumber ours.”
Darias looked around in a panic. He was fortunate the slaves had no idea what they were saying; otherwise they would likely revolt here and now. His forces were not composed for fighting pitched battles against enemy armies, but for raiding villages. The landing fleet was half a day’s ride, but the time it would take to muster the garrison there would make the effort futile. Darias looked at the looming dust cloud as it slowly but surely closed in on their position. Even without the slaves, his infantry were tired from the heat and thirst and would not be able to outmarch the apparent human army that was drawing near.
“Commander Auralor” Darias shouted. From farther up the column an armored elf rode up to where the Noble was conversing with the scouts.
“Commander Auralor, where are Lord Theralor’s forces at currently?”
The young Druchii officer pulled out a rolled up map of the region and scanned it for the notes he had made earlier. “Our last contact with Lord Theralor’s courier was this morning at sunrise. His forces successfully slaved a village to the north of our target and are heading back to the landing fleet same as us.”
Darias looked at the map, and the lines drawn to represent their own forces and that of Theralor’s. They were far closer to his position than the fleet, and while they would still be outnumbered, Darias was certain that even if these human were armed and organized they were no match for a sizeable force of Druchii.
“Scouts, you are to use this map to locate Lord Theralor’s forces with all possible haste. Take extra provisions of water and have your steeds drink up now before departing so you may ride as long as possible. Inform Lord Theralor that an army of several thousand humans are approaching and that he must rezvendous with my forces at our present location.”
The scouts nodded and rode off to acquire their water provisions before departing. Darias turned to his commander, “Have the infantry set up a position here in front of the hill. Have the archers line up where we are, and prepare to dismount and assemble the Bolt Throwers. We will make our stand here.”
Commander Auralor was slightly puzzled, “Sir, what will we do with the slaves if we are planning to fight?”
“They will join the enemy army at first sight,” Darias said coldly, “While it will be a setback, it is a necessary one. Kill every human in the column.”
Auralor nodded solemnly at the order and rode off.
118 Already the carrion birds flew overhead. Corpses were strewn about the battlefield as Thutep struggled to get up from the ground, the gash in his side oozing with blood. Quickly, two soldiers grabbed him and held him up so that he could walk around and scan the carnage of the day. “Whatever these creatures are,” the King wheezed, “they fight with the skill of several men combined. We paid a terrible price for this victory.”
The soldiers that held him were silent in their reply, but the grim expression on their faces told Thutep that they felt the same way. The invaders were slaughtered to the last soldier, yet over a third of his forces were slain against a numerically inferior foe.
As Thutep slowly limped his way through the sand, man on horseback rode up. “Great King Thutep, we have found the leader of the invaders. He is alive, but barely. If you wish to speak to him you do not have much time.”
The Priest-King of Nehekhara nodded and turned to one of the soldiers holding him up, “Bring me a chariot so that I may ride out to this general.”
Darias was dying. Blood sprayed out of his mouth every time he attempted to breathe, and the wound in his chest was now leaking blood through his many layers of armor. Blood and sweat mixed and clouded his eyes, yet he could not wipe it away for his hands were bound. Looking ahead, he could make out the shape of a chariot approaching him. Shaking his head in an attempt to toss the liquid from out of his eyes, he saw a richly decorated man being helped down from the chariot.
That must be their leader. Darias thought, and judging by the looks of things he is suffering the same fate I am. The druchii lord let out a smile at that proposition.
The human King walked up to him and began speaking to Darias. He had no idea what the man was saying, only that his words came with great strain and difficulty. The King had said a great length of incomparable words, and then stumbled towards the elf. He leaned in close, and Darias could see the fiery spirit radiating out of his eyes. The king paused for a moment, simply staring at Darias before he said one word.
“Nagash.”
As Thutep slowly climbed down the chariot, his gaze was fixed on the bound elf that sat before him. “I don’t know who and what you are, creature lord. But I am Thutep, and your army was obliterated this day by my hand.” The king keeled over and coughed up a large sack of clotted blood, wiped his mouth and then stood back up. “I am no fool though, creature, and judging by what you have been doing in my lands you thought us to be fools and primitives. I know you are not the only of your kind, and that you will be back. You may not understand a word I utter, but know this: though I may be dying, my brother will ensure that you pay for what you have done in ways a thousand times greater than the defeat you have suffered today.”
Thutep brushed the hands of the soldiers that were holding him up away, and he limped forward to where the elf sat. Kneeling down, he gazed into the eyes of the elf. He could see malice and hatred in his eyes, mixed with fear and pain. Thutep knew that they would come back and bring more soldiers with them, and knew that they must fear his kingdom’s reprisal or they will be crushed.
119 My brother craves power over all else. By the grace of his blood tie to me I have let him live, but perhaps his lust for power will ensure that he will oust these invaders. It is our only hope.
With a jolt, Thutep felt the surge of death nearing. He uttered one last word, loudly and clearly to the prisoner, “Nagash.”
And with that, the reign of Thutep of the Third Dynasty fell to a close.
* * * *
As his soldiers rode up to the scene of a battle already past, Lord Theralor scanned over the area. The humans did not collect the druchii bodies, did not mutilate them or dismember them like he thought the savages would. Instead they left them to the carrion birds, which his soldiers were now frantically trying to remove from the area as they scanned over now deceased comrades. In the middle of the field, Theralor spotted a body that was upright and chained to the remains of a Reaper Bolt Thrower.
Riding up to the body, Theralor could now make it out to be a barely alive Darias. “Darias, Darias what happened?”
The dying elf slowly looked towards Theralor, and with his dying breath uttered one word, a word not of the druchii tounge, “Nagash.”
And with that, Darias passed from this world.
120 Shifting Desert By TimmyMWD Hour of the Wolf
The light of the fires in the room played off the reflective surface of the dagger. Nagash stared at the blade and the intricately carved glyphs that ran down the length of the weapon. For close to a year he had secretly worked on enchanting this weapon so that nothing – not even the wards over the Priests – could stop this blade from piercing his brother’s flesh. When Thutep returns from battle I will embrace him as my brother, and then stab him through the heart.
The sound of rushed footsteps echoed in the hall beyond his bedchamber, and Nagash quickly concealed the enchanted dagger. The double doors swung open forcefully, and several of the Priest-King’s guards burst into the room. Did Thutep somehow gain warning? It is not possible, I did not discuss my intent with a single soul.
“High Priest Nagash,” the captain of the guard stated, “We bring you tragic news from deep within the sands. King Thutep found the foreigners and crushed their army to a man, but was mortally wounded and died shortly after the conclusion of the battle. His body arrived moments ago and already the other Priests are preparing him for the next life.”
Nagash was stunned silent. All the planning, all the visions of his brother’s face as the dagger tore into his inner most organs, all of that vanished in an instant. At first, rage boiled inside his stomach at the thought that he was not the one to have killed his brother; but that emotion quickly subsided and Nagash suppressed the urge to crack a sinister smile. “Tell me Captain, what of the throne of our land?”
“That is why we have sent for you sir, High Priest Semothep awaits you in the throne room to crown you as lord over our lands.”
It was more brilliant than Nagash could have ever hoped for. While he would not be able to enjoy placing his dying brother within his father’s tomb and burying him, this change in events filled the Priest with glee. I had anticipated much strife and contention over my rule of Nehekhara, but now with these invaders my rule is legitimate and I will have the love of the people if I crush these enslavers. They will see me as a savior.
Still containing his smile, Nagash stood up from his bed and slid the dagger under his sheets. “I am ready Captain, take me to Semothep so that you may call me King.”
Within the hour, the reign of Nagash of the Third Dynasty began.
“Not a single soldier survived?” the druchii bellowed into the court.
Lord Theralor, still on one knee, did not dare make eye contact with the druchii that was interrogating him. “No my Lord Malekith, not a single soldier. Prince Darias’ scouts had seen the human force, and it was far greater in number than his own. Our estimates were that each druchii killed several humans
121 before they died.”
I had feared the wrath of the High Prince on bringing this news, but the timing could not have been worse - Malekith himself visits to see the progress in our slaving operations and I have to bear him this news.
Encased in his dark armor, Malektih stormed from the throne down to where Theralor was kneeling. Grabbing Theralor by the tunic around his neck, the King lifted him high into the air. “Now listen closely Lord Theralor, these are humans. They are rabble, filth, deplorable mortals who are only worth what their drugged and depraved bodies can do in battle for us and what chores they do for the nobility around their homes. Druchii do not get annihilated by humans, Darias is an incompetent commander.”
Theralor was gasping for air, more so from the close proximity to the fearsome Malekith than any real loss of breath. “Darias Sethalor did utter one word to me before he died, although it is no word I know of.”
Intrigued, Malekith lowered the noble slightly. “I’m listening.”
“Nagash my King, Nagash was the word he said just before his death,” Theralor stammered, now becoming fearful of his elevated position.
A crash in the back of the room startled the nobles in the room, and Malekith turned to the sound of the noise. With a flick of the wrist he released a surge of magical energy and a robed human came flying into the center of the room. In shock, the Black Guard surrounded the surprise visitor, their weapons at the ready.
“Who owns this filth?” Malekith barked.
A druchii dressed in purple robes stepped forward, “I do Lord Malekith. He is a servant of this room, it is his task to maintain and clean it.”
“Ah High Prince Elandil. He is your servant? No doubt then he has acquired a rudimentary idea of our tongue?”
The Black Guard stepped back as they sensed Malekith did not want the head of this human quite yet. Elandil nodded, “More than a rudimentary idea sire, he can speak our tongue well enough. You may converse with him freely if you like.”
Malekith hissed under his helm, “I do not speak to slaves, especially not the slave of some prince who rules over a spot of sand. Ask him, Elandil, why that word startled him so.”
Elandil did not need to repeat the question, as the shaken and terrified human began to speak immediately. Although he had a very thick accent and was unable to accommodate the harmonic elements of the elf language, the human did speak somewhat recognizable words in the ugly, human way of conversing. “Nagash is the brother of the King Thutep. He is a dark, twisted version of the mighty King and is shunned quietly amongst my people. Most do not know why, only that he delves into dark arts that no man should look into.”
122 Malektih was silent for a moment and then turned to three of his Black Guard, “Throw this trash into the desert. If I ever hear such a mockery of our language again I will slay the elf responsible for it.”
The force welling up inside Elandil’s throat was so large it felt like he swallowed his whole neck when he finally gulped down in fear of Malekith’s command. The King then looked around the room of nobles, “Why would a Druchii utter this name? Some filthy human was a threat enough for it to be the last thing Darias gasped. That is enough blasphemy for one day.
“Nobles, you are to assemble the garrisons of Tor Arathme and march out into the desert. Draw out this Nagash and bring me his mutilated body. Either come back with that or do not come back at all. Kill any humans you see on your way. There will still be plenty for slaves after this, it appears instilling fear in their hearts is more important now”
As the nobles nodded and voiced their acknowledgment, Malekith walked out of the throne room of Tor Arathme. Elandil walked over to the throne and sat back down. He was the High Prince of this city and all territory the druchii held in this southern continent, but despite this he felt his future was bleak unless he pleased Malekith, and quickly.
“Gather your troops. The only soldiers I want left in this city are enough to keep the slaves in check. We will crush this Nagash and whatever rabble he brings with him!”
“Not a single man survived?” the human bellowed into the court.
The soldier in the middle of the throne room was down on both knees and bowing so low his face almost touched the ground. “No my lord, the garrison at Kalabad was wiped out, and the city itself in flames. The army of the foreigners marches on to Khemri my lord.”
The various city kings, priests, and generals in the room began to whisper amongst themselves at the thought of the foreigners approaching Khemri itself. Nagash stood from his throne and raised his hand in a request for silence. “How do they know the location of our city? Our scouts tracked them for weeks trying to find Kalabad, let alone any of our other cities.”
Shaking in fear, the soldier responded, “As we fled to bring you the news Priest-King, we saw something. The foreigners were using some of their slaves as translators, and they would ask Nehekharans where you were, and while many refused some told. Regardless of whether they complied, everyone in the city was slain.”
Nagash straightened his stance slightly, and peered off into a deep thought. While my ascendance to the throne is not in question, I can feel the fearful whispers about me rolling over my kingdom. If I were to crush these invaders and save my people, they would quickly forget whatever concerns they felt for me.
“City-kings of Nehekhara, you will gather every available soldier that your city has to offer. We will assemble the greatest army the world has ever seen and crush these foreigners so decisively you will find my brother smiling in his tomb. Send scouts to the outlying provinces and summon their troops as well, the Zandri to the north and the Tusker riders to the south. These foreigners will weep at the might of Nehekhara!”
123
The key to my power lies in this victory. This is the turning point of men, if we defeat these foreigners we will assert our dominance. Everything is riding on this ...
The City-Kings let out a cry of cheers for Nagash and then departed the palace to summon their troops. Nagash turned to his attendants, “Dispatch scouts to watch the advance of the foreigners the whole way. They still reek of arrogance and will no doubt march straight to our city. They will find a host four times as great as the expedition my brother sent them, and they will face certain annihilation.”
This battle will decide my fate. I will gain the loyalty of the people with a victory, or lose it and possibly my life if I am defeated. I pray we have enough men, these foreigners though vile as they are appear to be fearsome adversaries.
I must win...
High Prince Elandil scanned the druchii army before him. The line of cavalry and chariots in front of the spears were splendid alongside the crews pulling the batteries of Repeater Bolt Throwers. Elandil even ordered his Beastmasters of Nagarythe to deploy with the army, bringing with them two Hydras from the slopes of the Annulii. Nine thousand elves marched under his command, the banners of Ulthuan and Malekith flowing in the desert wind.
Already he could spot the city of Khemri, the capital of the so called Nehekharan Empire, on the horizon. It would still be sometime before they reached it, but the magically created cloud cover courtesy of the sorceresses meant the journey was much easier.
As the army marched on, the High Prince could see his Reavers riding through the sands in front of their host looking for any signs of the enemy. The peace of the march was quickly interrupted when the sound of a shrill horn being played pierced through the air.
The Captain standing in the chariot with him turned to face him, “One of the Reavers my lord. They have spotted the enemy perhaps?”
Elandil shifted his weight nervously, watching as one of the distant specks grew larger and formed into an elf on horseback barreling down to the druchii army. The rider passed around the forces and rode up to Elandil’s chariot. “High Prince, we have spotted the enemy army, they have come out from the city to meet us.”
“How many of the humans have mustered to fight us?”
“At least twenty thousand my lord. Their leader rides at the forefront of the army on a mighty chariot in front of a well armed and disciplined force.”
Draw out this Nagash and bring me his mutilated body…
The High Prince was solemn in his reply, “There is no turning back or we all face the wrath of King Malekith. Order your scouts to keep a close eye on the army, and if you have to lure them to our
124 position.”
Turning to the Captain he added, “Unload the warmachines and prepare defenses. Have our sorceresses provide what magical defense we can. We will slay the foul beasts of humanity here.”
The elf captain nodded and stepped down from the chariot, yelling orders as he went.
Nagash was reveling in the slaughter he saw around him. As his royal chariot pushed through the enemy formations he lashed out at the foreigners with his twin kopis blades - curved swords of death and symbols of his authority - leaving only screams and terror in his wake. The other chariots were near his, but their numbers were slowly declining from the martial prowess of these invaders. As he cleanly decapitated a foreign spear-wielder, Nagash turned to see foreigners slay the horses of a chariot and then leap onto the chariot itself and decapitate the riders so fast Nagash did not even see the sword strikes.
Scanning the battle around him, the Priest King could see that it was his army’s weight in numbers that was carrying the day. His troops were skilled and disciplined, but the martial abilities of these foreigners were beyond his comprehension. The more exotic troops of his army were helping to push the tide as well – the massive Tuskars from the south were driving wedges deep into the foreign army’s lines in the north flank just as the chariots were scything through the center line with the infantry.
As he focused on slaying as many enemies as he could, Nagash couldn’t help but relish the feeling of the magical winds flowing through the battle. He had to suppress his urge to test his own magical abilities, fearing that they would repulse his troops and scuttle what legitimacy he had at the throne. Yet, with each passing use of magic by the enemy, his longing to explode in a torrent of magical force grew stronger.
Pushing his thoughts to the back of his mind, Nagash eyed a foreigner with his back turned to the King’s chariot and slashed at him in a furious arc. The creature cried out in pain and collapsed to the ground. He relished the slaughter, and his eyes grew wide in joy as he rampaged the enemy lines on the back of his chariot.
To the south of the battle, Elros peeked over the ridge of the sand dune and eyed the arrayed forces. He waited patiently for the signal as his troops were buried within the sand of the dune. The reptilian cold ones of his noble cavalry actually enjoyed burrowing into the sand as a slight relief from the bleak desert heat, which had quickly returned when the sorceresses turned their attention to the battle at hand and not the weather above them. It was clear that although each druchii fought with mighty skill, the shear numbers of the humans was enough for his kin to lose the battle. Something must be done.
And then he heard it. A shrill trumpet call, so high in pitch that humans could not hear its sound. Elros lifted up quickly from the sand with his blade held high. He immediately leapt onto his mount, which was being held down by another rider. All around him, the sound of sand parting could be heard as over one hundred and fifty riders emerged from the sand.
The young commander turned to his troops and yelled, “For the glory of Malekith and Khaine!” Cheers of bloodlust met his cry as the cold ones were nudged into a full on run towards the southern flank of
125 the human army. As the Druchii riders grew closer he could see some humans turn to see his force and in terror shout to their comrades. It will do them no good, they will be dead soon.
Nagash lifted up the body of a flailing foreigner by the blade that had pierced his ribcage when he heard the clarion call of horns to the south. Turning quickly as he discarded the dying body, fear filled his gut at the sight of his southern flank. Foreigner cavalry was mowing down his infantry and cutting deep gashes into his formations. Looking to the north Nagash saw that the Tuskar Legions were beginning to get bogged down, quickly dissolving his hope that he would manage to collapse the foreigner’s northern flank while his southern flank collapsed. Looking around, it became clear that his opponents saw the same carnage to the south that he did, and their already potent ferocity increased one hundred fold.
All around him chariots were getting torn to pieces and their drivers sliced in a thousand places. Behind him, Nagash could hear the panicked cries of his infantry as the foreigners turned from being on the verge of collapse to fighting as lethal engines of destruction. Something had to be done quickly, or the tables would turn against him and his forces. He knew exactly what must be done to save this day from defeat.
Observing the battle from a distance, the Bolt Thrower commander was growing jealous that he would not have a chance to mop up the worthless humans with his brethren. He watched as his reliable batteries poured volley after volley into the rear ranks of the humans, sowing more panic in their ranks. To his left stood a sorceress in a deep trance, raking black lightning over the battlefield that stripped men to nothing but bleached bones in an instant. He found himself inspired by the amount of destruction she was unleashing on the enemy.
Watching intently, he noticed the facial expressions of the sorceress suddenly change. She slowly expressed signs of concern and frustration until her whole body was visibly buckling under some sort of stress. Finally her eyes lost their translucent focus that accompanied her spell casting and deep terror replaced the previous tranquility. Looking around in a panic, she saw the commander and stared at him for a fraction of a second before she collapsed to her knees and began clawing at her face.
Running to help her, the commander demanded to know what was wrong to the point of pleading with the sorceress. She did not respond or even recognize that he was standing next to her for several moments until she looked at him one last time and begged, “Help me.”
In an instant, the druchii officer could see the sorceress’ face turn to a black hue before she collapsed to the ground completely, blood dripping from her ears, eyes, and mouth.
Nagash opened his eyes after he could feel the force of the other magic wielder fade from the winds that flowed over the battlefield. He had unleashed the full potential of his ability to shape the winds of magic for the first time, and he was lustful in his desire to continue. Turning to the southern flank, he saw that the wedge created by the enemy cavalry was growing even deeper, and his forces were on the brink of collapse. He signaled to his driver to head that way, and the horses of his chariot reigned up and galloped in the direction of the flank assault.
The driver of the King’s chariot turned to look at this lord and saw that his eyes were closed in a deep
126 trance. Dark energy arced over Nagash’s body as he muttered words the driver could not decipher. At first the driver grew fearful of what the King was doing, all those rumors about Nagash surfacing to the forefront of his mind. However, those fears quickly subsided when he turned ahead and saw a bolt of energy leap out from Nagash to one of the enemy riders, and as the energy cleared only the charred remains of a skeleton remained. He was not the only one to see Nagash unleash a torrent of magical energy, both humans and foreigners alike were so stunned that there was a brief pause on the battlefield.
Seeing the impact his actions had, Nagash raised his fist into their air and cried out, “For Nehekhara, for the world of men!” He closed his eyes briefly and let out another bolt of energy. Seeing their leader lend his powers to the fight against the enemy’s cavalry, the soldiers fought with renewed effort and attempted to push back.
“What in the name of Khaine is that!?” the High Prince grabbed a sorceress by the tunic and pulled her in close.
Eyes wide in panic – and not from the forceful question by the general – she stammered out a response, “One of the humans is shaping the winds, general. He is powerful, very powerful. He has already killed one of my sisters and I fear he will not stop there once he finishes dealing with your cavalry.”
Finishes dealing with your cavalry … Looking up from the she-elf, Prince Elandil could indeed see flashes of energy arcing out at his riders one by one leaving only a corpse in its wake. Without that flank charge, we will not win this battle. “Have you and your brethren concentrate all your efforts on containing that human. We must not lose the flank attack or this day is lost.”
Blood dripped on the floor from where he was kneeling in the throne room. Bowing as low as he could, he stammered as he continued his story. “From what I could best tell Lord Malekith, the battle was essentially won. High Prince Elandil had concealed a force of cavalry on their southern flank, and when their forces committed to a frontal engagement with ours they charged in, devastating their flank. They had almost reached the center of the human lines when the battle turned against us.
“The man you wanted us to kill, Nagash – I saw him – he turned into a mage of tremendous power. He killed one of our sorceresses and then obliterated our flanking force with his magic. Our remaining sorceresses tried to contain his power but they were summarily wiped out. After that we were done for. Only myself and a few others managed to escape.”
Standing over the wounded soldier, Malekith angled his head inquisitively. “And now they are marching to this very city?”
Nodding quickly, the soldier continued. “Elandil was arrogant my lord and brought his house slaves with him. They quickly began to talk to the human forces, and judging by their movements are headed to this location.”
For several minutes there was silence, Malekith just stared off into the ceiling of the throne room. Finally he turned to two of the members of the court that had traveled with him, “Sorceresses, come to me.”
127
Walking up, they stood next to the soldier and bowed graciously, “Yes my Lord Malekith?”
“We are going to evacuate this city, but you are to remain here. Stay in this room, and surrender yourself willingly. No doubt they will use our former slaves to translate and aid this Nagash. He has potential to serve me greatly, and therefore you are to offer your knowledge of the winds to him when he comes. Surrender willingly, and teach him enough.”
One of the sorceresses was confused, “ ‘Enough’ my lord?”
Malekith let out a low chuckle, “Yes. Teach him enough of the winds so that he is powerful enough to crush any opponents on the battlefield, but at the same time restrict your teaching so that if he does attempt to turn his focus to our forces on the coast I can snap him like a twig whenever I please.”
Smiling wickedly, the sorceresses bowed and walked away.
Nagash looked around at the city he had just conquered. He was elated from defeating the foreigner army on the field and now was overjoyed as he took their city on the continent. Their former human servants had proved to be a valuable resource, and even now had given him a greater gift than he could have ever imagined. He burst into the foreigner throne room with as much power as he could muster, and before him stood two female foreigners.
The former servant rushed up next to him, “Is there anything you would like to say to them my lord?”
Nagash turned and nodded. Looking back at the sorceresses, he spit on the ground and gave a look of disgust. “Tell them they have only a moment to tell me why I shouldn’t have their disgusting foreigner stench eliminated by the edge of my kopis.”
The man quickly translated, and Nagash could tell the sorceresses had to take a second and try to understand what the former servant had said. The foreigner language was strange and melodic, and the servant could not reproduce any of the pitch changes in the language. Once they understood the statement, one of the foreigners responded and then stared directly into the eyes of the Priest-King.
“Most noble Nagash, they state they can expand your powers over magic to heights you have never imagined. They say they will gladly be your aides if you can withstand their foreigner stench.”
Chuckling lightly, Nagash returned the stare of the sorceress and nodded. “Their offer is greatly accepted.”
As the former servant translated Nagash said outloud, “ This is the dawn of the era of man. I will create a dominion that will stretch from the Tuskar Plains to the mountain lands of the north, beyond the sea. We will be a fury that will be unstoppable.”
The former servant turned to him and dropped on his knees. “Mighty King, I am not worthy of hearing such amazing words from you.”
128 Nagash turned to him and spat on the ground. “No you are not, you have the taint of the foreigners. Thank those females, because I will need you to translate for me. If they had not been of use to me, your blood would be on my kopis right now.
“Foreigners are a blight on the dominion of men, and they will all perish, as will any who consort with them. We will crush all with the might of Nehekhahra.”
129 Old Sword from Old Days By Tahl Hour of the Wolf
Many centuries after the War of the Beard.....
From the great high walls of Avalaer stands four figures made of white marble, standing out like stars on the great grey stone. The first and most decorated was that of an old elf whose name was forgotten by the humans, but imprinted on the heart of every elf. Sethalis, even his marble form was hobbling over the walking stick. To his left with spear drawn was the master charioteer, the late High Commander Aravar. His marble spear pointing menacingly down towards the fields . To Sethalis’s right stood the statue commemorating High Commander Alithwar. His sword drawn his mouth open as though directing invisible archers to open fire. Standing Tall behind Sethalis was another Statue, The last of the High commanders, Tahl his sword sheathed standing proud as though a greater Deamon itself couldn’t move him.
Above the green fields and atop this high wall of stone there was another figure. Not of marble or stone but flesh and blood. With his old eyes he looked around and remembered why these statue’s were here. His old ears could still hear the sound of the metal armies of the Dawi laying siege to this very wall. War machines thumping against these walls. Looking up at the statue of Alithwar the old elf could even remember the High Commander screaming “fire”. “Fire” such a simple word and yet that simple word had caused the death of many Dawi that day. Oh how the world had changed, the field was no longer the colour of steel and blood. The world no longer the harsh black and white.
The Dawi were no longer the enemy, but a somewhat estranged ally. A lifetime ago it was once said by a Caledorian that you never truly knew someone till you fought them. It seemed the blood of noble Sethalis had appeased the Dawi’s grudge and both sides were too sick of a war that had lasted too long and cost too much blood to seek for it to continue. The black elves of Malkieth had been pushed back into the sea. It was a great victory, but it had changed everything. When the elves of Ulthuan arrived humans lived in little more than mud huts. Although plentiful they were not capable of waging war against either Dawi or elf. A small smile formed on the old elf’s lips. Men were certainly different now, the war and subsequent levy had assured that. Now they rode on horse with armour and sword, more than capable of warfare with the elder race’s.
The old elf stood up, leaning heavily on a cane he hobbled over to the statue of Tahl and placed his hand on the armoured statue’s leg when a familiar voice called over to him. “Surely you were never that good looking” Tahl’s old wrinkled face curved into a small smile as he turned and saw his Son and heir; Arancar Tahl walking towards him, his cloak billowing slightly in the wind. “Father, are the rumours true?” Tahl smiled, off course they were true, “ you sure you want to go through with this? It isn’t too late, there are other generals who can go” Arancar began but was silenced by a raised hand. “Arancar, I am old. I have fought in every war since we were exiled from Ulthuan, Sathailor is my legacy, Tomorrow you come of age and will be representing this city on the council. If so called evil invader kills me then I expect you to hold our people in your arms.”
130 Arancar nodded solemnly “It seems I have no choice then, though I may be but a sheep among orcs” with that he turned slowly and walked towards the council chambers. Breathing heavily Tahl watched as his son walked, he smiled gently as he remembered when he was young. When an old elf had taught him as he had tried to teach Arancar. Tahl turned once more and looked at the marble Sethalis, “And to think I once called you old” he spoke quietly as he stood and watched the sun fall between the hills.
********************************************************************************* Arancar wished he could say he had woken early the next morning, in truth he had never slept. Sitting on the council for the first time was a daunting task and had kept him up for the past night. Standing next to the open window he watched the sun rise. A small cup of warm tea in his hand. The morning gong rang and he realised he would have to face them sooner or later. Donning his finest red robes he headed towards the council chamber.
Arancar had heard tale’s of the chambers beauty, he had always dismissed them as mutterings of fanatical politicians. However for once they weren’t lying, the Stone had been infused with magic so that the tiniest strand could hold up the heaviest staircase or even roof. Smiling Arancar caught a few human council members staring at the ceiling in awe also.
Arancar smiled slightly and cast his eyes around the room itself. At the far wall stood a single seat, this was his fathers chair and the chair of the head of Sarthailor. On the right hand wall sat 12 seats embedded into the wall itself. Here sat the 12 General’s of Sarthailor. His fathers words came back to him. Although every city, every lord has his own army. None matches that of Sarthailor’s imperial force. Every citizen serves in the levy. Every male will at some stage fight in one of the 12 armies of Sarthailor. During peace time these general’s are silent. They don’t answer to the council directly but to the head of Sarthalor. They are picked for many reasons, The General of the third legion is Sarthailor’s strongest mage for instance, the fifth is our wisest healer, and so on and so forth..
On the opposite wall, facing the 12 seats was row upon row of seats, these belonged to the council members one for every major town or province. The room holds the correct number of seats but the positions are fluid. If you do not wish to participate you sit at the back of the room. If you have a pressing matter you choose a nearer seat Considering carefully Arancar decided that it was best if he chose a seat in the second back row. Slowly but surely the room filled up, like him the nobles took the opportunity to impress, wearing their finest jewellery or cloths. No armour or weapons were permitted in this room however. The twelve general’s came in as one, each wearing powder blue robes with the number of their legion embroidered on their sleeve in gold. Although each had unique characteristics they all shared an air of authority and promise of a hidden power.
Looking around Arancar reckoned all the councillors had arrived now, though the row behind him was completely empty and in his row there was only one elf…A stunningly beautiful woman whose simple green dress hinted of a spring morning and flowed loosely over her. It was obvious from the way she sat that she wasn’t used to wearing such clothes... Our forest loving kin very rarely attend the council, though they hold a good number of seats they simply don’t care. They are happy so long as they are left alone….though they always send one or two elves to silently watch, just to ensure their interests are secured… Arancar moved to change seats, to move over and sit next to her. The second the idea run through his head however he great doors opened.
The blue robes hung over Lord Tahl, looking as though they threatened to push him to the ground. Yet
131 the old elf hobbled forward. Arancar noticed the entire room had stiffened, every elf, man and half elf now sa at rapt attention. -well accept the girl in the green dress but her eyes carefully followed the old lord all the same. Once Tahl took his seat the speaker introduced the first topic of the day (The exchange of grain for iron). With no matters on the agenda directly affecting him Arancar’s eyes and mind began to wander. Most elves sat comfortably shoulder to shoulder with men, and an even greater number of half elves. However here and there Arancar could see clumps of elves who sat among themselves obviously trying to shun the “lesser” beings. If it wasn’t for men there would be no Sarthailor, Half-elves too are strong, their numbers will be a valuable ally if we ever go to war
“The chair recognises Lord Mortrof” Arancar’s attention drifted back to the present as a gruff middle aged man stepped forward to speak, clearing his throat he spoke “For many years now we have toiled and lived together. I’ve been in the levy, and my father was in the levy and his father before him. Next year my son will be of levy age. I ask for the council to accept him into the Senthoi opposed to normal levy service ” The council was awash with mutterings and Arancar knew why, having been raised by the Senthoi. It was however one of the Generals who answered this question “The warriors of Senthoi utilise many skills, one of which is their high magical talent and many many years in service. A mere human would not be able to keep up with the other students. Not even before their reclusive days when they went by the name of the knights of the flame eternal would a human be able to keep up. ” The human Mortrof made to argue once more but Tahl raised his hand. The room fell silent as he spoke in short rasping breaths. “In the order of Senthoi they live apart from the comfort of civilisation, banding together in small monasteries they spend their time increasing their physical and magical abilities. They constantly infusing their blades with magic and then unleashing this bottled up power in combat. A human simply doesn’t have enough strength. Your son like you is strong. He would gain much honour in the levy, only mockery of him will come from joining the Senthoi Monastery” Lord Mortrof looked slightly angry and Arancar could tell why. Being a member of Senthoi gained you great prestige if his son attained the first human position he and his province would gain a lot of prestige. It seemed however that for the time being they would have to accept their place in the world.
Tahl then spoke once more, it was the announcement Arancar was dreading and the cause of many arguments. “There grows a new and dark threat to our lands… we have rumours of a invasion, I am taking the 13th legion to head out and investigate these claims.” Arancar sighed, it was said and there was no taking it back now. Tahl lord of Sarthailor was marching to war. He watched the old elf cobble out the great hall, under the delicate archway and into the morning sun. The first thing Arancars eyes met was the row upon row of silver elves. Behind the thin line standing only slightly lower was half elves sill glittering in the sun. lower still was the lines of humans, row upon row of spear. A formidable sight, the 13th army of Sarthailor. Tahl stood beside a chariot, the other twelve generals standing in discussion beside him. When he saw Arancar he waved him over, Arancar exchanged polite bows with the generals as they continued their discussion. “Why must it be you who goes? You are old and unable to wield a sword” A muscular general asked. “Might of the sword matters not in war. Neither does magical might or age. What matters most in war is resolve, you are all young, as is this kingdom but soon you will find resolve. The same resolve that I found when fighting in the war of the beard. The same resolve which built this kingdom. Arancar Tahl, I give to you my sword. Long may it defend Sarthailor. Do not be saddened. I have yet to lose a major battle and I don’t plan on starting now”
An aid gave Arancar a box, opening the wooden lid he saw his fathers sword inside it. One of the few still around that was made in the forge’s of Vaul even from the box Arancar could feel its power vibrate through the air. He moved to speak but an arrogant elf cut across him. Looking up he saw a rough
132 looking wood elf sitting atop a horse. “Will you hurry up…” Tahl looked up at him as the generals scowled “Lord Narmo please ride ahead and act as a scout for the main force. Your skills as a tracker will come in handy” With that the Asrai lord rode out of the street and away. Tahl then stood on his chariot “He is right however, it is time for me to go”. With those parting words the driver tapped the horses and the chariot rolled away disappearing between the streets row upon row of silver clad warriors following.
Arancar stood and watched for a few moments, his heart feeling heavy at the sight. Finally he turned and walked down a side street making his way home. Looking up the grey street a woman clad in a rough green dress stood out. Recognising her Arancar hurried his pace to catch up. “Greetings” he said formally as he fell into step beside her, She nodded at him her eyes full of suspicion. “I, erm I would like to know your name” Arancar stammered a little taken back by her bluntness. “No you don’t, what you really want you will never have” She said simply as she turned round a corner and out of view. Arancar stood still for a few minutes before he allowed himself a small smile, his lips curled slightly.
133 Eternal Servants By TimmyMWD Hour of the Wolf
Samol-te scanned the scene around him. Dust and sand swirled around the massive valley that stood before him, mixing with the throng of laborers surrounding the incomplete pyramid. Over the winds he could hear the whip cracks of the labor masters as the forced their ogre labor to comply. The addition of the giant beasts was most welcome to the leaders of the construction project, without them the Nehekharans laboring on the pyramid would have had many more years of work ahead of them.
Having worked on several temple and monument projects, Samol-te considered himself an expert in building great monuments to the gods and Nagash the Beloved. But this project that stood before it was like nothing he had ever seen before. The reflective black surface of the pyramid was slowly rising each day, a stark contrast to the sand colored pyramids of Nehekhara. Samol-te did not even know where the stone came from, only that it arrived by Rhinox caravan from the east. Starring off to the trade road from which those caravans would arrive, Samol-te spotted a rapidly approaching cloud of sand and dust. That is not a caravan, those are riders approaching the site.
Indeed, a group of eight riders rode behind a chariot pulled by three horses and raced towards the entrance to the Black Pyramid. Despite the fact that the pyramid was only two-thirds complete, it was already inhabited by Nagash and his large staff. Samol-te gripped the hilt of his sword and approached the road to the pyramid’s gateway, signaling the riders to stop as he approached them. "Riders! Nagash the Immortal, Everloved of Nehekhara, bids you welcome and demands an inquiry as to your identities."
Standing in the chariot was a shriveled existence of a man. He was heavily robed and Samol-te could not even see his face. But his hands were shriveled and looked almost mummified, his stance was hunched over and he could barely support himself. One of the horse riders came up and stopped between the chariot and Samol-te, "Hail loyal servant of Nagash. I am Legion Commander Utep, and we come to escort this venerable Lich Priest to Nagash. He comes with urgent news from the north."
Nodding in approval, Samol-te walked over to the chariot and stepped on board, trying to keep as much distance from the aging Liche Priest as possible. "Ride to the entrance, and I will alert the King to your arrival." The driver of the chariot cracked his whip and the chariot lurched forward to the giant entrance of the pyramid, the riders close behind them.
Samol-te had not actually seen the Immortal for six years, he had been far too busy managing the construction of the pyramid and the external security of the pyramid. Usually guests of Nagash – as rare as they were – were announced to him well in advance and he had no need to announce their arrival to the High King. Walking in front of the guests, he clapped his hands and signaled to the servants that people had arrived. One of the military officers that rode up walked up next to Samol-te and whispered, "The Liche Priest is not well sir, and needs a chair that we can carry him in to see Nagash."
134 Nodding in affirmation, Samol-te called for a servant to deliver a chair immediately. The officers rested the Priest on the chair and lifted him up. The priest nodded slowly, and Samol-te felt a tingle and the hair on his arms stood on end. Shaking off the sensation, the manager of the Pyramid opened the doors of Nagash’s throne room and entered. Sitting at the far end of the long room was a fit young man, his head shaved and his body adorned with fine cloth and gold encased jewelry that came from all corners of the empire. Bowing low, Samol-te walked up with his face looking to the ground. "Almighty Nagash, Immortal and High King of Nehekhara. I apologize for this unexpected intrusion, but you have a Priest and several officers of your mighty army here to see you concerning news from the north."
The High King’s eyes list open as if he was feeling sensation for the first time. Standing up, he stretched up on the tips of his toes before walking forward to Samol-te, signaling him to stand up. Nagash was slightly shorter than Samol-te, but his perfect features and physique easily made up for that shortcoming. "Thank you Samol-te for your dedication to the security of my sanctuary. You have served me well, but I need you to continue overseeing the labor efforts on my pyramid. You are dismissed."
Bowing low again, Samol-te backed out into the lobby and began to head towards the entrance. As he almost left the room he looked back at Nagash and his visitors. "I hope, High King, that these visitors bring you glorious news of victory. May the blood of the foreigners in the north form a river under the might of our armies."
Smiling, Nagash nodded and watched as his servants dispersed from the room and Samol-te left the Pyramid complex. Once he knew that they were gone, Nagash turned to the officers and smiled. The smile did not fade; however, but rather seemed to stay transfixed on his face for eternity.
The officers heard a slight cough, and turned to see a frail finger rise from the seated figure. Although his body was frail and almost devoid of life, the voice that eminated from it was the same young and powerful one that came from Nagash. "I have interupted my control over that body for only a moment more. When I resume control of his body, please take this decrepit form to its appopriate chamber. I'd like to thank you again, loyal servants of Nehekhara, for maintaining the secrecy of my visit to the north."
As he finished his last sentence, the frail body slumped down into the chair and the officers turned to see the young Nagash was once more active. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if relishing the sensations he was experiencing. "Alright, take my body to its chamber and we will conclude our business."
Carrying chair with the slumped over decrepit body, the officers walked down a long corridor while Nagash called forth servants carrying exotic food. He selected a juicy piece of fruit and bit into it, stopping to savor the exquisite taste. In between bites he paused to unconsciously mutter, "I have missed this."
A shaking servant bowed low and approached him, "Was there a shortage of fruit for you to enjoy High King? I will find out who is responsible and punish them immediately."
Nagash turned to him and smiled, "No loyal servant. There has been ample supply, I simply chose not to eat it. I forgot how delicious the fruit is that you supply here." The servant smiled, relived that he had not failed his King.
135 The King and his servants turned to see the officers returning without the old man. Nagash clapped his hands and instructed his servants to leave the room and the men filed back in. When the servants had all departed Nagash addressed his soldiers, "Loyal men, thank you for ensuring my safe return to the Black Pyramid and for concealing my journey to the north. As I feared, the enemy to the north did require my full potential in harnessing the winds of magic. They will be a most formidable opponent indeed."
One of the officers stepped forward and pumped his fist into the air, "We will crush them as we have crushed all opponents before them."
Nagash nodded, smiling, "We will, but this will be a struggle. However, the humans of their kingdom and the bastard children between foreigners and men is such a disgusting site it makes a millennia of war worth it.
"Unfortunately friends, to secure our people’s passion I will ask the greatest sacrifice of you. To win their hearts for this, I need none of our legion to survive."
And I need you all dead, there is no way all eight of these soldiers will forever keep my true form a secret, or what sorceries I unleashed on those creatures.
The silence that followed was abruptly interrupted when a young officer stepped forward and stammered, "You would rob us of our lives so that you may secure your war in the north?"
The other officers were stunned and feared that such a boisterous statement would summon the worst wrath of Nagash. However, the slow smile forming on their king’s face told them otherwise. "I would never ask for your life without rewarding you in return. In exchange for your mortal lives, your souls will be bound forever to servants of the gods – eternal warriors of Nehekhara."
That same young officer was now nervously excited, "You would make us Ushabti?"
Nagash nodded, "For such a sacrifice I can see no greater a reward."
The soldiers dropped to the ground before Nagash and bowed low, thanking him for the honor. True enough, I have given their death meaning. They will serve as even mightier members of my armies as the fearsome Ushabti. The High King walked up and beaconed for them to stand, "Come, your transformation awaits."
As the soldiers were escorted to the lower chambers of the Pyramid, Nagash summoned his Lich Priests. Three of them entered the room and bowed low as he spoke. "Priests, you are to oversee their transformation into the eternal soldiers of our gods. Before you do, summon the overseer Samol-te to the pyramid. Inform him that his long service is to be rewarded and that he too will undergo the transformation."
One of the priests looked up inquisitively, "You will not watch over the ceremony great one?"
"No, I will not," Nagash stated as he looked off towards the opposite side of the room. Entering through a long hallway were several attractive women. Sighing deeply and closing his eyes, he turned back to the priests, "Savor what physical pleasures you enjoy priests, for my trip to the north made me long for
136 them again. While you perform the ceremony I will be performing one of my own."
And with that, Nagash beaconed the women to follow him down another hallway to his bed chamber.
A crowd of thousands greeted Nagash with voracious cheers and applause. His public appearances were distanced now in terms of years, but every time he appeared he was as young and sharp as ever. Nagash the Everloved, Nagash the Immortal. Nagash the High King, Nagash the Ruler of Men – all of these titles were cheerfully exclaimed along with cries of love and admiration for the leader of Nehekhara. This was not forced nor drawn out of fear, it was by their own will that the people loved their rule. Gesturing with a smile, he signaled for the crowd to quiet down.
Once the crowd was ready to listen, Nagash used the simplest of parlor tricks and magically amplified his voice. "Citizens of Nehekhara, I bring ill tidings to you on this day. As our great empire expands and flourishes, we meet new obstacles that stand in our way. We have met the challenge of all of these forces, from those foreigners who tried to enslave us so long ago, to the Lahmian rebels and through to the ogres and green abominations in the east.
"But now I tell you that we face a new challenge. The short, fat, stupid creatures are content to rot in their mountains and we have pushed on to farther lands in north. I led an expedition myself to see these new lands and to see what glory they could bring to Nehekhara.
"When we reached the lands beyond the north sea we encountered a new enemy that took us by surprise. They appear almost as cousins to those foreigners from time long ago that wished to enslave us."
The crowd erupted in anger immediately. The culture of Nehekhara had so evolved since their encounter with the Druchii that they had grown xenophobic under the crown of Nagash, hating any non- humans who opposed their might. They had not encountered the druchii or any like them since Nagash’s first major victories, and so the mere mention of any creatures similar to them brought disgust and anger through the crowd of faithful citizens. Nagash smiled to himself at the culture he had borne, the factual belief that man was superior to all, and that all others were but dust beneath the feet of Nehekhara’s armies.
After sufficient emotion had been poured out over Nagash’s announcement, he quieted them down again and continued. "Their forces greatly outnumbered ours, and they had with them a cadre of magic users. They commanded foul beasts the emerged behind our legions and assailed us from all directions. Our soldiers fought with the spirits of the gods and although we defeated their forces to the last abomination of a creature, only myself and eight others survived to make it back to Khemri."
Before the crowd could grow fearful of the outcome of the battle, Nagash shouted out in a confident tone that shook the crowd to their core, "Fear not my people, for we are the mightiest race and we shall crush these vile folk just as we crushed their cousins thousands of years before. We will bring the full might of our war machine to their lands and slaughter any who oppose! For these creatures are even more vile than those we encountered, for they mate with humans – and have created a disgusting mix in their attempt to become as pure and as noble as our people."
Nagash paused instinctively and below him cries of disgust, rage, and hatred rang out from the crowd.
137 Many demanded the slaughter of the foreigners in the north and whatever bastard offspring they have created. Nagash once again signaled for their silence. "We will slay them, to the last creature that pleads for his life. Our armies will muster, and if it is your will to slay them by your own hands than you may join our armies in righteous conflict in the north.
"I must bring you one final token of news. The others who survived with me bore mortal wounds, and such was their strength that they survived them to return home and see the glory of our land one last time. I would not let such tenacity and dedication to our empire go unrewarded, and as they passed from this world I granted their spirits one last gift," as he finished that sentence he gestured to the massive temple entrance behind him and several large shadows that were emerging into the sunlight. "Their souls now power and control the mighty instruments of our gods – behold the gods’ latest gift of Ushabti soldiers to crush our enemies!"
Everyone in the crowd dropped to their knees and bowed low in homage to the massive warrior constructs that now stood next to Nagash. Slowly they looked back up at their king and the soldiers of the gods that he commanded. He looked back down at the crowd and with his fist in the air cried out, "Who will march with these Ushabti to the North and claim it all in the name of Nehekhara?!"
The cheers were so loud in response, that not even Nagash’s magically amplified voice could over power it.
And that’s exactly how Nagash wanted it to be.
138 Children of Ash By Tahl Hour of the Wolf
The last two weeks had been a blur in Nienna’s mind since Lord Tahl had accepted her as his apprentice. A few hurried lessons and she had been whisked off to war, complete with long marches and the occasional grin from the men. Not that any had dared touch her. War had never troubled her. She was the daughter of Orophin Elensar, and thus no stranger to battle or long marches. When they had arrived at the battlefield, Tahl had guided her away, hiding her on a nearby crag. From this distance she had a clear view of the battle, but against such a backdrop, even the finest elven eyes could miss her.
At first she had watched with admiration, as Lord Tahl and the 13th Legion fought with the fame they had rightly gained. Each man and elf stood entirely disciplined, and all the elements of heaven and earth had favoured Sarthailor. Then he came; a creature from the deepest darkness. A beast which no amount of blood would appease. She had watched with horror as he summoned minions back from the gates of hell, and the dead rose only to die again. Even her new master, Artemis Tahl, had been slain like a child, though he had grinned in those last minutes. Grinned knowing that no Sarthailonian would aid this foul wizard.
The dark robed wizard then took a step towards the shrine, but turned as his undead legion took arms once more. Nienna’s eyes followed the dark lord’s gaze and she gasped. The wolves and the birds had rallied forth to attack the unholy army. Straining her eyes Nienna could discern one figure. He ran alongside the wolves in a supernatural sprint, his spear raised high. She didn’t need to see his face to know who it was; only one Asrai had travelled with this army: Narmo Eressa. Nienna focused once more on the dark wizard. He grinned broadly and opened his palm, his long fingers pointing at the oncoming assault. The wolves barked and the birds crowed as they closed the distance.
They were but a spear length away from the undead army when the wolves stopped and the birds flight faltered. Narmo didn’t seem to notice his forest kin’s abrupt stop. Headlong he crashed into the impeding ranks of Zombies. His spear struck down handfulls with every swing, most falling faster than they could even respond to the attack that re-killed them. He carved his path through the undead, intent on his mark. So focused he was that he never saw his demise even coming.
Nienna’s looked back at the wolves. They were advancing again, but they looked repulsive now, with a hollow unearthly green light in thier eyes. As they ran towards the Winter Guardian they avoided the foul Zombies and followed the path the Asrai had made. Nienna divined the horrible truth a moment before it happened. These wolves were some animal form of undead now, corrupted and dire. The largest of them launched himself at the Narmo's back, and thus sealed his former master's doom.
The evil lord approached the morass and merely flicked his wrist and Narmo was up again. Nienna watched in horror as the once proud Asrai lord turned zombie began to spill out answers to whatever the dark wizard asked. Ancient secrets were passed on matter of factly to the necromancer. Nienna’s attention was then drawn back to the wolves. They sat almost docile in front of the army. Had the forest abandoned Narmo to his fate? Existence eternal without the pleasure of life? Though there was something wrong with these hounds and crows. Straining even further she realised with horror that they
139 too had been killed by some spell. Some dire spell which had brought these wolves back almost the instant after death.
Breathing deeply Nienna became aware of a new sensation, a putrid smell. The wind had changed and brought the smell of death with it, but that was not all that it had brought: snatches of conversation could be heard from the hill far down below. A voice of malice which was not dulled by the wind, “So the vortex exists after all. Then this shrine must be one of the supports…. Shame I’d love to tear this place down brick by brick ...that wouldn’t make Him very happy now would it? …. Suppose this futile quest has come to an end, but your usefulness has not….. Tell me all about this “Sarthailor” and the “secrets of Loren”…” Nienna sat quietly as the army of the dead returned to the grave, all except Narmo whose corpse walked side by side with the dark wizard, his head inclined indicating conversation.
For many hours she sat in horror daring not to move for fear of detection, yet the dark wizard had left and the corpses had shown no desire to reanimate. Finally she brought herself to write a letter, describing the events which she had witnessed this day. Folding the paper over it she placed her hand atop of the envelope and closed her eyes. Sparks flew from her fingers as she mage burned the letter, sending it directly to the Sarthailor high council chambers. A few moments later she felt a strange sensation. Opening her hand a letter burned into existence. It contained a simple reply: “We are coming”.
Nienna sighed, opening her pack she began to eat the meagre rations that it contained. It would take two or three days for another army to reach her. Curling into a ball she slept an uneasy sleep. Hooves on soil, bad dreams, the sun on her face. A red dragon across a white standard, a banner, Tahl’s banner. Tahl! Her eyes focused as she looked down at the hill. It was littered with the corpses of the Khemri army and the ash of her friends.
Standing up Nienna noticed something move, a knight. No not a knight an entire column of knights, she had seen armour like there’s before. They were what her father had called Dragon lords: Caledorians, yet amongst their glittering armour and colourful plumes there was another form of mounted elf. They wore sombre blues yet held themselves with the same proud esteem as the knights, they were Senthoi warriors. Nienna moved to call out then stopped, a band of lonely knights were not always a welcome sight for a lonely elf maiden here in the wild. Standing atop the crag she hesitated when a voice called out
“They will not harm you, Nienna of the Elansar house. I give you my word”. Startled she turned around, seeing the speaker. He was a young elf though not a child, long golden hair with a typical angled face, his youthful appearance however did not extend to his expression. In his expression lay a look that would make men think this elf was far older than he appeared. He wore crimson robes, with a white dragon sown into them; Tahl had worn robes like these. Yet his was white with a red dragon,
“Arancar?” she asked. He nodded and finally she felt the emotions she had bottled up for the last day brim over. Embracing him she began to sob apologies and explanations: how she stood idly bye, how she watched the slaughter, how his father had met his death with pride. She felt him place a hand on her shoulder and gently push her back; she wiped the tears from her eyes and met his gaze. His eyes were like a morning sky, the coldest of blues. Though they held the promise of a warm day.
“I believe you,” he said assuringly. “The council has dispatched a second grand army. It will take them three more days to get here. We - the warriors under my command and the Senthoi - are going to run
140 this Dark wizard down…”
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Eriath stood with his great axe in a salute position at the gates of Avalear. Here at the home of the council the great White Lions stood guard. Avalear had its own town guard and levy and a too many Caledorian warlords for Eriath’s liking. Here was the council and it had seemed illogical for the remains of the White Lions to be based anywhere else. The White Lions used to guard the king, only earning the right by proving themselves when they slew the noble lion of Chrace. Estranged from Chrace and with no king there role had changed somewhat. They now protected the council and the head council member. They also wore the fur of their fathers, their fathers only handing over the treasured item when the son bested them in combat. On a cold morning such as this, Eriath was eternally thankful that his father, Darior, had chosen to slay such a large beast. The thick white fur gave a heat that few other clothes could manage. The order, however, had been shamed recently. It had deemed that when Artemis Tahl rode out, he would be safe. He had never lost a battle before, this had been an investigative mission which he embarked with a full Legion and between him and the council, the council was the most important. Thus the white lions had let Tahl walk blind into his fate.
Eriath watched the riders trotting through the grand gates of Avalear. Arancar of the house of Tahl entered first with Nienna of the house of Elansar at his side. Eriath stood still as Arancar rode up to him, stopping his horse as he awaited the Lord of the White Lions to begin. Eraith obliged “It saddens me greatly that your father should die whilst under our protection. As such you're under our protection for the duration of the mourning period.” He watched as the sides of Arancar’s mouth twitched ‘no.’ Eriath thought ‘…I don’t like the idea of babysitting you any more than you seem to want me here’. “How did the pursuit of the dark wizard go?” Eriath ventured.
“We caught his trail quickly, but whether by luck or dark device, we crossed paths with a goblin horde. By the time they were dead, the trail had also died”
Eriaths eyes flew open with surprise” You and these riders managed to slay a goblin horde?”
“The Dawi intervened, seemed pleasant enough people” Eriaths head spun, Arancar had barely been gone a week and already he had destroyed a goblin horde and established communications with the stoically silent Dawi, all spoken in a matter of fact tone, as though none of it mattered. These next few months serving as his guardian would certainly prove interesting…
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Nienna looked upon Andalear, the great Senthoi monastery. Despite the mystique surrounding the order, the monastery was a plain low building of grey stone. It had a large centre building and various smaller ones attached to it. Access from one to another was achieved by footpaths that ran through the well tended garden. The entire compound was surrounded by a simple stone wall. No tower or impressive statues here, only three flags: The plain pale blue of the Senthoi, the elaborate white and gold motif of the council and the white with the red dragon. Inside the compound was an otherworldly silence, only the hushed murmurings of the masters conferring or the sound of boots against the stone.
141 Nienna walked beside Arancar with Eriath following slightly behind as Almon -the Senthoi vault keeper- led the way. At first he had led them along populated walk ways filled with Senthoi in all stages of learning. Each warrior wore a blue robe, be he master or novice. It was accepted that every being still held the capacity to learn and as such all were treated equally. Younger Senthoi were taught the value of self teaching. Should they incur a problem or need advice, help was always only a question away. When accepted into the monastery each person made a vow: To defend Sarthailor, to submit to the will of the Council and to the laws of the lord whose land they reside in. The latter was merely due to a Senthoi’s wandering nature. Almost every realm had a Senthoi advisor at one time or another and as such a mere oath to the council would not suffice. The oath was the only rule in the monastery, and the only law a Senthoi was expected to follow.
Soon Almon led them away from the main rooms and down into the deep vaults. Nienna gleaned that he had been a good friend to Artemis Tahl. He spoke fond words of him to Arancar all the way towards the vault. Nienna noticed that Arancar’s replies were always polite but short, as if speaking of his father obviously still pained him, despite his best efforts to contain his grief. They turned the final corner and Nienna let slip a gasp. The vault’s door was solid metal, plain by appearance, yet within her mind she could feel it. A powerful spell that sealed these doors shut. Its essence had been absorbed the by the stone but standing before it the power was obvious. “If I could get you to avert your eyes from the door whilst I…” Almon had begun but was cut off as Arancar stepped forward and placed a palm on the door. Nienna watched as a blue ripple, like a stone falling on water, extended from Arancar’s palm, the waves reaching the door’s frame. As commanded the door swung open, noiselessly regardless of its size.
Arancar turned to the Almon, “You forget that I was once Senthoi.”
The old magician looked lost in Arancar’s red robes for a while before he came out of his revere “of course… this way” he added, hastily composing himself.
The group walked up and stood beside an old oak table whilst Almon retrieved the box; placing it before Arancar he opened the hinge. Nienna watched as Arancar put his hand inside the wooden box and drew forth a sword. Almon noticed her expression and answering said “The Sword Celebhisie, an ancient weapon forged in the fires of Vaul’s Temple in Caledor. Designed for an older time, it has the length of a long sword yet is light enough to be wielded single handily. The blind priests obviously meant for it to be used from atop dragon back. The rider had to be able to strike out at opponents far beneath him without sacrificing his shield. The unknown metal was heated by dragon’s breath and then cooled by the mountain’s waters. See how a fine light dew hangs over the blade? It’s not just dust as I once supposed, but some sort of spell that’s at work within the blade.” His sermon on the sword’s history was however cut short, when Arancar placed it within the sheath, shutting it with a sharp snap. He took the cords used to tie it to the bearer’s belt; however he tied them around the sword itself.
Turning to the others Arancar spoke, “This weapon was designed for one thing… to bring death.” The rest of Almon’s lectures were lost on the party. Arancar’s attitude troubled Nienna slightly as she had rarely seen such resolve in a man’s eyes.
Making their way back up through the temple, Nienna met a strange sight in the courtyard before the gates. Durieural, her brother, stood in front of them with his spear in hand, his blue robe flittered slightly in the wind. Almon was the first to speak “Please stand aside for Lord Tahl and his party, they wish to leave.” He spoke politely but he barely hid the annoyance from his voice. Nienna flinched; she knew her brother too well.
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His reply was swift “Please stand aside Almon.” Durieural then spoke to Arancar who had made no movement, “Arancar, son of Tahl, my father lies dead, as does yours. Before my honoured father’s death, he gave your father the charge of safekeeping my sister, and my inheritance. As he is unable to keep my father’s last request, I demand you return both, immediately!” Adding to his impudence, his spear stamped the ground as he held it straight in the air. Nienna looked in shock, surely her brother wasn’t challenging Arancar? Sadly, seeing that her brother held in his hands his finest spear, she knew it to be true. A long shaft of polished wood, at one end sat a sharp blade and on the other a metal casing with a red plume.
“Orophin Elensar’s request was to my father’s house and not him in person. I cannot accept your claims. Your sister still has much to learn, as do you.” Arancar said curtly. Durieural’s next words were full of venom, and Nienna glimpsed at how much their father’s death had hurt him.
“I have learned all this school has to teach me. I warn you one final time hand over the gold and my sister.” He lowered his spear so that it pointed at Arancar. Nienna picked up on a subtle movement from the White Lion, Eriath, but it was Arancar who stepped forward however.
“If you truly believe that this school has nothing left to teach you, and that the House of Tahl seeks to rob you, then I, Arancar Tahl, accept your challenge, until you reverse your claim.” He held up the sword still encased in its scabbard.
Durieural looked at him for a moment then spoke to the crimson robed fighter, “Are you not going to draw your sword?” he enquired incredulously.
“No. A sword has but one function; it kills things. A fool may seek to use his sword to defend and save. He may draw his blade at every opportunity, but he will kill things. Friend and foe alike. I am unused to this sword and its energy, and I have no intention of killing you Durieural Elansar, therefore I shall not draw my blade.”
Nienna looked from one fighter to the other. Both were similar in height and age. From afar, the only noticeable differences would have been the red robe against the blue, the sword against the spear. Taking deep breaths, she tried to calm herself and focus as Lord Tahl had taught her. Finding her resolve, she looked once more at the two fighters. Her brother’s spear pointed at Arancar, it shimmered for a moment and then a torrent of flame erupted from it. She sensed the might in Arancar’s own magic as he deflected the blast harmlessly away. Suddenly Arancar ducked to the left and Nienna gasped as she realised he had narrowly missed Durieural’s spear which had followed the flames.
For a few moments they fought and Nienna became aware of a crowd forming. Durieural had the initiative and his attacks were well placed, powerful and swift. Yet each blow either missed or was harmlessly deflected away by Arancar. Nienna watched as they danced this dangerous dance. On one hand, her brother hadn’t been able to hit Arancar. On the other, he was a skilled spearman, and kept the elf lord out of sword length. Durieural brought his spear vertically down with venom, missing the crimson robe by scant inches and shattered the cobble street. Broken brick and dust filled the air, but before Durieural could lift his spear again, Arancar had placed both feet on it, neatly pining it to the floor. Nienna watched as her brother‘s face became strange, as though he had reached a new level of resolve. She could feel magic swirl around his body. Aided by magical strength, he flicked his spear up,
143 sending Arancar into the air. With clever agility, twisting mid flight, Arancar landed neatly behind Durieural almost as though he had meant for it to happen. Durieural was not taken aback as Nienna was. Without turning he thrust the blunt end of his spear at Arancar’s face. Arancar tried to block it with his hand but was thrown back. Nienna gasped as Arancar tumbled in the dirt, the tumble then turned into a role and the lord was soon back on his feet. Durieural remained standing, and twirling his spear into a new ready stance he spat, “So much for the great House of Tahl.”
Arancar however stood a few feet away and let loose a small smile. “I’ll admit I underestimated you there, but as I have told you: Simply being powerful warrior does not make you a match for the Senthoi.” With that he opened the hand he had blocked the spear butt with and Nienna realised the red she saw was not blood, but the plume from the end of Durieural’s spear. Durieural himself seemed surprised with this revelation. Looking at the end of his spear, he saw the metal base was cracked and beyond repair. It took several moments for Nienna to comprehend that Arancar had blocked the blow with more than just his hand but also with magic. Somehow he had predicted the attack and allowed the magic to flow through him, and form in that place.
As she watched she realised something. Arancar had not called the magic to him a moment before the block. The magic had been flowing through him this whole time. Her limited knowledge had already taught her that an enchanted item is simple to make; a mage simply ties it to the realm of magic, so that the power constantly flows through it. If it’s power was to be exhausted at any given time it wouldn’t matter, as the owner would simply wait until a new wind arrived which would revitalise the item. It occurred to Nienna that the fighting style of the Senthoi was rather similar to this. They forfeited armour and in exchange were able to call upon a boon that only magic could provide, a boon they had wrought into themselves, rather than an object. Her brother had seemed to grasp the concepts of imbuing your muscles in magic for strength and speed, but his spells were cast just before he made a move. Arancar’s prowess seemed to be more constant and flowing, as if magic was already a part of him. This meant that he gained seconds whilst Durieural concentrated on the spells. Suddenly Nienna became aware just how one sided this fight really was.
Durieural however didn’t seem to notice any of this. He was too wrapped up in his grief and his belief of his new found abilities. He had recomposed himself after the shock over the damage to his staff. Nienna guessed her brother had dismissed it as a quickly wrought spell, for she was certain he would not have challenged Arancar if he knew the true power of the crimson robed warrior and of the Senthoi. Arancar then straightened himself and began to walk in a straight line towards his challenger.
“I was not unlike you once Durieural, young and smitten by my own power. You have lost your father, and it pains you as the loss of mine pains me. Do not be overcome with grief. Train hard and become powerful. The money of your father is still there, for you simply train here, and train hard. Today however you are a hundred years too young to fight me.” Durieural had heard enough. With all his might, speed, and magic, he swung down with such force that Nienna felt as though lightning had fallen from the sky.
His spear however split neither flesh nor cloth. Nienna was shocked when she couldn’t find Arancar. As the spear had passed though him he had vanished. Durieural’s face told her he had no inkling as to where Arancar had gone either. Then his face turned to horror as he and Nienna noticed a scabbard resting on Durieural’s shoulder. Arancar stood behind the shocked spearman and said one simple command, “Yield!” Durieural crumpled to the ground the weight of his defeat and his emotions welled up inside of him. Finally he mourned the loss of his father. Nienna waited for a moment then run out to
144 comfort her brother.
Suddenly, a Senthoi from the crowd stepped forward and Nienna noticed that his robes bore gold embroidery marking him out as head of the order. “Durieural Elansar, you have acted in a manner unbecoming of a Senthoi! You provoked and challenged a lord of Sarthailor! One who was grieving no less!” Nienna flinched under the lord’s stare.
However it was Arancar who spoke, “It is my will that this man is not punished. His actions were not made in a sensible mind. He was lost and confused in grief. Let him rest now and teach him well. One day I shall fight him again.” Nienna thought the Senthoi Abbot would resist, but he merely bowed, his anger calmed by Arancar’s words.
Arancar then looked down and spoke to Durieural. “You are strong of heart and honour, you have brought no shame to anyone today. Train hard and well you have much to learn… as do I. We shall meet again soon,” he said with a warm smile he then turned and mounted his horse. Nienna gave her brother one last warm hug and also mounting, soon she, Arancar, and Eriath were riding back to Avalear. As they rode out of the walls of Andalear, Arancar then turned to Eriath “You were about to kill Durieural when he challenged me. Please do not kill in my presence without my permission again”
Eriath mainly nodded his face displayed no emotion to the statement whatsoever and it left Nienna wondering what sort of strength the White Lions held. Nienna soon put this out her mind however, Arancar would soon rule over Avalear and she would return to being apprentice of the House of Tahl, though with a new Master. There were many long days ahead of them all.
Almon watched as Arancar and his party rode away towards the high towers of Avalear. The Lord of the Senthoi stood at his side. “So that’s Arancar Tahl? Interesting, powerful yet young. If he was but a few years older, succeeding his father would happen without question. I imagine when the council convenes after the mourning is over they will have lengthy debates before we choose a new leader. “What news did he bring?”
Almon took a deep breath before he spoke, for his news was grim, and he felt it's darkness seep into his heart. “A powerful wizard resides in the East. He commands a great empire, not as great as ours, but powerful and warlike. It’s feared that it is this wizard who destroyed the 13th Legion of Sarthailor, and that he is aided by the chaos Gods. The investigations indicates that his art is not unlike that practiced by our dark brothers. Time will tell the truth of it I suppose…. The human lords of the eastern cities are calling for aid. They fear the loss of an Imperial Legion. They desperately apply to the council for aid. ‘What if the evil lord comes here next? My own army won't be enough to stop him!’ Others blame us for not teaching them magic. They believe if they too had magic, then they could combat this lord. As if any human could beat that monster!…
Still their petitions fall on deaf ears. The council can't condone anything without it's leader's blessing, and they haven’t voted yet. Until then, the human lords will be kept in check. They still revere us and the council… for now at any rate.” Almon gazed at the Lord of the Senthoi whose eyes were now fixed on the western sky, obviously lost in thought. Casting one final gaze into the horizon, Almon stepped down and walked back into the depths of the monastery.
145 A King’s Duty By Tsanqar Hour of the Wolf
The axe fell through a glittering arc. The blade severed the neck in a single stroke, drinking deep of elven blood. As he watched, Bron Baraz, commander of Ekrund Grim, felt a sense of completion so profound, that he was aware of the physical change in him taking place. The Great Grudge was satisfied. The Treachery was paid, and to any proper dwarf, this wrought a transformation through his entire being, as the passion of grudge-settling abated. The severed head rolled across the field, before coming to a rest at his feet, staring up at Thane Baraz.
The look in it’s eyes was very peaceful, and yet confident and resolute as well. His face showed the wisdom and authority gained through years of command, and yet at the same time, the pain from centuries of war and loss. Bron Baraz had seen this look before, though in separate faces. In the face of Gotrek Starbreaker back in Karaz-a-Karak, he had seen the confidence and unyielding determination. On the fields of Tor Rathiel, in the face of his beloved King Bloodbeard, recently slain, he had seen the pain and loss. At the siege of Tor Alessi, everything about Grombrindal, not only his face but also his entire being, spoke volumes of wisdom and leadership. And even now, with his axe still wet with blood, recently crowned the High King of all Karaz Angkor, Morgrimm Elgidum Ironbeard also had the look of peace within him. Slaying this elf was not pleasure, revenge, nor even a saddening chore. It was justice, pure and simple, and uncomplicated. But more than that, it sealed in blood an oath between the Dawi and the remaining Elgi and their human charges. This Oath brought an end of the war, and a return to peace and industry.
No, the death of this elf king, Sethalis, was no celebrated event, but merely the final step in the long march of death the Children of Grungni had walked these last few centuries. Yet, with the Grudge paid and vengeance satisfied, as the sheer solemnity of the mood settled, it filled Bron with a new perception of the Elgi he had fought for so long. Even in death, separated from his shoulders, Sethalis’ head carried an aura of nobility and honor. All these attributes he had noticed and loved in his leaders, Bron now found them collected in the severed head of this old elf. Could it be that, swept up in the bitter hatred and bloodlust they had felt against this meddlesome race, the Dwarves had been blinded to the possibility that the Elgi, despite their failings, could once again be worthy of respect? Obviously they were capable of terrible insults, atrocities, and destruction. The corpses of Starbreaker and Half-hand were evident of that, as was the destruction of Karaz-a-Karak. Perhaps, though, Elgi were also capable of great deeds that would contrast their proven potential for vileness. The thought confused Bron as he gazed in those peaceful, confident eyes. He did not know what to do, but vowed to himself that he would teach his sons to watch and learn, from a distance of course, and with axes close to hand. These Elves were a strange lot, but if even a few more elves were capable of the nobility he saw in these eyes, such would be deserving of respect.
But more disturbing to Bron than the crack in his righteous hatred, was the thought of how to safely withdraw his Dawi brothers peacefully from the current hostilities. While the dwarven armies would simply turn back to their mountain holds, would the oathbreaking Elgi simply let them walk away, especially now that that thier beloved Sethalis was dead?
146
“What say you Bron Baraz, the great negotiator?”
Bron had been caught up in his thoughts for many long minutes. Apparently, judging by the looks on faces around him, there was a heated debate going on. And now his King was waiting with baited breath for his counsel. “Forgive me, my King, for I am not sure what your question is. I have been wrestling with my thoughts over portents of the future I see in this Elgi’s death.”
“Ha-ha! Well done, Thane Baraz,” exclaimed Morgrimm. “Even without hearing the noise of this assembly you ponder the very problem at hand. Yours is a mind as sharp as this axe. No wonder Bloodbeard trusted your counsel so. Open your thoughts to us and perhaps your unpolluted opinion will drag us from this mire of passionate words.”
“Certainly, m’Lord. I was thinking of how to disengage with the remaining Elves and their Human and woodland allies.” He decided it better to keep his confusion about elven honor to himself. “This elf, while old and past his time, was well loved by the Elgi we fight. It is difficult to know how they will respond to his death, seeing as he is alone. I sense a strong bearing of authority from him, but with no other elves to witness his agreement . . . “
“Precisely!” interjected the scarred Dragon Slayer Dritt’zum’Gor, whose temperament was as fiery as his great orange mohawk. “Even in his attempt to regain his honour and pay his debt by submitting to our justice, this no brain elf leaves his bargain unwitnessed. Even in death the Elgi are treacherous. Only standing over their graves, can we have peace; I don’t care if they wear black, white or green. The whole lot are nothing but a bunch of. . ,” he never got to finish his curse.
“ENOUGH! You have already spoken your heart, great slayer. Honorable and justified is your wrath and your oath. In that vow, your life ended, but this is still my court!” rebuked the King. “I know your mind, but now I ask for his counsel. Bron has kept silent this long while and I WILL hear his words.”
“Of course High King,” came the restrained but sincere reply.
“As Slayer Gor confirmed, the death of this elf, bears a shadow of treachery.” Bron continued almost as if there had been no interruption. He was used to this. “It might be unintentional, however. Some may say that the fool might have thought to come alone, as to show no threatening presence. But I do not think he was a fool, and I also do not think he bore a treacherous heart.” The murmurings around the fire at this were distinct, but subdued. “I think he knew very well the betrayal wrought by his kin, and fully expected to settle that debt himself. Normally, if we were to depart today to defend our homes from the strange tunneling creatures, and the hated Greenskins, and leave his corpse here at the edge of this burning forest, surely the Elves would be stupid and assume his death was murder and not justice. Thus incensed, they would charge after us, and the peace his death bought would be ruined before his body grew cold. However, I am thinking this will not be the case. If no one else heard it, I know I heard him say that he left instructions for his presumed successor.
“Thus if he indeed knowingly approached you, my King, with the determination that this would be his final act, then he would have likely told his heir this, and detailed the treaty he was planning to propose. It is possible that the heir was even told to expect his master’s death. Perhaps it is a hope of peace and prosperity for my sons, but I am inclined to believe that the remaining Elgi were in fact prepared for this occurrence.”
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“But regardless of what we decide to do, it must be done fast. As we all know, while we sit here and debate the existence of peace, the Greenskins draw ever closer to our mountain homes. My cousin, Fumirg, has already been defending the goblinoid’s incursions himself, back east. Not only the Greenskins but Trolls, Giants, and Ogres too. This war cannot end a moment too soon. To be done and able to leave this forest behind us is a timely blessing, but I fear to leave this battlefield without assurance that this peace is genuine.
“Further, I wonder if it will last. Even if my King orders the might of Karaz Angkor to return to our holds, the Slayers among us will no doubt still pursue their personal grudges. They would continue to raid and attack Elgi and their Humans despite the order of the High King, as they are already dead, and have no clan to obey.”
It seemed his words managed to stifle even the air around the fire. All were silent and deeply considering this revealing counsel. It was the Morgrimm that spoke first, “How, pray tell, can we know if this dead elf’s promises still live?”
“Well,” answered Bron, “it could only be discovered by trying to talk to this supposed heir. We must see what he believes his duty is, without disclosing the details of the treaty his predecessor begged. A wise dwarf must go and pry his mind without handing him the answers. If possible, this emissary must also determine if any of these promises are already in motion, to see if the Elgi truly do want peace. If this elf lied then it shall be quickly known, by the errors in the heir’s answers, or the contradictory actions of his people. If, by some blessing, the treaty is proved true, then it will be clear by words and deeds of the people he died to protect.”
"Well said, Thane Baraz," spoke the King. "Moreover, I believe you to be the perfect dwarf for this task. Time and again you have proven your patience and wisdom, and your many dealings with the Elgi may have earned their trust. I charge you to go and prove the truth of all things. Your heart is not bent on war as others' are, but neither does it blindly hope for peace. For these reasons, Thane Baraz, I would name you my ambassador to the Elgi. You know as well as any it that we cannot afford to continue in this war. The greenskins attempt to ravage our homes, and we have much to rebuild. But though our grudge is fulfilled, we cannot forget the elven treachery. Do you accept this position from your High King, Thane Bron Baraz of Kazad Ankoren ?”
“With humble heart I am yours to command o King,” came the solemn answer.
“Then I command you to go to them, and discover if this peace truly exists,” charged Morgrimm. “Learn whether this mix of elven and human people can be expected to keep their promise and become my voice amongst the Elgi. The Grudge is now paid and owing to their treachery, I shall speak no word to any elf so long as I draw breath. By the Holy names of Grimnir, Grungni and Valaya , whose blood flows through my veins, I swear this, with you all as my witnesses. Let each dwarf make up his own mind whether to speak with Elgi or not, but the oath of a King is as hard as stone, and I refuse to address them. If peace can be had here, I will leave at mid-day to defend the halls of our sacred Ancestors, and restore them from any damage wrought therein by this war."
The air hung still. A Dwarven Oath required reverence, and a Kingly Oath, even more so. After a few moments had passed to mark his oath, Morgrimm turned to address the Slayer Drittz'um’Gor, “What of the Slayer cult? What can you tell me of your brothers? Will they recklessly continue this fight here, only
148 to be struck down by Elgi arrows, or would they accompany me to a greater death fighting the Trolls and Giants that aid the goblins?”
For the first time in years, Drittz was slow to respond. “It is a hard question, and I don’t think there will be any one answer. Myself, I was shamed by the destruction of Everpeak. I vowed to see the Druchii capital equally razed, and ever protect the King from his enemies. We have razed the Druchii city, and thus my oath remains to die dispatching whatever foe you face. Though I hate the remaining white Elgi very much, my oath is to remain with you.
“For others, they may have no such oath to restrain them. Or perhaps they have a vow to die with their hands around their enemy’s neck. Thus the death of arrows would haunt them. Others may have sworn to never rest until every Elgi is dead. It will be different for each Slayer. I think many will be persuaded to delay their death a little, so that they may die in front of the gates of the Karaks they love. But still there will be many of my brethren remaining that will refuse to see Elgi, and the humans they mingle with, as anything other than a hated and dangerous enemy. These will undoubtedly continue their personal war.”
“Thank you for that insight into your brotherhood,” reflected Morgrimm. “So the puzzle remains. How to shift our might from here in the Grey Mountains, to defend our homes in the World’s Edge, if the fighting will continue here.”
“I think I know a way to untie this knot,” offered a voice from the side of the Throne. It was Thane Hazkal Elgidreng, a hardened commander from the Western Throng, and former Grudgekeeper to the great Gotrek Stormbreaker. Ever a lover of tomes, he had one open in his hand. “From reports of our Rangers that are monitoring the Elgi occupation of the Vaults, it is fairly clear that a small band of elves, like our Slayers, is operating independent of the Elgi command. We know this to be true, for we have seen this warband attacking Dwarves and Beastmen, but also Elgi and Humans as well. They are led by a savage daemon of the forest, armed with a spear of terrible power. When he blows his great horn, the beasts of the wood rise up in anger, and any in his path are set upon by these fey creatures, never to be seen again. This wild band will even attack others of the green elves, if one of our rangers’ report is to be believed.
“So no matter what, we are to be continuously harassed by this daemon and his band of rebels?” asked the High King.
“No my lord,” answered Hazkal. “They appear mostly to remain in the forest.”
“I think I understand his suggestion,” mused Bron. “If the Elves and humans are beset by some of their own kind, then they would presumably understand the nature of fiercely independent warriors like the Slayers. I think this is a way for us to warn the Elgi that the Oathbound may continue to pursue their own personal grudges, and explain it to them in form that they will understand. Once it becomes clear that we both have problems with small forces that do whatever they will, it should not present a real barrier to our peace treaty. With that out of the way, all that remains to be seen is whether the Elgi will keep to their oath. If they do, and truly desire peace, then we are free to leave the West at last, knowing that our truce is secure. Then, and only then, will we be free to defend our homes from the green menace.
“Ah, very good.” King Ironbeard seemed noticeably relieved at this enlightenment. “Go then Bron, and
149 do all as you have wisely said. Meet this Elgi prince and see what he knows as his duty. Take my horn, so he knows that you speak for me, and with all of my authority. Sound it three times as you leave his gate if the peace is true, and I will start my journey as fast as possible. If they will honour their oath, then my command for you will be to lead the efforts to recolonize the Vaults. See that the holds are repaired and the road rebuilt. Any clan that wishes to return there is under your care. Settle your family in Mt Silverspear, as a just reward for your service, and be ready to govern the Vaults. Also you will be well placed, should you ever need to parley with the Elgi again.
“Mark my words well, Thane of the Vaults. If this be a ruse, or this promise is empty, give the new king my vow. He will never rest easy on his throne. I will return after securing our homes, and bring such dire vengeance as he has never seen. I care not for the land he inhabits and will see it ravaged before his very eyes.” Morgrimm’s voice intensified and took on a harsh and hate filled tone. “I will burn his fields of grain as they ripen in the late summer. The rivers I will dam and starve the land of water. His walls will crumble as I tunnel out their foundations. If I have to, I will hamper and harass the Orcs all the way across Karaz Ankor to loose them on his starved, and defenseless cites! If it takes me another 200 years I will see that every last elf, and any who associate with them are eradicated from this land, so that never again will a Dwarf’s ears suffer to hear a vile and empty Elgi promise!”
The small throng around the council fire bowed their heads, as they once again acknowledged a proper and fitting oath. Morgrimm calmed slightly and continued his proclamations. “Remember my warning, but I hope the prince will never hear it. May the Ancestors bless your meeting, that we may be done with this butchery here. If we hear my horn tomorrow morning, then you may tell the prince that we bear his king’s body back to him, that they may give it whatever honors as is their custom.
“Gorak Hazkal, come forth and hear the words of your king.” A middle aged dwarf strode forward, and knelt. “You love these mountains. They are your home, are they not?” Gorak raised his head from bowing and simply nodded. “Then continue to defend them. In recognition of your brilliant and efficient rearguard defense here, I name you my eyes and ears here in the Grey mountains. See to their reconstruction, and fortify it well against the Elvish peoples. Ensure that they keep to their own and meddle not with the humans under the great forest.”
“If Bron sounds my horn tomorrow, you shall be the one to lead the procession that returns this body to his people. I want them to see and know my two Thanes that are keeping watch on them.
“And now, where is Lord Byron Greygit” He did not step forward at the summons. The small crowd parted to reveal a very somber looking dwarf with a black swath tied to his great hammer. The mighty Lord Greygit had been the commander for the bodyguard of Longbeards for the late king Bloodbeard. As such he still bore the trappings of mourning.
“I know you still mourn,” consoled Ironbeard. “But he was challenged by a poison wielding Druchii, and you could not save his life and his honor at the same time. The loss of Bloodbeard is one we all felt. I intend to create a memorial for the Honorable Durgan Bloodbeard. He may not be rightly written as High King, but I will entomb him as one. With a fitting memorial made of Brynduraz.”
The crowed gasped at this. Nothing was quite so rare as Brightstone. Morgrimm was planning a high honor indeed, and an expensive one to boot.
Byron nodded in the approval of a dwarf who understood how much king Bloodbeard's loss had hurt
150 thier people, and who truely knew first hand the honour he held “But Brynduraz, my lord" Byron spoke out. “The many damages on our holds will require much of the coffer you have, can we afford this honour, deserving though it may be?”
“Whether we can or can not, I call on you to meet that need. You will continue to serve your king by securing the means with which we shall erect his memorial.” Morgrimm seemed to enjoy himself in this little surprise he was unveiling. “For several years now, just south of Thargrin's road in the Vaults, a new colony of independent humans have been constructing a city they call Tylos. I wish you to go there and under the protection of Thane Baraz, aid these humans in the construction of their city. They have been most anxious to acquire Dwarven masons to assist in constructing a tall Temple to one of their gods. But as the Elgi have been occupying the area, and all able dwarves have been about cleaving elf necks, I have been unable to send the aid they request, despite the enormous quantities of gold they tempt me with. I now send you to oversee our masons I will send there, and secure the gold they promise, so that we may prepare a proper resting place for your fallen liege.”
“Thank you, great King.” Greygit spoke, firm and determined now. “This is truly a fitting honor you charge me with. Your will be done,” he said, bowing.*
“Hazkal Elgidreng.” Morgrimm stepped forward to the scribbling figure seated with several tomes in his lap. “Even now, without being asked, you feel compelled to keep record of your Lords, don’t you?”
“I learned the value of records from my father, King Dain Dragonaxe ” was the gruff reply. Those who didn’t know him would think the Elgidreng’s tone disrespectful, but he had been blunt at best before the war, and his father’s death had hit him hard. “With Stormbreaker’s many orders, and me being his Grudgekeeper, I took notes on our movements every day, and old habits die hard. Besides, knowledge is power, and a sharp mind cuts deeper than any axe.”
“Very true,” conceded King Morgrimm. “And it would be folly to ask you to live in a way that is not natural to you. Thus I have a request of you, though I dare not command it. Owing to your honored father, I feel I can’t order you to this post. Thus I, High King Morgrimm Ironbeard of Karaz Angkor, make a request of you, Prince Hazkal Elgidreng of Karak Karin. I would have you renounce your claim to your father’s throne, and consent to be my personal Grudgekeeper, and Standard Bearer. As you have already been noting, I have much to do, and many different needs to fulfill for my people at the same time. I have need of a gifted and experienced dwarf such as yourself. But your birth binds you to another duty, and I feel it would be wrong of me to command that you lay aside your birthright to your father’s throne. But as brothers and cousins, I ask you to remain with me and aid me in my efforts to set aright the Kingdom of Karaz Angkor, and restore the glory wrought by our sacred Ancestors. What say you?”
The sound of the crackling fire was all that could be heard for a span of breaths. This was no mere appointment, nor title being handed out. Morgrimm was selecting the one who would bear the Sacred Icon of the Ancestors, his family Standard. In addition, if Hazkal accepted, as Grudgekeeper he would accompany the King at all times and see that all affairs of the Dawi were properly attended to, and every oath was fulfilled. Yet it was a hard decision to surrender the throne one was born to inherit. His younger brother had kept the hold safe and ruled well while Elgidreng fulfilled his oath of service in this war, but it was Hazkal’s throne, and since his father had fallen, it awaited his return for him to be crowned. Many of the dwarves in the circle lost their fingers in their beards as they pondered the dilemma of Prince Elgidreng.
151
Hazkal paused a moment and then silently continued writing. While most assumed that he was merely ensuring that the High King’s offer was accurately recorded, Hazkal surprised them all again, by simply turning the book for his King to read “Thus did Hazkal Elgidreng forsake his throne and bound his life in service to his High King”
For hours more, did Morgrimm reward his faithful and valiant servants, and organize them to administer the urgent affairs of his kingdom. Some were charged to oversee reconstruction, others were to bolster the defenses of unmolested holds in peril. Through the span and breadth of Karaz Ankor, Morgrimm, with the aid of Hazkal, saw that every need was fulfilled.
As the counsel broke, and King Ironbeard retired to his tent, to find a lone visitor waiting for him. The figure’s long snowy white beard was bound by golden clasps, and a rich purple cloak was draped across his broad shoulders. His clear blue eyes shone like chips of ice in the light of the torches, as he gave King Morgrimm one last bit of wise and ancient advice.
152 The Price of Failure By Voodoomaster Hour of the Wolf
Each general stood there, cowering in fear before the grand entrance to the throne room of Anlec. Inside the horrific rending cries of pain filled the cool night air as their master ranted and raged. Normally the Druchii generals would have not been so fearful of their coming judgement had they been summoned to the palace. But this time they had not been summoned. The Black Guard that stood around them watching them had brought each of them here at blade point from wherever they came from, from Saphery in the east to Caledor in the west. They were all that was left of the collection of generals that had been assembled by the three high lords that had been appointed by their master so long ago. The two high commanders who had led them were dead, Irulthan the first high commander had fallen to the hands of Nordri, the herald of the Dwarven King, and his dismembered body had been returned to his home. The second High Commander had only recently been laid to rest; Khalir Vraneth’s body had been born back to his ancient home in Saphery. His body burned to ash so that the suite of armour he had been encased in could be salvaged, the ashes of his body placed inside a sarcophagus at the head of the family’s ancient tomb, the father of a new line. The High Commanders were at peace, their lieutenants however were not.
Amroth Númenessë and Lord Tarbo had been forced aside early on, the Black Guard surrounding them. The weapons of both lords had been removed from them, their helms discarded from their heads, only their armour remained, battered and bent as they were and the scars on their faces showed the evidence of nigh on seven hundred years of war. In Amroth’s view, they were lucky to still be alive. He pawed away the long strip of grey hair that fell into his eyes. Looking across at his companion Amroth could see fear in his elder friend’s eyes. The long grey hair that covered Tarbo’s head was now beginning to turn silver as he passed his prime. Both however were young compared to some generals, the now deceased Furion had been the eldest elf alive, then came Morathi the queen mother. Beneath her however, came the former high commander. Khalir had fought in the first war nigh on three thousand years ago and had at the time been only a young archer of some three score years fighting in the final days of Aenarion, and the isle of the dead. Amroth shuddered at the thought of the isle. The Isle that held the very spirit and structure of his homeland together, Khalir had been some three thousand years old when he was finally given peace. Both he and Furion had fought in three great wars, the only Elves ever recorded to have done so bar one. Too many had fallen in the Sundering, even more had died in the War of the Beard. Now only two ancient Elves remained, the Queen Mother Morathi and the Witch King himself. Their master was the last elf to have fought in all three great wars, even if all he had done was the same as what Khalir had done and fought as an Archer Captain from the walls of Anlec. Amroth felt old, impossibly old, even though he was only one thousand seven hundred and sixteen years old, Tarbo was some three hundred older than he.
“It’s quiet”
Amroth was awoken from his thoughts as Tarbo spoke. It was true, the screams and cries that had filled the air of the audience chamber minutes ago were gone.
“I wonder if it is for good or ill?”
153
Tarbo’s reply was grim, the elder elf’s face showed worry and despair.
“Considering the theatrical retreat from Elthin Arvan, it bodes ill.”
Amroth nodded as the hall doors creaked open, and the eyes of every general snapped to the door with looks of horror upon their faces. The figure, who emerged however, was not the black guard captain that they had all expected. This figure they all knew by name. His greying and singed black hair together with the numerous burns on his face gave away who it was, but it was the eyes that caused all amongst the generals to step backwards in horror. Instead of the orbs of a normal eye, they were blackened globes of dark jet, each seeming to move with a mind of its own. Fearful, Amroth and Tarbo gazed at each other with abject horror before murmuring the name of this elf.
“Hotek?”
The priest just looked at where Amorth and Tarbo should be standing with a disgusted look upon his burnt marked face. All he could see was the winds of Dhar flowing about them, but their greyish white corporeal forms were evident around the flowing winds. He observed the cowardice that emanated from their souls for a minute. These two were all that were left of the high command who had failed to crush the remnants of Caledor’s forces, as they lay cowering beside the woods of Athel Loren when his master’s forces had struck. It was they who failed to crush the weakened Dawi forces as they emerged from their mountain realms. They who had failed their master, their people and their gods. The others too had failed them, but they were merely pawns. These two would bare the brunt of their masters wrath.
“Bring them in. All of them. The King will deal with them now.”
Many of the generals present uttered silent prayers as the black guard herded them into the throne room of Anlec. The points of halberds digging into backs and sides as they staggered into the throne room, their sharp elven eyes adjusting to the harsh light that filled the hall. Their eyes then fixing upon the figure sat upon the throne, their master.
Malekith sat in dour splendour upon his throne of silver and iron. The hall was all but empty bar his throne and the dais that it sat upon. The only decorations were the long purple banners that adorned the room, hanging from the ceilings between the tall windows. The black phoenix upon it with the red mark of Khaine upon its breast was throne into harsh light from the windows that they sat between. Below them stood the black guard that always remained in the hall at all times, all looking towards the dais where the Phoenix king sat. To his followers he was the Phoenix King Malekith of Ulthuan. To his enemies he was christened as the barbaric Witch King of Ulthuan.
Malekith’s gaze now fell upon the generals that now knelt before him. These were of the high command that was left living. The rest having fallen during the last years of the war. But here were assembled all that were left who had commanded the war for Elthin Arvan, they who had commanded the vast legions. The legions that had been christened with such grandiose names, such as the Fist of Malekith, the Legion of the Black Phoenix and the highly successful Rogues of the North. Malekith eased himself of his throne, suppressing a sigh of pain he walked forward slightly. His wounds were healing, his helm now repaired, the circlet of iron now replicated by a series of metallic horns that had been crafted to his head by the skilled artificer Hotek. He walked slowly down the steps of the dais, his gaze falling upon the two
154 figures that were slightly ahead of the rest, closing his eyes Malekith felt their fear, everyone of them radiated it. Finally he stood towering above Amroth Númenessë and Lord Tarbo. The last two living high commanders of Elthin Arvan.
“Failure, this hall is rank with it.”
His voice was calm but held a subtle hint of violence, but this was enough to cause the kneeling Elves to edge back slightly and their hearts to skip a beat. It was a voice that would make any mortal or immortal for that matter, freeze with terror. Malekith ignored the two cowering high commanders for a moment as he walked past them to where the other dozen generals knelt.
“Tell me, my generals. How could you? To cause the best of all the Druchii of Ulthuan be defeated by a pack of disorganised traitors and a series of stunted beings that came from rocks?”
The silence that filled the room was deafening, each of the assembled generals could not bring themselves to speak, yet as the moments passed one did. Either through fear or cowardice, the others could not tell. Their master however, could. Lord Karkhadath’s voice sounded strong, but in truth he was trying to hide his fear.
“My Lord, we only followed the orders of your high commanders.”
Malekith circled and stood before the kneeling Karkhadath, his eyes gleaming. He watched as Karkhadath’s eyes rose a fraction. Malekith however regarded his talon like left hand for a moment before speaking up, his voice now carrying an even greater hint of violence.
“Is that why you, Lord Karkhadath, attacked Elithenspear rather than fall back to defend my capital?”
“My lord… I only wanted to destroy the rebels who opposed your glorious rule.”
The talon flashed downwards and the cruel claw dug deep into Karkhadath’s shoulder blade. There was a crunch of metal upon metal as it punched through his back, blood staining the talon. Malekith lifted the now pale and screaming Karkhadath up slightly and spoke quietly to the prone lord.
“Or perhaps Lord Karkhadath, you wanted to save your own skin, disobeying Vraneth and hoping to discredit him? It’s a pity that the others in this hall rallied around him.”
Malekith pushed Karkhadath back, making the broken Elf fall on the floor. His life blood pumped through the holes that had been torn in his armour whilst Malekith swept around, ignoring the fallen lord and instead placed his blood covered hands upon the shoulders of Amroth Númenessë and Lord Tarbo.
“Well Lords Númenessë and Tarbo? What’s your excuse for this failure?”
Both former high commanders refused to turn around. He could feel their minds working frantically as their tried to save their skins and, Malekith reflected with a smirk, their souls.
“My Lord, our troops did not have enough time to recover from each battle. Many were too exhausted to fight as they should have.”
155
Malekith was silent as Amroth spoke up after Lord Tarbo had stuttered out his pathetic piece.
“Also my lord, there was the question of our landing isles. They were too far wide spread for us to successfully defend your vast empire successfully.”
Malekith paused as he listened to what both Amroth and Tarbo had said. What he had expected them to say. They were blaming everyone but themselves, and unfortunately for them, that everyone included himself. A pity, Malekith thought as he slowly paced around until he faced them head on. They had been such loyal subjects, his hand and talon still upon their shoulders as a smile crept across his lips that would have made the generals’ hearts stop had they not been looking at the floor.
“So in effect, you are blaming everyone but yourself? You do realise that includes me!”
As Malekith thundered the final two words he began to manipulate the winds of Dhar even as both Amroth and Tarbo stuttered their explanations. Knowing that if they failed that they were as good as dead.
“No my lord we did not mean that!”
“No! We meant that…”
“Silence!” Malekith roared cutting Tarbo off mid sentence.
“You have failed me for the last time.”
Placing his hand and claw upon both of their terrified faces as they looked up for the first time at him, Smiling Malekith tightened his grip. His voice a whisper as both Amroth and Tarbo froze with utter horror.
“Your souls belong to me. The king of all Elves, and to the god of all true Elves, Khaela Mensha Khaine.”
Malekith began pulling at their faces, his cruel smile beneath his helm showing he was enjoying this. He reflected as he pulled that those with the second sight would be able to see what he was doing. Looking up he saw several of the assembled watch with cold horror to what he was doing. From their faces Malekith pulled away his hand and talon, still cupped as the grey shadow forms of Amroth and Tarbo’s souls were pulled from their bodies. The forms wriggled like fish and their ghostly mouths open as they screamed into the æther. Tightening his grip around the Malekith yanked back suddenly and both souls were pulled free of their bodies and held in his hand and talon. The bodies of Amroth Númenessë and Lord Tarbo fell motionless to the floor, their souls severed and in the hands on their master. Malekith shrugged, then let go of the two souls and watched as their black forms screamed as they flew upwards towards one of the currents that he knew was stationed above the city of Anlec. A raw flowing current of pure magic which led right to the centre of Ulthuan, the vortex on the isle of the dead. Turning his back upon the now vanished souls Malekith once again faced the rows of horrified generals that had just witnessed their former high commanders silent execution. Closing his eyes and drawing a deep breath as the relinquished control over the winds of Dhar, he also prepared himself as he spoke, his voice cold, volatile and threatening, the banners that hung upon the walls now rippling with the winds of magic.
156 “You all failed me in the last war, yet I am not without mercy. I still have a use for you but whether you succeed or not is up to you. The weak must perish so the strong survive. You must prove to me now that you are not weak, you survived the Battles in Elthin Arvan, now you must claim back equal territory to what you cost me. Go forth across the globe and conquer the barbaric lands in my name, make them equal to the ones that you lost. In time I may call you back to my kingdom but until that time comes leave. And should you fail then I shall personally rip your souls from your bodies like I did these two!”
Malekith motioned with his talon towards the fallen bodies of Amroth Númenessë and Lord Tarbo, their eyes blank and their skins pure white.
“Now get out of my sight.”
Malekith turned and ascended the steps of the dais once more as the sound of the fleeing Generals filled the room. Metal upon metal as they tried to all leave through the great doors at once. By the time Malekith turned and once again sat upon his throne the hall was empty save for the Black Guards who never left, and the corpses of Amroth Númenessë and Lord Tarbo. Malekith looked at them for a moment his mind working. Yes, he had failed to conquer Elthin Arvan… But what was the loss? The traitors were so few in number now that they would be all but extinct in three generations, the Dawi Empire could not come over the seas. The rest of the world however was in his grasp, only the forces of the Four Powers could stand against him, and they were still weak from his betrayal of them. Malekith smiled to himself, why struggle over Elthin Arvan when he had the whole world at his feet? He would be patient. But one day, he would crush the remnants of the Asur once and for all.
157 The Dying Light By Voodoomaster Hour of the Wolf
The storm whipped furiously around the twin prows of the massive ship as it ploughed thought the white tipped waves. It seemed indifferent to the massive storm that was raging around it. The smaller ships that escorted it were being buffeted around, their crews struggling to keep them on course. The larger ship had no problem though as it ploughed onwards through the tempest. Towards the storm wracked coast that lay ahead, lying with a purplish tint as the small fleet moved towards it. Standing upon the prow the figure stood there, his light leather jerkin dyed a pale green, a brown hood covering his head to shelter him from the storm. Beneath it he wore a pair of twin swords sheathed at his side. The figure stood tall and strong against the raging storm. Looking to port his sharp eyes looked upon the vessels that struggled against the storm. There lay half of his fleet and to starboard, the other half. But the figure ignored his struggling fleet; he only had eyes for the land that lay ahead. Removing the hood of his cloak he allowed his greying hair to flow free and be whipped about by the storm. Closing his eyes he let out a sigh, he had done it he was home.
“Ulthuan.”
Turning away the figure walked back towards the great cabin at the aft of the ship, where the commanders of his small host were waiting. Ready to lead into battle, the few elves and half-elves that had agreed to join on his attempt to go home. Pausing at the entrance to the cabin he looked again at the coast ahead of him, as the door opened from within and a Herathoi warrior opening the cabin door from within, as he called out into the tempest at his lord.
“My lord Ashnari, they are waiting for you!”
Glancing back from coast ahead Ashnari Doomsong nodded, walking through the cabin door as the guard stepped aside he glanced back at the coast once more, he was coming home.
High upon the cliffs of the distant coast, five forms stood watching the small ragtag fleet. It was weaker than the smallest convoy that left this land over a millennia ago. Yet they were returning, the middle form looked at his companions, concern etched upon their features. But they nodded none the less at his glance. Turning away the forms vanished into the haze created by the storm. No one even knowing they were there.
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Ashnari laughed manically as he plunged his blade into the chest of another elf, armour being forced inwards with the blade as the elf dropped his spear. All around him his dancers were slaughtering the elves that had foolishly decided to try and defend the small caravan; it was slaughter, not a battle. Swinging his other blade around in a wide arc he took off another elf’s head as they tried to sneak up to attack his blind side. Pausing for a moment Ashnari reflected on the past two weeks, they had landed
158 successful upon the great isle to the east of Tor Yvresse. They had defeated two counter attacking forces that had been dispatched from the trading city Athel Tathren, the capital of the isle. Now as his forces closed in upon the city, thousands of Druchii refugees were fleeing towards it. Away from his host and in particular his dancers, and his infamous scouts. Days after the second victory Ashnari and his dancers had left the main host and were now rampaging throughout the countryside, killing any elf of Malekith that they could find. The people of Malekith now quaked in fear whenever a bush moved or a twig snapped because any of these sounds could be a prelude to an attack by his forces. Dancing to his left he darted past a crude spear thrust from a wounded elf, slamming the hilt of his left sword into the elf’s face he quickly darted forward and slit his throat with the right sword. Dropping his spear and shield, the elf gagged away his last moments. Kicking the Elf in the head, Ashnari looked up at the rest of the slaughter, already his scouts were shooting down those that were fleeing the caravan, and his dancers were killing the survivors. Women, children, and slaves, all of them were being put to the sword. They were betrayers of the Asur, they didn’t deserve to live.
“Praise to Loec, Asuryan and Isha for this glorious victory.”
Taking a torch from one of his dancers, Ashnari stepped forward to one of the caravans thrusting the touch into it he watched with grim satisfaction as the cart went up in flames. He heard screaming from within as an elf burst aflame from the back of the cart, smirking he thrust his blade into the elf’s belly as it flew into him, flailing backwards the elf screamed once more before falling silent.
“Death to the followers of Malekith”
Turning his back upon the burning caravan, he walked back to his score of scouts and his dozen odd dancers. They all stood ready, their light green tunics matching his own jerkin, their blades all exactly the same just slightly smaller in some cases, and larger in others. The bows of the scouts were heavier than his own and packed a greater punch at close range. But now they were beginning to run out of supplies Ashnari knew that they would have to re-join the main host in the next few days. Sheathing his swords Ashnari walked forward towards his small raiding force. Each member of it watching his every move, they were unquestionably loyal to him and only him. They did not fear danger that their new role required of them, nor did they listen to the bickering of the war council.
“We return to the main host, maybe they have had the same success we have had. Soon the traitor’s kingdom will fall apart from within and there is nothing he can do to stop us!”
Ashnari laughed, the air quivering as it did so it was the laugh of someone who was not fully right in the head, one dancer mused to himself as he cheered his lord. Perhaps the stay in Malekith’s Dungeon had done more damage to him that was known.
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The city was in uproar, Sabazious stood upon the tall tower looking out across the plain from the tower of Athel Tathren. Assembled before him at the foot of the walls, thousands of Druchii warriors lay camped. So many that the city, already crammed full of refugees from outlying towns and villages could not host them. Sighing Sabazious removed his helm and rubbed his temples thoughtfully. He had been enjoying a peaceful retirement in Eataine before he had been recalled back to military service, not as a second in command this time. But as a replacement for Lord Aelitharion, who was now leading the king’s forces in the conquest of the southern continent. Sighing Sabazious took out a bundle of cloth
159 from the rampart where he had laid it when he had first mounted the tower. Carefully unravelling the cloth he pulled out and ancient and well worn standard, twin silver arrows crossed above a black horses head upon a purple background. Carefully Sabazious clipped the standard to the flag pole that lay in the centre of the guard tower. Gripping the small twine rope that now was attached to the flag pole he pulled, hand over hand as the banner rose up. Upon reaching the peak the wind caught the banner and it flashed, wide and proud with the wind. Instantly trumpets blared out, shields were battered and swords clashed as a mighty cry rose up from the assembled elves both before and behind the wall. Sabazious joined in with the cry despite himself not wanting it, but he couldn’t help it.
"Ride like the wind, reap like the storm!"
The Wind of Doom, the sackers of the Dwarven capital nigh on eight hundred years ago had been re- assembled, to crush the betrayers of king Malekith who had foolishly decided to invade his kingdom. Turning his back on the host laid out before the walls Sabazious walked back down the steps of the tower, towards the palace in the centre of the city, where the last remaining Knights of the wind were assembling.
As Sabazious entered the great hall of the palace of Athel Tathren, he was greeted with a pleasing sight. Standing around the table with the map upon it where ten commanders, all of whom he knew by name. Each of them talking idly amongst themselves, all of them in full battle armour and with their weapons strapped at their sides. Each of them a Knight of the Wind. Waving off their greeting with his hand Sabazious walked around the table before finally settling at its head, looking as the commanders began to take their places he went through the faces and the names in his head. Upon his left sat Lady Kirath Harkoneth, one of the few female elves that still held a commission in the armies of Malekith. May of them since having retired due to either child birth or through lack of battles, only one other female elf was known to still be active in the art of war and he shuddered at the thought of her name. Moving on next to Kirath sat Illidan Hellforge, a former traitor of Malekith whom had seen the light and in the latter years of the war. Now he was an active player in the politics of the court and a respected general in his own right. Beside Illidan sat Thrandule, the old Averlorn elf sat quietly amongst his fellows. Finally beyond him were Aglarond and Mortymarael, both of them sitting quietly and looking distinctly off as if they had been awoken at knife point, which perhaps they were.
On his right however were arranged another set of commanders, the black clad Scout of Nagarythe D´stry Darkshroud sat immediately beside him, his arms folded and his twin blades strapped across his back visible. Beside him sat leaning back on the chair, taking things easy almost was Lazarus, the years had not been as kind on him as they had the rest of them. Finally sitting together their heads close as they discussed the map before them were Fenrir Bloodfang; Alkair D’Sheth and old duke Ashgaar. A formidable collection of commanders, each and every one of them was capable of taking down this insurrection of traitors. Rising to his feet Sabazious held up his hand for silence, which slowly fell across the table.
“Commanders, let me be first to say: welcome back to the Wind of Doom.”
Hands clapped upon the table in a traditional military manner, holding up his hand again Sabazious signalled for silence.
“Commanders, I have called you here to discuss plans of the defence of this city. The Traitors attempted
160 invasion threatens it, and if we fail. Well there is no need to discuss with you the penalty of failure.”
All of the commanders cringed; the memory of the Captains of the Legions exile was still fresh in their minds. Several had fallen in the seven hundred years since the banishment, but several had expanded the western empire to a point where near the entire western most continuant was under the rule of Malekith. To the south, the Coasts of Lustria were also in their grasp. In short Malekith controlled near enough a half of the known western world, and the expansions in the east were going well too.
“In short, Commanders, we need to defend the city and crush the traitors at the same time. What I suggest is this, we split our forces. One providing the anchor and defending the city with our archers upon the wall tops and our spearelves below at the foot of the wall, the other will be the hammer. Our knights will remain out of the battle until a signal is given, then we charge. Hitting them in the flanks hard and fast wiping them out.”
Looking up Sabazious looked at the generals; he knew he was not Lord Aelitharion. But he would do his best to prove he was a capable replacement. His eyebrows rose however as Illidan rose, and placed his hand over the map for a moment before speaking.
“My lord, how are we to hold the anchor if none of us here have the leadership skills of an infantry commander? We are all, bar our kinsman D´stry fight from the saddle not on foot, who is to lead the infantry? D’stry can’t, he will be leading the Shades as always milord.”
Sabazious swore mentally as the other generals voiced their agreement, how could he have forgotten his lack of infantry commanders, he glanced at Illidan for a moment who held a smug look upon his face. The bastard was playing a political game here, he was looking to discredit him and take his place. His train of thought however was broken by the sound of the doors opening. And the sound of a sweet innocent voice that instantly made himself shudder with horror when he realised whom it belonged to, every general started up and Illidan looked at the doors in horror.
“Perhaps I could lead the Infantry line? Knights of the Wind!”
Idril Vraneth stepped into the room, the aura of fear that surrounded her seeping in with her like mist. Her black armour was a similar build to that of her legendary father’s armour that had been crafted to his body. But she was not her father, if anything she was even darker than he had been. Behind her strapped across her back was a heavy spear with a two foot long blade, more like a Glaive than a spear. Walking forward with the grace that only an elven female could possess, she stood beside Illidan before, her voice calm but sweet as she addressed him.
“Greetings again Lord Illidan, it has been too long since our last…time together.”
Before Illidan could stutter a reply Sabazious spoke out, saving his commander’s pride.
“Lady Vraneth, may I ask why you are here? I thought the king ordered only the Knights of the Wind to engage the enemy?”
Idril slipped quietly back to the doorway, and opened the door for a figure to enter, this one heavily built with an ornate helm and a heavy looking halberd gripped in his right hand, behind him walked in another twelve similar dressed warriors, but none with the ornate style armour or helms of the lead
161 warrior. They all knew who this lead warrior was, much to their horror, his arrival meant only one thing as Idril Vraneth spoke up again.
“The King has changed his mind, he would rather oversee the traitors destruction himself, we are merely his heralds. Isn’t that right Captain Kaellkillath?”
Captain Shaededath Kaellkillath of the Black Guard nodded as he swept into the room and took position at the head of the table; placing his hand upon the map of the city and its surroundings he studied it for a moment before speaking up, his voice cold, hard and emotionless.
“The king has decided that he wishes to oversee the slaughter of the traitors himself, we are merely here to ensure that you are ready for victory, and his arrival. Which will be in less than a day, I suggest you prepare yourself… commanders.”
With that Kaellkillath spun around and walked out of the hall, his long black cloak flailing behind him as he did so, Idril however smiled at Illidan for a moment before she too swept out of the hall following the captain of the Black Guard, the other Black Guard however remained standing stock still at their posts. Gulping Fenrir Bloodfang voiced what the others were thinking.
“What do we do then? If we fail we are as good as dead.”
“We shall do what we always do, have the enemy come to us, then hit them with the cavalry.”
Sabazious looked up at D’stry as he spoke out; the other commanders also did the same. D’stry just merely shrugged his shoulders and pointed at the map.
“Why change our tactics when we can do what we do best, hammer them on the charge.”
Slow realisation began to creep around the table, if they did what they did best then how could they fail? Sabazious was the one who first came around.
“Indeed, why should we stop doing what we do best? All in favour?”
Ten hand rose in the room as the commanders agreed with the plan, each of them had a smile upon their face, they now knew what they had to do and how they were going to do it. This rebellious attempt to take back the lands of King Malekith would be driven into the sea from here, almost the entire strength of Yvresse had been assembled. If they could not defeat the insurrection here then another Legion would be called, or if the King felt it necessary then the whole of Ulthuan would be called up to destroy them, and possibly take the fight back to where it came from.
The air was filled with flowers as the procession made its way up the long boulevard that led to the palace in the centre of Athel Tathren. The citizens of the city and the refugees that had fled to the city when the attacks first began cheered at the top of their lungs, as they flung more flowers into the air after the legion of the Black Guard had passed through, as the chariot entered through the gate, upon it was the object of the crowds’ cheers. Malekith, king of elves. In him the crowds of civilians found new hope against the insurrection that was taking place around their homes. Malekith raised his hand to
162 salute the cheers that were directed at him, clutching a ceremonial halberd in this clawed hand, his purple cloak fluttering in the breeze along with the petals of the flowers that were being thrown by the loving and adoring crowd. The procession carried on along its way up the boulevard to the palace, where upon reaching the palace entrance. The chariot wheeled to the right, the two cold ones that were pulling it snapped at each other ill temperedly. Stepping off the chariot, King Malekith turned and faced the cheering crowd once more. Manipulating the winds once more, he placed upon himself the voices that he always used in public speaking, the fair voice of the former prince Malekith the fair of Nagarythe.
“People of Athel Tathren, I have come. Come to free you from the terror of those do not appreciate my rule over all elves, we shall crush them like we did the forces of the ruinous powers long ago.”
Raising his halberd to the sky he saluted the crowd as even greater cheers were greeted with this simple gesture. The crowd had been living in fear of this rebellious insurrection for some 3 months now, and finally their king had decided to intervene and crush it. Turning away the king walked away as unseen by everyone, a figure in armour slipped away from the crowds and the boulevard, the young spearelf leaned against the wall breathing heavily, his quiver and bow being crushed behind him as he did so. He had to warn the Sarthailirim that Malekith himself had come.
**********************************
The camp was in uproar as the score of figures slunk into it. Herathoi warriors were running to and fro bearing messages and errands. Their tall helms reflecting the pale sunlight overhead, banners of white bearing Sethalis’ rune fluttered in the breeze. Archers strung their bows carefully as the entire camp prepared for the attack upon the Druchii city that was called, Athel Tathren. Looking out of the tent young Calendor Stormrage looked across the camp as the small legion readied itself for battle. A small and ill equipped expedition that he had joined without question despite Lord Tahl and his friend Arancar Tahl’s advice that such an attempt was suicide. He had ignored the warnings as had many other elder and great lords of Sarthailor, Ashnari’s invasion had gone off without a hitch so far, the remnants of the Cult of Asuryan that existed in the shadows had told them what few pieces of information they had to them. The destruction of the Green Vale after Nairalindel’s flight from the Witch King, the felling of many of the great forests of Ulthuan to fuel Malekith’s forges. Clenching his fist Calendor turned back to view the tent interior, Ashnari having returned looked at the map carefully pebbles marking the areas that they controlled, a large black circle lay surrounded by the pebbles, the city they were trying to take. Ashnari nodded and looked up at Calendor’s young face and smiled.
“So young Calendor, how do you like Yvresse?”
“It is less glorious than Lord Tahl has told us all.”
Calendor walked forward as he spoke and looked at the map again, around him the odd dozen elder generals that had come with the expedition nodded gravely at the situation. One, Tanis of Saphery before the exile, spoke up.
“Our dark kin have damaged Ulthuan’s heart, but hope remains for these isles. If we can secure this city then we will have gained the foothold needed to retake our home.”
163 Ashnari nodded silently, as did two others. However, Prince Althion slammed his fist upon the table; he out of all of them had been the most eager to bring the fight back to the Druchii, but now he slammed his fist down, he was sick of all this sneaking around hitting the Druchii in pin prick precision. He did not like the idea of sending in the Cult of Asuryan’s few members to open the city gates from within and march in, he wanted an open conflict.
“I am sick of all this sneaking about; when I joined this attempt to bring back the light to our homes I did not think we would be lurking in the shadows striking out. We should attack the city now raze it to the ground, like Malekith did to all our places of worship. Burn the Druchii like they burned our cities. Attack now Doomsong or I will take my own forces and order the attack.”
Ashnari stood up, his eyes blazing as he confronted Althion his fingers twitching at the blades at his sides, Calendor drew one of his own blades from his back as he stepped between them. But, before he could even utter a word at the two adversaries, the flap of the tent burst open, two guards and another elf, in dark armour of the Druchii, an open pendant dangling from his neck his bow and quiver in on of the guards arms, every elf in the tent gripped their weapons, the conflict of early forgotten instantly as the left hand guard spoke up.
“This Druchii was caught sneaking into our camp my lords, shall I execute him?”
Ashnari’s blade was out in a second and it swept out striking both guards weapons instantly. He had recognized the symbol that hung around the Druchii’s neck. Only those who were part of a now illegal cult wore the symbol. A Cultist of Asuryan, forcing the Guards away he knelt down beside the Druchii and looked him in the eye.
“Tell me, warrior of Asuryan, what message do you bring?”
The warrior looked up at Ashnari, fear in his young eyes he had heard from his father of the reckless dancer warrior, but his eyes seemed to emit more than knowledge and wisdom, something lurked back there something dark. Bowing his head, he spoke more to the floor than to the council before him.
“My lords, I have come to warn you not to attack Athel Tathren. A mighty legion has assembled there, led by the Witch King himself. He has vowed to wipe every one of you out. I implore you leave Ulthuan while you still can.”
There was silence in the tent as this proclamation came out, Calendor fell back and sat down in a chair, the horror that was on his young face was paramount. In the eyes of the other elder lords however, the warrior only saw hatred and fury, Ashnari most of all, his face had changed. Gone was the dancer warrior and in its place was an angel of vengeance, his blades being gripped so hard that his knuckles were going white. His eyes almost bordered on red as he turned his back on the warrior and looked at the council.
“Althion, you will have your wish. We attack at dawn. Malekith will pay for what he did to me!”
The Lords nodded with fear, Calendor watched horrified as did the Warrior of Asuryan. He found himself recalculating the hope that Sarthailor offered to those truly loyal to Asuryan. Had they simply become a race so inbred and mixed that they were prone to bouts of pure anger? Had they finally let go of the path that caused all elves to hide their darker nature? Watching as all the elves bar the youngest leave
164 the tent to ready for war, the Cultist reached the conclusion that he had reached long ago. Looking at Calendor with tears in his eyes, he spoke out at the only source of hope he had in the world. The last of the Asur he thought.
“The Children of Aenarion are dead at last.”
Walking forward Calendor stopped by the Elf and nodded solemnly.
“Dead, but not forgotten.”
**********************************
The sound of trumpets filled the air as the host clashed against the shield wall of the Druchii, spears piercing both shield and flesh as the two forces clashed, elf fought elf, and elf fought half-elf as both the Druchii and the people of Sarthailor clashed upon the plain before Athel Tathren. High upon the gates of the city Malekith stood and watched the battle with a pleased expression behind he mask, his spear elves were being pushed back slowly but surely, but they were only one of many defences. Before the wall, lay another batch of spearelves, arcing out from the gate. Before the gate Kaellkillath stood, beside him the elite black guard stood, their halberds held ready. Upon the left flank of the spearelves before the wall Idril Vraneth stood, looking impatient as she side stepped a boulder that was flung from one of the catapults near the rear of the rebels’ lines. Swinging her spear blade in her hands she looked up at him, her eyes sending the question into his mind. Why wait? Vraneth’s daughter had proven more useful to him than her father had in recent years with the increasing attacks by the forces of the four. He watched with amusement as a single band of light infantry armed with a mix of swords and spears broke through the infantry. At their head was and elf whom Malekith actually laughed at seeing, turning to a Sorceress beside him he laughed lightly.
“The years have not been kind on Ashnari Doomsong.”
Ashnari roared in anger as he put his left blade through another Druchii’s helm. They had broken through the first units of Druchii Spearelves, but the bulk of the defences lay before the wall itself, upon the wall archers stood, their waiting bows ready as their allies broke and fell back towards the city. How weak the Druchii had become if they were falling back to a force less than half their numbers. Upon the gate house he saw the Witch King standing motionless watching the entire battle below him. Roaring in rage he sprinted ahead as the first Druchii arrows fell amongst the Sarthailirim.
“Kill them all!”
Leaping into the air chanting his war cry and dancing the storm of blades he smashed into the Druchii lines, his blades flicking the head and arm of two spear elves who dared to come close. Around him the Druchii fell back once more as Silver Helms and Pegasus riders held in reserve now charged in, the Black Guard however did not budge as the attack pushed home. Swinging his blade once more he looked over at Calendor as he swept his swords through an elf while charging in. Other elves were doing similar attacks upon the Druchii, years of hatred that had been pent up for so long was being released at last.
Thrandule parried a blow with his shield as he stepped backwards from his foe, the old Averlorn elf knew that although this fighter was as old as he they were evenly matched. Taking another blow upon
165 his sword this time he countered and found the blade turned aside by the fighters armour. Smiling as they both locked blades he spoke to the rage ridden fighter.
“You fight well still Althion”
“As do you Thrandule”
They broke and slowly circled each other, oblivious to the battle around them they had been fighting for some twenty minutes now and both elderly elves were nearing their limit, ducking under another blow Thrandule lunged forwards and was rewarded with a crunching sound as his blade bit into Althion’s shield. He felt the blade get wrentched out of his hand as Althion discarded his shield. Closing his eyes Thrandule waited for the end at last to his long life.
Althion snarled in anger as he swept his blade through Thrandule’s stomach. Spitting upon the corpse he turned before the shaft of a spear slammed into his chest. Knocking him backwards as a grinning she-elf stepped forward, her long black hair flowing in the wind. Shouting at the figure he charged forward again with his sword lunging forward.
“Fool, you do not frighten me!”
The she elf deflected the attack with the haft before bringing the blade of her spear down upon his shoulder guard and backing away. She licked her lips before she held her spear one handed and started to spin it in her hand, when she spoke Althion stopped in horror when she revealed who he was facing.
“You should be, my father was the Black Guardian… Althion. I am your Doom, I am a Vraneth!”
Hissing Idril Vraneth lunged forward, smashing the shaft of the spear into his face breaking his nose, spinning around him the blade fell upon Althion’s sword arm, cutting it off at the wrist. A howl of pain escaped the elf’s lips as he dropped to his knees as the spear dropped once more, severing his other arm at the elbow. Spitting at him, Idril turned and walked away.
“All too easy.”
Gervaus slammed the flat of his blade against a Druchii helm as he dispatched another of his former allies. He hated this, he hated war all he had wanted with this expedition was to come home and then slip away unnoticed from Ashnari’s party and live out his days. But now he was fighting for his life once more, the former head of the Druchii armies turned to a light chuckle behind him to find two figures standing there. One dressed in the armour of the Captain of the Black Guard, the other all in black with two blades in his hands. Smiling he turned and looked at the two figures.
“I was waiting for you to appear Kaellkillath, you seemed to have learnt the lessons that I implemented all those years ago well. And you too D’stry I see you have moved onto new pastures as well.”
The Captain and the Assassin both nodded their grips upon their weapons tight, as they beheld their former commander from long ago. Gervaus tightened the grip upon his own twin swords as he looked at
166 them, Kaellkillath spoke up his voice cold and emotionless.
“You should never have betrayed us Gervaus, and now you have overextended your forces. You taught us once long ago not to place all your pieces in a single plan, but to keep some in reserve. That is what the king has done.”
The sound of thunder filled the air as horns from the gate house bellowed out in chorus. Upon either flank of the Sarthailor army a host of riders appeared, ranging from Paladins of Khaine mounted upon fine elven steeds, to knights mounted upon Cold Ones of the west. At their head sat the Knights of Doom, their banners held high as they charged down the hill the whistles coming from the banners caused the warriors of Sethalis to falter and be pushed back as the Druchii began to attack back. With tears in his eyes Gervaus looked back at the two warriors before him.
“It seems that I taught you well, and if the King wishes me dead then so be it.”
“That is his wish my lord,”
Gervaus darted forward his swords out roaring with primal rage as he concentrated upon the captain of the black guard, stepping aside Kaellkillath deflected the two blows with his halberd before Gervaus felt pain, looking back he saw a dagger in his back, D’stry standing there, looking sombre. Kaellkillath stepped forward over the stricken old elf.
“The King’s will must be done, my lord.”
The halberd flashed downwards and there was sound of bone crunching as Gervaus’ vision finally went dark.
Ashnari bellowed in primeval fury as he watched Althion fall to the she-elf. She looked up at him and smiled, and pointed at him, behind her three black guard rushed forward their halberds low. Diving under the first blade Ashnari rammed his swords into the guardself’s gut, blood pouring out as he did so. Jumping upon the fallen corpse he slit the throat of the next as he tried to defend himself from the savage attack. The third however, blocked all three blows that Ashnari landed. Smirking to himself he danced heavily upon his left foot before righting himself and spinning the blade through the guardsman’s helm, blood flowing out. Standing tall he turned back to the she-elf as pain flashed through his entire being, looking down at his left breast a dart sticking through the jerkin and into his chest. Roaring he charged forward, his swords gripped tightly as another dart flew into him. Looking up now he saw the smiling she elf, a crossbow in her hands as she wound the crank again, the string pulled back and a dart dropped from the cartridge and flew from the crossbow, this time slamming into his right shoulder. Falling to his knees Ashnari looked up as the figure walked up to him, some more Black Guard behind her as they looked down at him breathing heavily.
“What do you wish to do with him lady Vraneth?”
Vraneth? It couldn’t be, the Black Guardian couldn’t have a daughter. Looking up at the she-elf he coughed up blood, and met her cold gaze. As she spoke her voice felt just as cold as her gaze Ashnari thought.
“Leave him, those darts are poisoned. He won’t live through the night.”
167
“Foolish Vraneth, just like her father”
Rising up, Ashnari gripped the blades in his hands as he rose to his feet and charged her. She leapt back and parried the blows that he landed upon her, calling over her shoulder as the Black Guard closed in she blocked another blow with her spear.
“Stay back, he is mine”
Spinning his blades in his hands Ashnari grinned manically at Vraneth, as he lunged forward again, ignoring the pain and the venom flowing through his body as he slowly concentrated upon the she elf before him. He parried a blow from her spear and grimaced as the bards within him shifted. Spinning around he found once again the two blades being parried off the shaft of the spear. Bringing his own blades around he blocked a counter attack from Vraneth as she attempted to stab his shoulder. Taking advantage of her attack Ashnari darted forward with his left hand sword and dug underneath the armour of her shoulder guard. A small trickle of blood dripped out as Vraneth leapt backwards smiling.
“Is that the best you can do Ashnari?”
Ashnari let out a roar and lunged forward again, his blades ringing off the shaft as Vraneth went onto the defensive. Still smiling as she blocked his attacks. Ashnari felt his blood boil even further, the venom in his blood being pumped around his body at a faster rate, he felt his body growing tired as the pain and the venom began to grow.
Idril laughed while she parried yet another series of blows from Ashnari as he attacked again. Kicking outwards she glanced one of the barbs that she had shot into him earlier. Watching as Ashnari fell she spun around and plunged her spear through his stomach. Blood spilling from his back as the blade punched through his body.
“Its over.”
Ashnari snarled and slammed his blade through the shaft shattering it in twain. Falling backwards he kneeled there looking up into Vraneth’s eyes defiantly, blood slowly dripping from his wounds and the side of his mouth. Turning around, Vraneth looked at the rest of the battlefield, where the warriors of Sethalis were already in flight. Looking back at him for a moment she smiled as he continued to stare up at her. Walking away she picked up one of Ashnari’s fallen blades and sheathed it at her side. Before once more joining the ranks of the black guard.
“He is finished; leave him, he will not last through the night.”
Malekith slowly clapped as he watched the host of the rebels being routed, the Wind of Doom had done their jobs superbly. Each Knight on the Wind had taken out the enemy flanks and rear with little effort. The invasion had been crushed here. Already the civilians within the city were celebrating a great victory in his name. Turning away he watched as Kaellkillath stepped forward with the head of Gervaus in his hands, smiling behind his helm Malekith took the offered head and studied it for a moment, handing it to the aid he looked down at Kaellkillath.
“You have done well today my captain; now go take care of the survivors of this insurrection.”
168
Already knowing the answer but still wanting to hear it Kaellkillath spoke up, his voice showing the only emotion he had left, excitement of the kill.
“What of the survivors my lord?”
Malekith turned and looked at the retreating army, already the Knights of Doom on their tails.
“Kill them all!”
**********************************
Calendor laid there, the sea lapping at his chest as he clung to the drift wood. They were all dead, every single elf who had gone on Ashnari’s expedition was dead save him. He did not know how he was alive but he was. He did not question fate when he was pushed over the cliff by one his fellows, but he survived the fall, and had he been wearing his dragon armour he would have drowned along with the rest of the elves who had fallen from the cliffs. Coughing up salt water he looked up and saw nothing but the sea all around him. He had to survive; he had to tell Tahl of the disaster of the expedition and of the power of Ulthuan. Tears came to his eyes as he realized the truth. Ulthuan was lost forever to the Witch King.
**********************************
Ashnari Doomsong’s world was only pain, his entire body ached as the poison made its way around his system. It was if someone had pushed a pin in every part of his body. And yet he was still alive, just. He felt a presence above him, struggling to open his eyes he did but he could not make the figures that stood over him. The first one spoke, its voice strong and powerful.
“Is he the one?”
“He is weak, leave him for the worms.”
The other voice seemed to burble slightly but it was the third voice that made Ashnari shudder, it was that of a child almost but it was seductive and sweet at the same time.
“I’ll take him as a plaything”
“He does have potential, I can see it.”
This final voice seemed to have decided upon the argument as the final figure knelt down and looked Ashnari in the eyes, his voice so familiar to the aging elf.
“He is the one.”
Ashnari felt tears in his eyes as he beheld a face that he never ever thought he would see again, his eyes began to fade again as unconsciousness took him, but before he did he uttered one word.
“Alith…”
169 The Halting Sands By Tahl Hour of the Wolf
“So, do you think they will ask for terms?” The old wizard Giladis asked as he looked down at the assembling army. “I don’t know… Attacking us whilst were on this hill would be insanity. We appear to be better equipped and better rested than this army. Look closely at them, despite their muscular frames the gold armour the foot soldiers wear is quite simplistic. Though the way they move suggests these humans are well enough versed in combat.. If I was their commander I would march around us and hope for a better battlefield with things more in their favour. But if my suspicions are true and this army managed to avoid the dwarfs in order to attack the S’ala shrine then they will have to fight us here. We cant afford to lose such an important focus point for the great Vortex on Ulthuan yet it disturbs me that humans would go to such a length in order to attack it…” Tahl trailed away before he looked at Giladis again “So, in short…. I don’t know.” Giladis met his eyes and smiled. The same smile Tahl had seen him use before each battle. A grim mirthless smile, the same one that all veterans shared when death faced them in the eye. Yet from Giladis’s frail posture Tahl knew the old elf felt the same way he did. There was a dozen robed mages atop the hill with them. Standing a little out from the mages were the Senthoi, forming a protective circle of sorts. Slightly down from them stood the half-elf archers long bow in hand. Further down the hill was rank upon rank of full and half elf warriors, their silver armour glinting in the sun. At the very front was the humans, wearing a smaller version of the elvin silver armour they formed a great phalanx, countless spear tips pointed down toward the base of the hill.
There was however a great contrast between the Sathailonian men and that of the invading nation, Khemri. Where the men of Sarthailor wore silver chain and plate they wore gold plate with little cloth under it. Their homelands must have obviously been warm, for they showed a lot of their muscular tanned flesh under the Golden armour. Rank upon rank of foot soldiers lined up a few paces out of bowshot. Their left flank was almost entirely made up of chariots, although of simple design they looked none the less fearsome. Each had a driver who held the reins and a warrior who held either spear bow or sword. Tahl watched as even more cavalry assembled on the other flank. “Glad we brought so many spearmen now?” he shot at Giladis. With a small smile Giladis spoke back “I’m more worried about those catapults” he spoke nodding towards the back of the Khemri army where 6 huge wooden catapults were being positioned. “I told you we should have brought some repeaters with us” Giladis continued. “If we had dragged them all this way we wouldn’t have got here in time. What sort of impression do you think that would give our guests?” A young mage in proud purple robes shot Tahl a disapproving look, from the facial expression it was obvious he did not think this was a time for mirth. Giladis it seemed also picked up on the young mage’s serious attitude. “Ah, not being the great warrior who lead the defence of Avalear are we now Tahl? I have seen that statue of you in Avalear. How disappointed these elves must be. To find that this hero of legend is none other than a crippled old withered mage.” Tahl moved to retort this comment but his words were cut short by a single sound. A drum beat.
Looking down the hill he realised the enemy was now fully deployed and ready for battle. At the back of the army beside the catapults was a black tent, the guards surrounding it wore black silks. At the entrance to the tent stood a warrior wearing much finer armour than his men Tahl’s keen elven sight picked out the details of this plumage and ornaments. He was obviously a high ranking person and
170 probably the leader of this army. This figure then moved to the front of the army to address the men. Curiously however the black robed guards didn’t follow their leader but remained guarding the tent. The leader started waving a sword and Tahl realised their would be no parley before this battle and that it had very much just begun. He calmed his breathing and accessed the winds of magic, in front of the shrine the magic ran strong, so strong that it was no surprise the shrines were often attacked. Today however there was something else. A dark strain ran through the winds. Like an adder through grass, impossible to actually find yet its lingering essence allowed you to know it was there. Tahl would have very much liked to have traced the dark line to see where it had come from. It had a whisper of Malekith about it, but there was something different. Tahl wondered if maybe Malekith was tampering with the vortex and this was a blowback effect or if it was some other dark magic. Calming his mind Tahl realised he was mistaken; this magic though inherently evil was not as strong or intricately weaved as Malekith’s powers usually were. The sound of men marching made Tahl realise he couldn’t spend anymore time following little curious things. Certainly not when there was a battle unfolding around him.
Opening his eyes he watched as the golden soldiers advanced, their strategy seemed incredibly simple: Infantry in the centre chariots on were to flank the left, cavalry would flank the right. The men at the rear busied themselves loading the catapults. Tahl turned to the mage’s on the hill and spoke, this time with no mirth or grim sarcasm. He spoke from the heart and all who heard felt agreement in their heart. “I have no desire to bring about death, to us or these men of the desert. It is my desire and intention to repel them as much as possible without getting into bloody combat. To make them flee, knowing that Sarthailor is stronger than they could ever be, to think attacking us again is insanity… To do this we will begin by targeting that which our enemy thinks is the best protected. We will shock them and attempt to keep their deaths to a minimum. We will target their catapults, for our enemy thinks that they are best defended and they too will bring much death onto our hill if not stopped.” With no more words he held out an open palm and pointed it at one of the catapults. He closed his eyes, the winds of magic swirled around all living things, and around his outstretched palm, focusing on this he began to weave his spell, A fireball flew from his hand over the heads of the Sarthailonians, over the advancing Khemri army. It struck he support pillar of the furthest left catapult, breaking the beam caught fire. Suddenly the entire line of catapults erupted as the various spells from the mages hit them.
The enemy advanced all the same, this was rather troubling. After such a display of powerful magic an enemy would usually falter if even for just a half step. What really troubled Tahl was the way in which they continued to advance, they either were expecting strong magical attacks or their commander simply didn’t care about huge losses. The Sarthailonian archers opened fire the second the ranks of men were in range. Tahl watched with a heavy heart as the enemy infantry suffered, soon they advanced over the bodies of their kin. Giladis and the other mages began to fire their spells at the chariots on the flank. Tahl however stepped forward until he touched the line of Senthoi, from here he directed the battle. Not that It required much direction, each soldier knew how they were going to fight for such was the discipline of this army that no one shouted orders, or beat drums. Eventually the infantry reached the front of the phalanx, due to the nature of the advance they couldn’t break through it. The cavalry and chariots they had intended on using to flank the spearmen were lying in ruins. This wasn’t a battle but a massacre.
It was over, Tahl signalled for the spearmen to advance. Taking careful steps down the hill they pushed the enemy further and further back. Magic reigned from the top of the hill burning all in its path. Tahl sighed in utter relief as the last few hundred men were forced back. They made their stand around the black tent at the back. He watched as the man who led the army was cut down by spearmen. It was finally over ….
171
A figure stepped out of this black tent. He stood tall and wore long flowing black satin robes. This figure raised a hand directly towards the Mages. Tahl threw his arms up and shielded as did the other mage’s. The first thing that struck him was the sheer strength of the blast. This human was easily stronger than any mage on the hill. A second more powerful blast flew up, this time however they were ready. Blending their shields the mage’s acted as one. The man below, though strong was no match for the combined strength of twelve mages. Blast after blast came; they gained in ferocity but were becoming sloppier. Tahl began to wonder if the man was getting desperate as his last hundred men were being killed or if he was just distracting the mages by sending random shots of energy at them.
Suddenly however; screaming was heard from the archers. Tahl turned his head, opposed to firing down at the tent and at the enemy they were firing at themselves…. It took a second to register that the archers were firing at elves who had already died. Looking around he realised that the entire army was confused. The dead who had been cut down were rising, elf fought elf, man fought against man. Brothers fought brothers. Even the golden Khemri warriors were rising to claim vengeance upon those that had killed them. The perfect formations were not in complete ruins as the living fought the dead, in one massive combat for survival. Taking deep breaths Tahl calmed his old heart and looked into the realm of magic, the slither of evil magic was now great bonds, as though a spider web had been turned to iron. All these webs somehow connected to the dark wizard beside the tent. Tahl bean to frantically explore ways in which to sever the ties between the dark wizard and the Undead. Tahl realised that each thread was attached to an animated corpse; these threads once made couldn’t be severed by him in the realm of magic. Therefore he would need to kill the corpse, the wizard or stop the thread before it attaches. As Tahl digested this information he felt the other mages join him. He could feel their presence as they searched for answers as he had. They had to kill the dark wizard. Tahl’s eyes flew open as soon as he came to this conclusion, he focused on the evil one in an instant, in another instant he realised that whilst he and the other mage’s had searched for answers the dark lord had fired another wicked spell. Calling out to his kin he hastily threw up a shield. It was far to weak. He felt something strike his head as he crumpled to the ground.
Voices swirled here in the darkness, Tahl became aware of his hands, of his legs and off the terrible pain. At least he was still alive. Concentrating a bit harder he opened his eyes and the world swirled into vision. His cheek was pressed against the cool mud. His breaths were sharp and painful. A few paces away stood the man in black satin. No he wasn’t a man, his face was disfigured as though dead but his spirit refused to leave his body…As though time had eaten away his flesh. “Speak” the daemon of a man spoke, his voice rasping. Tahl moved his lips to say no, to tell the unholy beast to die. It dawned on him however that the command wasn’t directed at him. In front of the evil thing stood Giladis. Except it wasn’t. Tahl knew that old elf too well; Giladis had never stood as straight as he did now. His eyes had never been as dull. Tahl listened as Giladis explained the vortex to this thing, as he explained that the shrine they had fought to protect was a focus point of energy. The daemon asked Giladis some more questions concerning the shrine. Thankfully the mage was unable to answer. “I’m sure another corpse here will answer my questions”. Giladis crumpled down, dead for the second time.
It suddenly dawned on Tahl that this evil being was even robbing the dead of their lore. His mind raced as he realised the implications of this. The wealth of magical, tactical and practical knowledge from these 12 mages alone must be huge. Tahl couldn’t allow it to fall into the monsters hands. Searching deep inside himself Tahl found the last shreds of his energy and slowly go to his feet. He began mumbling the incantation under his breath his hand following a small circular motion. The dark wizard had his back to him interrogating Athal Elileth. “How many men does this nation command-” the wizard
172 stopped surprised as Elileth turned to ash. Tahl watched as the monsters eyes, eyes that were dead and yet full of unholy malice looked around in horror as every Sarthailonian body began to turn to dust. Spinning round it locked its eyes on Tahl. “You!” he screeched in pure anger. Tahl allowed himself one last smile as he too began to turn to ash. Finishing the spell he clenched his fist. “You will not desecrate the bodies of my loved ones!”
The final effect of the spell took place. Tahl lord of Sarthailor and her armies was no more. The fiery hot ash he had become flew towards the Sorcerer Nagash. The evil one hastily threw up a magical shield but not before the flesh on the back of his hand began to melt away.
173 Harvest By TimmyMWD Hour of the Wolf
Seven years ago to the day, Erik remembered it as if it was yesterday. The bang of the door as it was flung open, followed by the clang of armor as two elves came in and grabbed his eldest son Klaus. The claw marks were still there on the doorframe for all to see, where his son had desperately driven his fingers into the wood. It was a vain attempt, as the elf pried his fingers off the frame one by one and dragged him off into the night. At the time of his eldest son’s departure, Erik’s wife was six months pregnant with Baern.
His plan was perfect – he saved up nearly all his earnings from his harvest that year and visited the local Magistrate in charge of keeping a census for the long eared bastards. The Elf had taken the Magistrate’s son and nephew so little convincing was necessary for Magistrate Stesson to help Erik. It had gone off without a hitch, and everyone assumed that Baern had died during childbirth. The sum paid to the Magistrate wasn't the only price however. Baern was rarely permitted to leave the house during harvest season when wagon traffic filled the roads as they headed towards the village. On some occasions, Erik had to go as far as dress Baern up as a girl and claim he was their niece so that no one knew they had a son not already in bondage.
For all the trials and stresses it had brought Erik and his wife, it had been worth it. Baern had lived on in freedom, and some day he would be old enough that he would fully enjoy it. As he sat in his chair before the fire, Erik found himself staring off at his son. He was already strong, and would make a great member of the Helfiss village militia. If only they fought against the true threat, Erik thought. Helfiss and the surrounding farms had been safe for many generations from the slaving parties sent from the north, as they had been on the periphery of dwarven protection. But the elves were bold and craved more slaves, and the dwarves appeared unwilling to risk open war to defend the men of the Reik. So the elf drove deeper, killing or buying their way into the villages of men for their boys and young men to do their hard labor.
It was then that he was stirred from his thoughts; he heard voices drawing near to his home. Baern looked up at Erik – he knew the danger of this day – to see what he should do. Erik gestured to a wicker chest in the corner of the house, and Baern quickly crawled inside it along side the few metal possessions they owned – pots, ladles, and other things. Erik’s wife shot up from where she had been sewing and picked up any signs of a third member of the house: a third place at the table, some child’s clothes, and other miscellaneous items. With the top of the chest shut, concealing more than just utensils, Erik stood up from his chair and opened the door to his house. Before him were the disgusting creatures he had hoped to never see at his doorstep again; elves. If they weren’t here to try and enslave his kind, Erik might have appreciated the melodic way they talked; but as far as he concerned it made him want to vomit.
Erik had a confident smile on his face, since there was no record of Baern’s existence save three people; he knew they were not here for slaving. Probably to ask directions to a nearby house. The smile vanished in the blink of an eye; however, when Magistrate Stesson emerged from behind two mail clad elves. The look on the Magistrate’s face, one of greed and desire, sent a chill down Erik’s spine. Stesson
174 pointed into the house and three elves brushed past Erik and began tearing through what little possessions Erik had.
Erik collapsed to his knees. Not a fourth time, he thought. He wanted to curse the worst of curses at the Magistrate, to pray to Ulric that he be killed for his betrayal, but all he could mutter was “Why?”
Stesson smiled and pulled out a bag that contained more coin than Erik had ever seen in his life. “You weren’t the only one to try and hide a child Erik. Everyone has their price, and let’s just say I will never have to lift a finger again after tonight.” Crying to the heavens, he charged the nearest elf and tackled him to the mud floor of his home. He landed a powerful blow on the neck of the slaver, crushing his windpipe and leaving the elf gasping desperately for air. The other elves grabbed him by the shirt around his shoulders and dragged him out to the grass in the front of his home.
The sound of armored soldiers in the house had caused Baern to shake uncontrollably in fear. The wicker chest was thick, and so was unaffected by his compulsive actions. But when he heard his father shouting and his mother bawling in the corner of their house, he tried to adjust himself to see what exactly was going on. He shifted his position, but in the process drove his leg into their family’s huge cooking pot. Bearn knew the clang could certainly be heard by those in the house, and when the sound of armored footsteps drew closer to his hiding spot, Baern burst from the chest and cried out, “Father help me!”
One elf, presumably the leader of the five-elf party, pointed at Baern and another armor-clad elf walked over to help grab him. The leader then kicked Erik down to the ground and pulled out his long curved blade. With the blade held high in the air, he turned towards the Magistrate and nodded his head.
Stesson scurried up to where Erik was on the ground and stammered, “Erik Hölfson you have been charged with hiding a son from our ever gracious allies the elves of the north. Your sentencing is death to you and your wife.”
Erik struggled to free himself from being pinned under the armored boot of the elf soldier, frantically flailing his arms in a vain attempt to escape. He saw another elf move towards his wife with his blade drawn, and he looked up to the sky for one final, desperate prayer. It would be the last, but grandest thing, he would ever see. As the cold elf blade pierced through his ribcage, Erik found himself starring at a brilliant twin tailed comet.
175 What Chaos Promised By VictorK Hour of the Wolf
He breathed in dust and coughed violently, spewing out the last of the blood in his gut before rolling onto his back. Something warm and dry brushed against his nose and a foul smell invaded his nostrils and choked his mouth. He gagged and raised a hand to push at that spot in the darkness beyond his eyelids that was offending his senses. His hand connected with a firm, coarse surface that scratched his skin like the needles on a pine tree. A blast of hot, foul air rolled over his face and he gagged before rolling onto his side. Something shifted in his lungs and he coughed, his body contorting until he groaned as he was pulled into a fetal position by his own tired muscles. One of his hands brushed against his stomach and it was smooth. He opened his eyes and immediately regretted it as a red light pierced into the back of his mind and forced his eyelids to close reflexively. The dust was disturbed near his head as footsteps crushed the sand grains against one another.
“The arrow is gone. A gift from the friends who sent you here. You got rid of the blood yourself. Your friends are cheap.”
The elf placed one hand on the dirt and pushed himself up while one shoulder remained bent beneath him. The position would grow painful in a few moments but it would buy his weak body time to face the voice. He forced his eyes open and squinted against the red glare. A short, black shape began to stand out in the field of red. “Who…” His words stuck in his mouth where the dryness pricked painfully at his throat.
“Shh shh shh…” The black figure cooed. “You need water, not that there’s much to find here. This is not Ulthuan, Shadow King.” the figure paused and it shifted, as if covering its mouth. “I wasn’t supposed to say that. I’m not supposed to indulge you with your old titles. But, to hell with them. We’ll call each other whatever we want.”
“Are…” Alith Anar struggled, swallowing painfully to coax out his words. “Are you one of the Ruinous Powers?”
The reply was a bark as much as it was a cruel laugh. “We’re not all that different, really. Exiles in a way. Desperate, dying. Willing to cling to any outside chance.”
“I’m chosen.” Alith Anar insisted, pulling himself forward and forcing his eyes to focus on his companion. “They spoke to me. I was promised.” He was able to see the grin spread across the lips of the wolf that sat on its haunches. At first the elf was taken aback and his lips were pulled down in a sneer, but then his vision focused and he saw the truth in the wolf’s words. They weren’t all that different. The creature’s hide was drawn tight across its protruding ribs. Whole patches of dark fur were missing where they had either been torn out or had fallen due to disease or malnourishment. Thick strands of spittle connected its muzzle to the dirt and formed dark, hungry patches on the ground. The wolf’s golden eyes stared back at Alith Anar, full of an insane mirth. Its yellow teeth were revealed as it completed its grin.
176 “You are nothing so special.” The wolf replied. “You and a dozen, a hundred others are chosen. The last time they chose one it ended in disaster.” The wolf stood up and its tongue lolled out of its mouth. It turned away from Alith Anar and began to trot away into the wastes. “I wouldn’t lie there for long. It may be cold but the sun never sets here and it will burn you.”
The Shadow King pushed against the ground and collapsed. He panted into the dirt and reached forward, gripping the hard ground and pulling dirt towards him before he closed his eyes and fell back into sleep. In his dreams the Shadow King reeled with the knowledge that he had been betrayed again. He was made to stand in his home in Nagarythe where he wore the vestments of a king. The galleries were filled with familiar faces from the days after the passing of Aenarion. Bel Shanaar, a face he wasn’t sure he would be able to remember rose from a seat next to him and then left through the door. No one watched him go, and the Shadow King himself could hardly remember his presence once the door had closed behind him. In the dream Alith Anar’s face ached, and it took a moment to realize that it was because he was smiling. One by one familiar faces left the gallery. Some gave him one last apologetic look before they slipped out, others purposefully hid their faces. One by one the torches that lit the hall were snuffed out until only a handful in the gallery remained. Caledor stood and left without changing his expression. Alith Anar stared at the would-be Phoenix King’s back and wanted to pierce it with rage, but all he felt was pity. His face was comfortable now, relaxing into the familiar frown. Only four faces were left in the gallery, but Alith Anar did not recognize them. A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and with the least effort the Shadow King was flung to the floor of his own hall, falling from the dais to the marble where his crown tumbled from his head and broke. He didn’t need to look over his shoulder to realize that Malekith stood behind him. The four in the gallery stood as one and considered the fallen Shadow King before they smiled and turned for the exit. Malekith laughed.
Alith Anar awoke in the same position that he had fallen into only the ground wasn’t nearly as smooth but it was as cold as the marble. He shivered as something wet and hot dribbled onto his cheek and moved to brush it off with one hand. He struck the wolf’s muzzle for the second time and pushed it away. It growled in reply. “Open your eyes; you’ll starve soon if you don’t get on your feet.”
The Shadow King forced his eyes open for a second time and was rewarded with an image of his own face reflected in a shallow dish of water. Alith Anar lurched for the water and sucked it down without hesitation, washing it all around his mouth to relieve the painful dryness that had made speech difficult. He took another moment before he sat up and took stock of his surroundings. The wolf was sitting on his haunches again, drooling and staring at the deposed king. He was right about the sun never setting. The source of the red glare hung just above the horizon which relieved most of its intensity but didn’t promise any further relief for those trapped in the northlands as the sun slowly moved around the world. The red brown wastes stretched on in a broken, rocky expanse as far as the elf could see. For the land that had spawned the forces of chaos Alith Anar found it remarkably uninteresting. It matched the Ruinous Powers for their cruelty but had none of their color.
“You should be grateful I brought you that water. It’s not easy to come by if you don’t know where to look. We’ve moved up to sitting; now get on your feet.” The wolf got to his and started to walk away. Alith Anar paused for a moment and then rose to his feet. His head felt light at first and he staggered but managed to keep his feet. He watched the wolf go and for a moment wondered if he should follow. The beast had saved his life, but in a world where no idea, person, god or place had not betrayed him he was hesitant to once again put his trust in someone he might be forced to rely on. He looked around and realized that no matter what his training or abilities on Ulthuan this place would not accommodate them. With regret heavy in his steps Alith Anar lurched after the wolf who was sitting atop the next rise.
177 The Shadow King fixed his eyes on the point and tried to forget the aches in his legs and the hole in his stomach that threatened to eat him away from the inside.
“Taste the air, friend.” The wolf told Alith Anar as the elf topped the rise. “You won’t find berries or anything else that grows to eat here. Food walks. Food talks.” The wolf’s powerful nose turned towards the sky. “Can you smell it?”
The Shadow King found himself tilting back his head and emulating the wolf. The smell of ash was very faint on the air. “The ash?”
“A fire.” The wolf replied, licking his lips.
“What could they possibly have to burn?” Alith Anar wondered as he looked around the barren landscape.
“Like water things that burn aren’t so hard to find if you know where to look.” The wolf hopped down the rocky slope and started down to the valley below. “You fancied yourself a hunter, friend. If you aren’t chosen, you might as well find a meal.” The Shadow King frowned but he followed, carefully climbing down the rocks. A fall would kill him in his weakened his state and he wasn’t willing to trust in his elven agility without something in his stomach.
“I am chosen.” Alith Anar insisted. “It was promised to me.”
The wolf sighed and shook his head, leaping down a few rocks to show his charge a stable path. “Nothing is promised here except misery.” He replied. “There will be a chosen, but it won’t be the gods who choose that one.”
The Shadow King paused and looked at the wolf. “A chosen? You know of them?”
The wolf smiled, revealing his fangs. “Not just a chosen, Alith Anar. An Everchosen. Walk among the tribes as I have and you will hear them whisper it. They might be men but their stories go back as far as any elf’s memory. They may not know Aenarion and Malekith by name but the power they wield…That can be translated into any tongue. They crave it. They know it’s out there, waiting for the gods to bestow it.”
“But there is no chosen.” Alith Anar said as he continued his climb down to the wolf. “You said that.”
The wolf hopped down to the valley floor. “Chaos helps those who help themselves, Shadow King. Remember that.”
The floor of the valley was made of softer sand than the hard plateau. The smell of a fire had grown stronger to the elf and he scanned the horizon for the speck of bright light that would give it away. The wolf trotted out across the desert plain, absently sniffing at the bit of scrub that littered the valley floor. “Why are you so anxious to have the power?” The wolf asked.
“Why do you dismiss it?” Alith Anar countered, walking next to the creature as he hunted for the fire.
The wolf’s hackles raised and the fur around his neck bunched and bristled. He growled. “I tasted it,
178 once. I know how fickle the gods can be. Turn back until you find the stars and then walk south. Leave this place, Alith Anar. They’ll discard you like they discarded me. Who knows? Maybe you can guide the next fool to their doom.” The wolf picked up his feet and started walking towards a ravine.
“What do any of these northmen know.” Alith Anar continued as he started to walk. “You were one of them, weren’t you?” The wolf gave no reply so the Shadow King continued. “What would you use it for? To raze some cities and settle clan rivalries? You aren’t worthy.”
“And you are?” The wolf looked over his shoulder.
“I am the most worthy.” Alith Anar insisted. “I have suffered the greatest injustice and I am the only one who can right it.”
The wolf barked a dry laugh. “Justice…Think about your stomach first.”
The smell grew stronger until the sight of smoke rising from the ravine brought Alith Anar to a halt. The wolf stopped as well and turned its golden eyes up at the Shadow King. “Smoke.” Alith Anar told his companion as he pointed to the ravine. The wolf turned to the spot and started forward.
“Be careful. These are not elves. Negotiation is not a word they are familiar with.” The Shadow King nodded and crept forward with the wolf.
The firelight danced along the red rock and laughter sprang from the crack in the earth as Alith Anar came upon the feast. He could smell smoke, roasting meet and the stench of men all at once and it made his mouth water. He glanced at the wolf and saw that it was drooling as well, its golden eyes shining as it surveyed the camp site and the meat that was slowly roasting over a healthy flame. Four men, larger than any brute Alith Anar had ever seen, sat around the fire stuffing their faces. They were coated in dirt and clothed only in furs, which still did the tattered cloth that barely covered the Shadow King one better. They had spears at their sides, crude bone implements that Alith Anar could not help but feel disdain for, made all the worse by the realization that he had been stripped of his weapons.
“Look there. The big one.” The wolf whispered to Alith Anar and indicated that largest man with a twitch of his head. “The largest portion goes to him. He’s the leader.” The wolf settled down onto his belly and sighed into the dirt. “Too many. It seems we’ll starve.”
Alith Anar was crouched on the edge of the ravine and he flinched at the wolf’s words. His guide had been right about everything to this point but the Shadow King refused to accept it. “Then I will die. But not in my sleep.” He replied to the wolf before edging forward. The leader was right in front of him, next to the fire. The men were exchanging what sounded to him like grunts but he knew he hadn’t been seen. He wondered if he could kill the leader with his bare hands. He hadn’t made such a kill in ages; he regretted the loss of his knives and his bow. He could kill all four before they stood up if he had them. He remembered that this place was not about to accommodate his skills. The Shadow King clenched his fists in frustration, his fingers digging deep into the soft earth. He paused as his hand closed around a rock. The elf’s heart began to pump and he felt heat on his cheeks. He would not starve. He would die here, or eat. “Stay if you will. I will not starve.” Alith Anar told the wolf before he surrendered to the shadow of the warrior he had been.
The northmen laughed in deep, throaty bursts as the smallest among them gestured wildly and
179 pantomimed begging to some woman back in their village. Their bellies were full and they were well rested, they had nothing but satisfaction from this hunt. They looked up as one when the elf perched on the edge of the ravine howled and leapt into the red sky. The three smaller men shrank back in fear at the howling apparition as he descended into the ravine. The oldest and strongest was not about to be cowed. He stood while the others crouched and deftly took his spear in hand. Bits of meat hung from the edge of his mouth as he set it into a frown, preparing to deliver his war cry and impale the intruder.
As fast as the northman was Alith Anar was faster. As soon as the lithe elf landed on his feet he swung the rock with every ounce of strength left in him. It struck the northman in the temple, shattering his eye socket and sending shocks into his brain before the rock penetrated his skull and erased his life. Blood from the arteries in his head exploded at his assailant but didn’t reach him until the swipe was finished and the battle over. The leader toppled over onto the ground and bled even more, his eyeball rolling out of his head. He twitched his last while his men looked on with fear, awe, and rage. They gathered their spears and got to their feet. They howled and shrieked at the elf but dared not try and kill him. He was tall and fair skinned with black hair that went down past his shoulders. When he turned to them and dared that they look into his eyes they shrank back from his bloody face. One, who was now the eldest began to come forward, momentarily undaunted by the elf king. Alith Anar held his ground but could not raise the dripping rock in his hand. He was spent.
The wolf followed Alith Anar into the ravine and interposed himself between the northmen and the Shadow King. It pulled its ears back and bared its fangs, growling an unmistakable warning to the one northman who thought he could kill the elf. “Speak.” The wolf told Alith Anar, sparing one quick glance back at him before he refocused on the northmen. “They will understand. That is your gift.”
Alith Anar looked over the three remaining men and was at loss for what to say. Had they been his family, his subjects or his shadow warriors the words would have tumbled from his mouth as naturally as walking. But these were men, crude beings with bone spears who were too frightened by a mangy wolf and an emaciated elf to avenge the death of their leader. Then the wolf’s words came to him and he knew what to say. This was his first step. “I am Alith Anar.” He told the men, summoning up the command he had used as a king but would now have to exceed. “You have never seen anything like me before. I command you now and will soon command your brothers, your fathers and your sons.” The men looked confused, but it was clear that they had understood the words. They shrank back. “I am the Everchosen.”
180 The Bloody Toll of Vengeance By Tsanqar Hour of the Wolf
Home
Return home, my King. *****************
The morning was bright and clear. The late summer sun cast it’s crimson light at daybreak, rising full and bright. It would be a great day, one that would be recalled by drunken longbeards in taverns for centuries to come. The night before, the High King had settled the Elf Grudge once and for all, with the razor sharp edge of the Axe of Grimnir.
Morgrimm’s orders passed swiftly through the massive encampment. The might of Karaz Angkor was to be dispersed, and the grudgekilling to cease. One way or the other, before midday had passed Morgrimm Elgidum himself would be force marching back to the Ungdrin Ankor, sworn to arrive in Mt Gunbad in three weeks time. With him would go fully half of the camp, though not all so speedily, to lift the sieges the Greenskins had lain against the holds in the Worlds Edge Mountains. The rest were being dispatched across the breadth of Karaz Angkor, to reinforce garrisons left behind and and begin repairing the damage of three hundred years of war.
Hardly any dwarf had slept as the preparations to break camp were made. Anvils rang throughout the night, but for the first time in living memory, their song was not of the forging of weapons, but of shoeing the ponies, and repairing wheel rims and iron boots. Meat was hastily smoked, barrels were sealed, and kegs were enthusiastically emptied. Better to carry the blessed ale in you belly, than burden the carts with the bulk of the kegs. What better night to toast you friends, living and fallen, than to mark the payment of the Great Grudge.
***************** More than any other we look to you for our defense. Fulfill your duty and return home immediately. *****************
Through it all the busiest Dawi in the camp were the High King and his Grudgekeeper, Hazkal Elgidreng. It is no small task to march the High King with his vast army, and camp followers, even twenty miles. Here he was sworn to make a two month journey in three weeks, and he had less than a day to prepare He also had to ensure that all the needs of his vast empire were addressed or properly delegated to his new Lords and Thanes of the various regions.
Perhaps the only dwarves to even attempt to sleep were those of the Slayer Cult. Most had greeted the news with indifference, or restrained contempt. Each had their own grudges to settle, and their oaths could only be fulfilled in their deaths. Now without clan or family, they were almost unanimously determined to stay in the Grey Mountains and continue to cull the cursed Elgi and any human that stood with them. A few, like the great Daemon Slayers Baltri Redbeard and Snorri Stonefist were content to follow the King, and seek their death at the hands of giants and trolls that were known to follow the Grobi. Others accepted the truth that a death from elven longbows would be far from glorious and
181 utterly pointless besides. But by in large the Slayer Cult was staying and preparing to commence a campaign of bloody terror, to earn themselves a place in the Halls of the Ancestors.
****************** The destroyers are upon us. Our beloved homeland is being razed and burnt. They hack us down with savage zeal. The defenses cannot hold back the horde of the enemy. You must return at once with all haste and strike down the invaders with all the vengeance of your people. I await you, my King, my defender, and hope you arrive in time. *****************
Morgrimm grumbled all night about the Slayer Cult. He knew they had serious oaths to fulfill and had even set aside some kegs and other rations to be reserved for their stay. But still, he longed to have their aid in driving back the certain multitude of Trolls that doubtless accompany so many Orc tribes.
The thought of Trolls turned his mind back to his unusual breakfast. Snulli Ironfist was one of the Thanes that led Throngal Grund early in the war, prior to being so severely wounded in the tunnels of Karak Kadrin. A support pillar was knocked down on top of him by vile Elgi magics. Though he dove clear, one of his legs had been shattered by the massive blocks that fell. It had healed, but not well. Snulli had ever walked with a severe limp afterwards. Though the command had passed to Grogan Helgenhammer after that battle, Ironfist was still a venerated warrior and his advice was always worth considering. This morning Snulli had come with a strange gift. The High King and his vanguard company had the unique experience of eating extra rare, spiced Troll heart. Slowly cooked over coals, the Troll heart had never been touched by the tongue of a flame. Thus prepared, Snulli had said, the Troll heart would aid in giving sustained strength in the legs.
Perhaps it was just the jitters of waiting, but now in the late morning, all the work that needed his attention was done. He had his oath to leave at midday, but he wanted to wait and see if Bron Baraz would leave the Elgi city and sound the horn he had given him. If he heard the horn three times, it was a sign that the Elgi were found to be sincere in their offer of peace, and he could concentrate his mind fully on the menace of the Greenskins that lay at the end of his road. Now all was prepared and the King felt eternal seconds pass waiting for any sign of the approach of Thane Baraz. His mind was racing and his legs felt like they were going to start racing too.
******************* “My King, you arrive at last. Much has been lost. I know your army ranged far to the west, but I implore you to bring your holy vengeance to the invaders. They burn and destroy with wanton cruelty
Anger filled his body. So mighty was his hatred, that his veins bulged forth beneath his flesh and his grip tightened on his staff. His body burned with wrath, kindled by thousands of years of pride, and an unquenchable thirst for vengeance upon the invading savages. The feeling soon abated, but the experience was overwhelming and exhausting
“But where is the rest of you army” he had noticed his King returning with only his vanguard company. “I see only your honored kin arriving with you?”
Speed. Such magnificent speed. A vision overcame him of running through open plains, across mountains and careening through glades. Speed that only a proper elven steed could match. The vision changed and he saw the mark Riders of the Hunt, with their spears and characteristic helms. As tall as an elf is in the
182 saddle, the vision was such that he was above the heads of the Riders, looking down on them. Two great hounds also kept pace with the racing company. They were running across the open plain, and he knew it well. It was just south of the Meadow Glade. The view shifted to look behind the galloping warriors and then it stretchsed out across the landscape, as if pulling the horizon closer. Then he noticed the forms of other elves, both mounted and on foot, as well as Dryads and Tree Kin. The main body of the Hunt was perhaps a day’s journey behind their master.
The vision faded and the face of Orion floated over him, full of wrath and frustration. The Treesinger, Q’entril Sulpav, again became overpowered by the thoughts and feelings of his lord. This feeling could only be compared to being interrupted while chanting a long litany, but it was so much more potent and mixed with the prevailing thought of, ‘WHY?’ Then came an image of the hated Druchii usurpers and their black sailed Hawk ships landing on the shores of Ethel Arvin again, and an accompanying sense of wonder and curiosity.
“No Great Hunter. The followers of Malekith have not returned.” Q’entil said as soon as the wave of power of Loren had passed. He had not expected the mind touch to be so engulfing, or to drain the very air from his lungs. Speaking with the King of the Forest this way was necessary but it also connected his mind to the full awareness of Athel Loren. It was a dangerous ploy, and the Treesinger had prepared, but not enough. Not for this much power. He continued to answer, “We are facing potential annihilation from the Dwarves.”
The backlash from Orion’s mind was more than he could stand. The Asrai mage was flung from his contact with the Oak of Ages, screaming in a voice that was not his own
“What!!!??”
After picking himself up, Q’entril re-erected the protective wall of his ego and touched the Ancient Oak again. A myriad of images flashed in front of his eyes. Visions of slow, pedantic dwarven warriors. Feelings of complacency and a sense of loss. Regret of no challenge. Longing for test of skill. Old faded memories that could not be recalled visually, but he could smell the salt of the sea air. The feeling of a horse between his legs. The cadence of its gallop. The taste of sprayed blood in his open mouth. The clear voice of an Asrai laughing, the laughter sounding as if it came from within. Then the old incomplete memory left and the Glamourweave elf saw an assembled host of a Highborn, his Eternal Guard and entire Kin Band, accompanied by dozens of Forest Spirits. They stood at watch at the borders of the forest. The assembled force slipped from his view and the demanding face of the Hunter King appeared again and dominating thought entered his mind ‘Why failed?’
“We have fought well,” protested Sulpav. “The Guardians have harried and tested the dwarves at every turn, but their numbers are as many as the leaves in your woods. It would appear that every dwarf that exists has assembled on our borders and meant to exterminate everything that is not of their race.”
Hunger struck him with more pain than possible for a dozen score of warriors to feel. It was the hunger of an entire army. The debilitating sensation left and a vision came of numerous raids of the Asrai. Some raids were ones that the Treesinger remembered being part of personally. Some were strikes against the wagon trains of the traitors of Ulthuan, while more were against the slow armored carts of the Dwarves, but all were attacks on supply caravans. Thunderous attacks that faded away once the wagons were aflame. Then came a sense of damning guilt. Condemnation that there were no newer memories of such attacks against the Dwarves.
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“Of course we would have raided their caravans.” The reply was meek and submissive. “We know an army cannot march on an empty stomach, but they have no such supply lines, at least none that we can find. Some of the Dryads and Waywatchers speak of roads that pass through great tunnels the dwarves keep, and underground we cannot pillage their wagons.”
Frustration. Dissapointment. A distrust of servants’ aptitude. Accusation of betrayal. Q’entril recognized that this last emotion was aimed personally at him. A new vision broke of him coaxing the trees to lift their roots and block the approach of naked orange haired dwarves, and then these dwarves falling in droves to the accurate arrows of Asrai scouts as they moved through the seamless cover of the trees.
“We did not fail you, great Lord. That is why I summoned you, our defender.” The Treesinger’s voice grew very somber. “We cannot fight from the trees when the trees do not stand.”
Confusion. Thoughts strained on remembering some event that would not come to mind. Faded images of battle. Flashes of fire. Muffled screams of the dying. Memories that refused to be completely recalled. Frustration.
“Can you not see it, my King?”
‘Soon’ was the impression. The elf felt as though he were caught in a briar and reaching for his staff that was just beyond his grasp, but some how his hand came closer with every breath.
“You are still to far from the border?” Affirmation, followed once again by the incomplete vision of fire and death.
The elf remained in this trance for several long minutes, his mind following the thoughts of the Great Hunter, Orion. As his Lord approached the borders of the forest, closer with every step, the vision became more and more focused. It also began to switch to more numerous views, the memories of the experiences of dozens of Forest Spirits. Scenes of battle from afar. Images of dwarves being ripped apart by the talons of the Dryads. The sight of Treeman, watching Asrai charge from cover to deal their death and then fade away again. Satisfaction.
But then the memories were overcome with later battles. Battles where Q’entril himself had barely escaped. The icon of the great Dwarf Highborn. Fire being spread amoung the trees. Kegs of oil launched by siege engines. Screams of dying trees and the Forest spirits. Glade riders cut down by withering hail of crossbow bolts. Asrai fighting bravely without cover. And everywhere the sound of axes hewing down living trees.
Rage. Supreme maddening rage. Q’entril Sulpav was grinding his teeth and didn’t even know it. The sight of the entire Vale of the Northern Sentinels leveled and burnt, even the saplings. Complete and total rage.
Durthu. The thought was sudden and commanding. The mind sight changed to see massive tree limbs crushing dwarves with seamless efficiency. Durthu standing alone. Sadness and vengeance for his massacred army. The oppressive weight of chains all over his body. Chains that dug deep into the bark. Had Q’entril been accompanied, his attendants would have seen welts and cuts in the shape of chain
184 links appear all over his body. Then the vision of a large axe. An axe covered with arcane runes. Understanding of the strange runic designs came. Fire. Power. Crippling pain coursed through his body as the large axe struck him in the face. Searing heat of the flame. Again the pain of death, as the large axe struck him again.
A horn. The vibration of galloping horses. The pain racked sight turned west and saw a charging army of the old city elves and their human allies. The relief that came with the blessed rain, magically summoned. Fire gone. Pain enduring. Pain unbearable. Blackout.
The face of Orion appeared again and the pressing demand of a single word echoed in the Asrai’s mind, ‘Where?’
“He is here my lord, at the Oak. As you saw, he fought with divine valor, until he alone remained, but was overcome by such endless numbers. The Asur, my cousins arrived in time and he yet lives.”
Searching. Searching. Nothing. Lies. Durthu dead.
“No. He does live. He is in torpor. I planted him here at the Oak and from it’s roots he yet drinks life from the moist earth. Tending him with all the lore of the Glamourweave, I believe we have averted his death, though I cannot mend his scars from the runic axes.”
Vengeance. Suffering. Desire for pain and havoc. The image of the head of the Dwarf Highborn, with his bright blood red beard mounted on the Spear of Loren.
“No Orion, you must come here first, or Durthu is lost,” protested the Treesinger Adanhu supports him. The oak feeds him. But I cannot revive his spirit. Only you can do that mighty King. You showed me your Hunt and it is a day behind you. Come here and aid your brother first. Then let your mighty wrath be gathered, so that it might hunt the head of the Dwarf King.”
Frustration. Displeasure. Anger of conflict within. Acknowledgement of wisdom. Duty. Consent. Then the great Orion broke the mind link and Q’entril Sulpav, the first elf to join his mind to the greatness that is the spirit of Athel Loren, fell to the ground utterly spent. ***************************
The horn rang out, loud and clear. Within the camp, dwarven hearts filled with new hope and strength as they heard its pure, melodious voice. The war was finally over. For Morgrimm Elgidum, it could not have come sooner. He waited for the horn blast to be repeated, the completion of the signal of Bron Baraz. Twice more the note was sounded, reverberating through the hillsides. With his next breath, Morgrimm took his first step east, to the entrance of the Undgrim in Karak Norn. His honor guard quickly fell in to step behind him, and Hazkal hastily wrote “Thus the High King secured peace in the West and kept his Oath to leave forthwith for our homes.”
Then Morgrimm was unsettled as he embarked on his march. The sound of a battle horn echoed once more upon the wind. Something was not right. Why would Bron sound the horn again? Could it be that the elves duped Baraz and slew him after the signal was given and now they held his horn?
The Grudgekeeper answered his thoughts, “That is no dwarven horn. The pitch is wrong. Besides, it comes from the forest.”
185
He was right, Morgrimm realized. This was no dwarven horn. Its voice brimmed with menace and anger.
“I have heard that horn before,” Demonslayer Snorri Stonefist whispered, “It is a herald of terror and death. Last time, I followed its sound, and found a field where scores of our brothers lay bloodied and broken. Many dwarves were so badly mauled, that they were almost unrecognizable. There were many tracks of a hoofprint I could not identify, as well as evidence of a small cadre of horses that had ridden through, but the carnage was always worse among the great hoof prints that were deep in the soil. The creature that left such tracks must have weighed five hundred stones, at least! How I wish I’d caught up with it. Whatever causes that horn to sound is a vicious and powerful monster that can rend finest steel as if it were paper. That would have been a truly might doom!”
“Perhaps your wish will come true today then,” added the more aged Slayer Baltri Redbeard, between his puffing breaths. The march of the King was fast indeed. “Grimnir willing, you and I may both die with our axes stained by its foul chaos tainted blood, and thus earn our places again among our ancestors”
“Such wishes should be more carefully guarded,” chided Hazkal Elgidreng. “They have a nasty habit of being granted. Look to the trees and behold the doom that is proclaimed!”
Even the King turned his head to the right and let out a small gasp, his adding to the others of his Longbeards around him. Stepping forth from the trees was a vision of horror and power, a terrible daemon of the forest. At first he seemed to be a massive beastman, standing some four or five meters tall, not counting the horns. He had cloven hooves for feet like a beastman too, but soon Morgrimm picked out key differences. The daemon was bare-chested, with not of the dark rust colored fur of the children of Chaos. No, he had clear skin with a pale green tint, almost like some cursed elf. Also the creature had antlers instead of the normal horns of a Gor. In his hand he carried a spear that was easily twice a large as any of the giant quarrels the Engineers fired from their Bolt Throwers. It looked like the mast of some small ship. A massive bow was slung across his back, and in his other hand he held a great horn.
It pointed to the main dwarf camp and a great Eagle flew out from the treetops to the main encampment. But there was greater activity amongst the trees. Silhouetted by some strange shifting lights, were the shapes of many elven warriors. Well at least some were clearly elves. Others were in the shape of elves but their limbs looked distorted and elongated. But the lights were moving and soon passed the waiting elven host. They were orbs of light of every imaginable color, and some were apparitions of smoke, shadow, and mist forms. All of these light forms bobbed on the air like butterflies. As the floating lights emerged from the forest, the King saw that the distorted silhouettes were not elves at all, but slender young trees with faces, their trunks split in to movable legs.
*************** “Krayshtir, with your wings and eyes, go to the stunted camp and find for our Lord where the Dwarf King stands.” Q’entril had recovered from the ordeal of the mind touch three days ago. Now that Orion was so close he did not need the power of the Oak to extend the reach of his spell. The Treesinger had reforged the connection this day, and he extended it to absorb the vision of the Great Eagle being sent forth. “Orion has shown me what he looks like. You search for a singular dwarf, one with a great red beard, the color of blood. His red face is more vibrant than any other so he should be easy for your eyes to find. Perchance you may find his throne of rock following him around, carried by his lackeys.”
186 Soaring high on the wind, the Great Eagle cast his piercing gaze all over the camp. Dozens of Dwarves picked up crossbows and fired at him, but he was too high to be reached by them. He circled the whole camp three times and could not find the blood red bearded king.
The TreeSinger was taken aback by the two simultaneous impressions. From the eagle Krayshtir, he felt confusion and bewilderment for the noble animal could not find any such red beard in the camp. From Orion, he felt a more powerful sense of frustration, as he too saw the raptor’s sight and no prey found.
”He must be here my King, your own vision you gave me showed him to me. The Forest spirits have seen his icon and his throne of stone.”
Impatience. Irritation. Hunger for blood.
“A moment more, Lord. The Eagle can descend for a better search. You cannot prevail against the entire host of the enemy. Perhaps with all the Kinbands of Loren, but the cost would be too high. Most assuredly, you cannot slay them all with only your Hunt.”
The eagle Krayshtir dove down towards the camp, cutting and weaving around the firing banks of Dwarves assembled with their crossbows. After dodging the keen shots of the Druchii, this was fairly easy for him. But even skimming over the tops of the tents, he could not find the red beard he was charged to locate. *********************
Snulli Ironfist watched the hovering light shapes emerging from the forest. A lone eagle was soaring overhead, but those lights were haunting to him. Most of the camp was not battle ready, having stripped off their heaviest armor to speed their departure. How much time did he have to make the warriors ready to defend whatever hell this sorcery would unleash?
“What magical hogwash is this?” he asked Rune Striker Grondul Dornison, the student of the late Dumac Thunderbrow.
“I know not.” Grondul was always one of few words, but he relented under Snulli’s gaze. “I can sense they are magical in nature, but they do not wield magic like the Elgi mages do.”
“So they will not try to blast us with the winds of Chaos?” asked Lord Ironfist.
“Their power is of some other form, though I cannot feel how it will manifest.”
“No matter,” said Snulli dismissively. “With the combined might of the Quarrelers, Engineers Guild, and your fellow Lords and their Anvils, we will drive back such a pitiful force.”
“I am no Rune Lord,” retorted Dornison. “I have some years of study to attain that mastery yet. I am still but a Rune Striker, and though I have more skill than a Smith, I dare not touch Lord Thunderbrow’s Anvil yet. But it can be put to use up on the hilltop by other Lords. And before he passed on, Dumac acquired new gifts from our Ancestor, Mordred.” As he said this, the Rune Forger caressed the runic carvings in the granite staff he held.
“But do be wary of hasty pride,” cautioned Grondul “While we have the firepower enough to deal with
187 the elves in the trees, we know not what affect these lights will have”
The large Daemon lifted his horn up and sounded out a long blast on it. As he did so the elves and other things in the trees surged forward. More unnerving was what happened with the floating light and shadow forms. As one they sunk into the debris of the felled forest. Power arched from stumps to logs. Slowly the logs and branches that had been hewn down in the days before began to rise up again. Several logs would assemble themselves into something mockingly familiar to a bipedal form. They rose themselves up to their full height, and stood some three to four meters tall each. More cut branches and logs served as makeshift arms ending in cruelly sharp claws. Faces contorted themselves in the very surface of the new log creatures. Ashes flaked off of them as they howled out their rage and anger over the decimation the dwarves had wrought.
Snulli was immediately concerned. Charging towards the encampment was a small skirmishing force of a couple thousand elves and added to them was some things that walked like elves, but looked like slender sapling tress. They were fearsome yes, and seemed to be made of one entire wooden tree form, where as the giant Timber Beasts were visibly a set of separate broken and burnt trunks and branches. All told, the force emerging from the wood could not be more than three thousand strong, hardly a worry, except for the presence of the great Daemon himself. But now, there were shielded by the presence of the Timber Beasts. Worse, the number of Timber Beasts was greater than the number of charging elves. In less than half minute the fighting strength of the enemy had more than quadrupled.
Lord Snulli Ironfist offered a quick prayer to Valaya in his heart, but saved his breath to shout orders for the Warriors to make ready. But he knew it would take precious minutes that he did not have to assemble them. Everyone was in preparation for departure. He would need to stall the onslaught. As he drew in breath to shout for the Ironbreakers to form a shield wall, he turned around and was never able to get the command out. He was almost instantly overrun by a sea of orange mohawks.
The roar of the Timber Beasts was matched by a thundering war cry of eight thousand slayers.
************** Diving and dodging, Krayshtir searched among the tents of the dwarves for the recipient of Orion’s wrath. But the eagle could not find any blood red beard anywhere. Q’entril consoled the beast and ordered him maintain watch at a safer height.
“My lord. We cannot find him. Perhaps the dwarf king you hunt hides in one of the tents?”
Contempt. Disdain of a coward. The bold thought of challenging the dwarf king filled the elf’s breast. He was confused at the thought and then understood. Orion meant to compel the Dwarf King to show himself by pressing on with the attack. Then when the commotion summoned forth the king, Orion and his hunt would pounce like a lynx in readiness. Truly, Orion was the master of the hunt.
The wisps had already been dispersing themselves out among the corpses of the murdered trees, preparing for the ordained signal. The King of Athel Loren would restrain himself no longer and he raised the Horn of the Hunt up to his lips.
As Orion blew the Horn, the wisps grasped hold of the tortured, mangled, and charred remains of forest. Today, they would truly be Tree Kin, avenging their beloved brothers. Over three thousand of them charge towards the heart of the enemy, and they would guard his Hunt from the quarrels of the stunted
188 folk. Behind them charged the loyal Hunt. Wild and Glade Riders galloping like the wind. Only the hand full of Alters that hunted with him this year could match their speed. The Dryads, War Dancers, and Guardians all pressed forward with enraged zeal. Mightiest of all were the three Treeman that had also come to aid him. They had simply moved to the edge of the forest the night before and taken up positions as if they were normal trees. Now they erupted into action, bellowing at the bringers of fire and death. The Wild Hunt was over twenty-four hundred strong, though more than half of that was the Dryads that had come, due to their anger over the slaughtered trees, but now with the added strength and durability of the Tree Kin, Orion had the power make a river of blood flow from the cowardly dwarves that hid behind cumbersome metallic armor and shields. They had not the speed or skill to compete against his war host.
The Lord of the Hunt began to stride forward working himself up to his full speed. The mind link was less potent with every step, but the Treesinger Sulpav could feel Orion reveling in the anticipation of his first kill and the knowledge that his prey would not stay hidden for long. Satisfaction, complete staisfaction. Elation and excitement and the thrill of the Hunt. Q’entril almost sprang forth from the trees himself to rush forward with the rest of the Guardians
All was well, thought the Treesinger. At least until he saw a massive tide of orange charging towards the shock line of Tree Kin. ****************
The High King could hardly believe his eyes. The strange sorcery of the forest was baffling before, but now there was an instant army of these Timber Beasts, created straight from the lumber that had been cleared and burnt. Now the smaller force of the elves and slender forest daemons were also on the move, and 3 of the trees had just spontaneously picked up their roots and were striding towards his army behind him. How many more would follow suit?
Clearly this Green Daemon that sounded the attack was the famed leader of this renegade wood elf hunting band. But this was the band that he roved with? It was immense.
“To arms my guard,” he shouted his command.
“No, my King, we cannot,” corrected his Grudgekeeper.
“Damn you, don’t tell me no, Hazkal.” Morgrimm was indeed cross. “Turn about!”
“Hold to the road, brothers!” Hazkal Elgidreng looked his King dead in the eye. “I do not presume to command you. You yourself have ordered us not to turn round.”
“But . . “
“It is my duty to counsel the King that he fulfills every oath.” continued Hazkal. “ ‘Thus the High King swore his oath to not take a step west until he had arrived in Mt Gunbad in three weeks time,'” he quoted, before turning to face Morgrimm. “And a Kings oath . . . “
“ . . . is hard as stone, yes my friend.” The King conceded with a heavy heart. “But those are my people, in peril there. Is it not my duty to defend them?” He challenged the Grudge keeper’s lore, longing for a way to serve both Oaths.
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“Your people behind us are hardened warriors, lead by seasoned Lords and Thanes.” answered Elgidreng. “They will vanquish this enemy. Mighty though it is, it cannot match their total strength. Ahead are also your people who have garrisons stretched thin protecting our women and children, from a much more numerous foe.”
“Tis true, but I feel compelled to do something when so close at hand there will be Dwarven lives lost.”
“Aye, lives will be lost,” interjected Baltri Redbeard.
“If we are lucky,” added Snorri Stonefist, “there will be many lost, and us included. Here is a task fit for Slayers, and a doom worthy to restore our honor.”
“We swore an oath to protect the King,” shouted Baltri. “We will fulfill that Oath doubly today. Let us protect you from this Daemon, and save your shame from not aiding your fellow Dawi.”
The King nodded his agreement, though all could see he still felt uneasy about it.
“Then may Grungni speed your boots,” offered Snorri as he, Baltri and three score more slayers broke out of the formation, heading to the tree monsters with wild enthusiasm in their eyes.
“And may Grimnir grant you all the glorious end you seek,” replied the Grudgekeeper.
“Aye, may Grungni grant us all such a noble heart as these,” added Morgrimm.
****************
Lord Ironfist fought to keep his feet as the Slayers came rushing past him. In a flash he remembered the faces of two of his battle brothers from the Throngal Grund. Owing to their Oaths, he called them by their new Slayer names.
“Ssupras! Owsiak! Hold a moment!” he shouted out to them, not knowing if he was heard. It would seem he was.
“Don’t delay us now! Let a couple of old Dwarves go and die well.” was Owsiak’s annoyed response.
“Die well, but give me time! The lads are not ready for battle. Just delay them enough to allow us to organize and prepare a counter assault, that is all I ask,” came the Battle Lord’s plea.
“Nay, Stone Leg,” Ssupras teased his old friend about the injury. “Make ready the enduring mountain, but leave the Slayer Cult to what we do best. When we are all laid low and ascending to the Halls of the Ancestors, then do what you think best with whatever remains of the enemy. But if the Warriors are not as ready as us, then leave us to our fate.”
“As you wish,” acknowledge Snulli. “Give Grogan a slap on the back from me when you see him in the Halls.”
Turning to the Rune Striker, “Grondul, can you signal the Lords to strike these foul beasts down with the
190 Anvils?”
“Nay, for I already hear their chanting and it is right.” He said with closed eyes. “They invoke not Wrath and Ruin, but Oath and Honor.”
“What? Why not? What are they doing?”
“They rightly aid the King.”
************** Q’entril felt Orion’s joy as he charged in with his warriors when his magesight detected the release of magic. He saw the power radiating out from the hilltop over looking the field and rushing out to the east. His gaze followed the trail left in the Aethyr and found a small band the orange bearded dwarves rushing down on the Asrai army’s flank. In the distance, a single formation of dwarves was moving in the other direction, towards the nearby mountain hold of the Dwarves. As the magic hit them, their pace immediately surged. Another wave followed the first , and then another, until the Dwarves were covering ground as fast as cavalry. At this magical pace, they would cover ten miles in twice as many minutes.
“Krayshtir, what is that block of dwarves to the east?”
The eagle broke his circling of the camp and dove at the dwarves on the road. It did not seem like much, just a group of battle tested elder dwarves. Not a single red beard in their lot. But they did carry the stone chair with them.
Orion stopped in his tracks. He shared the magical sight of the Treesinger still. Confused. Insecurity. Hesitation. Doubt. Two paths through the forest, one to the north and the other to the east, but neither seeming the correct way to go. Empty throne. An image of Orion without his spear. Disbelief. Befuddlement. Desire for the hunt. Desire to know where the prey hides. The face of the Red beard Dwarf. Wonder. The thought of death. The red beard dwarf lying dead on a bier. Wonder. Resoning. The forest paths again, but the path to the north disappears. Confidence. Purpose. Pain!!!
A boulder had knocked into the Hunter directly into his left shoulder. He was bodily pressed into the dirt. The Dwarven war machines were beginning their deadly volleys. Accurate as the shot may have been, Orion was favored of Loren and the hit caused no damage. Q’entril praised the forest for that. Perhaps the stone had been cast by fate for as Orion fell a giant arrow pierced the air where his head had been only instants before.
The King of Loren was on one knee regaining his footing when another stone plummeted towards him. Lartasin, the willow Treeman was running past him at the right momrnt and deftly caught the falling boulder in his supple, viny branches. Spinning on the spot, Lartasin redirected the momentum of the rock, transformed momentarily into a version of a giant sling, and flung the stone back at the war machines that so cowardly would rain death from afar. It found it’s mark among the battery of siege engines, smashing down one of the stone throwers.
The hail of missiles was daunting. The Glamourweave kinsman watched Faldul, the hickory Treeman, take a direct hit from one of those boulders and lose one of his arms. Another had come crashing down into the Tree Kin, instantly pulverizing three of them into so many splinters. More were landing with
191 deadly results among the Dryads and Glade Guardians. Lacking an effective way to shoot over the tall Tree Kin, towards the elven warriors behind, the dwarf crossbows were desperately trying to shoot down the tough Tree Kin. Most of the quarrels found their mark, but the effect was largely to lend the Tree Kin and appearance of porcupines, with the quarrels just sticking into their bark. But nonetheless some fell under such withering fire. But more had succumbed to the giant crossbows in the siege batteries. The massive bolts plowed right through the Tree Kin and slew some of the riders behind them. The wards of Loren still blessed some of them. Q’entril saw one of the Tree Kin take a direct shot, but the bolt failed to pierce him. This spared Tree Kin simply ripped the bolt out of his midsection, broke of the arrow head and then absorbed the shaft, granting himself a third arm.
Yes, thought Q’entril, let them try their best. We will adapt, as the forest always does and rise triumphant This was the trademark of the dwarves, to shoot with massive firepower, and then try and absorb the charge of their enemy. The cowards always wait for the fight to come to them. Their shooting was proving of small consequence, and soon their best advantage would be useless, as the Hunt closed the distance. Then Orion would surely see that their blood flow.
The King of Loren regained his feet and resumed his charge. Again the mind link showed the treesinger the thoughts of his Lord. Boasting. Confidence of skill. Trust of his bow. A memory of an Asrai archery contest where they routinely made very difficult shots with ease. The Glade Guard were ordered to put their arrows on the siege battery. They could not destroy the machines, but the loading crews would be hard press to continue their work. Another boulder was falling like a meteor onto the Tree Kin. In a single smooth motion Orion drew the Hawks Talon from his back pulled the bow string and loosed its potency into the air. The powerful arrow he loosed was perfectly aimed, even as he continued his charge. It struck the falling stone in mid flight shattering it over the heads of the charging orange beards.
Pride. Satisfaction. Pleasure. The sight of bloodied and crushed orange haired dwarves. Close. Prey that can challenge. Rejoicing. Anticipation for enjoyable slaughter. Laughing, the great king Orion fired a second arrow at the stone hurler contraptions. The shot dislodged the throwing arm of the contraption. Throwing his bow aside, He twirled his spear above his head and charged into the fray with reckless abandon.
Q’entril himself was roaring his battle cry and lept down from his perch in the aspen tree. All thought of the throne in the small party on the eastern road forgotten. His only thoughts were those of his Lord and King, Orion. Thoughts of hunting killing and the glory of battle. *******************
Snulli Ironfist watched with satisfaction as the initial volley of the Engineers proved nearly perfectly effective. The Timber Beasts were being reduced to kindling by the Bolt Throwers and a Grudge thrower had found its mark directly on the Green Daemon. The ranks of Quarrelers were surely doing their best, but the Timber Beasts were generally too resilient to be harmed by crossbows, and too thick in numbers to permit a bolt to pass through to the more vulnerable elves in the rear. By their sheer height, using a crossbow to shoot over them was nearly impossible.
Snulli had ascended the hillside a bit and saw how the blessings of the Ancestors had so speedily aided the King away on his journey. It seemed that the few Slayers that had accompanied him were now making a rear defense or counter charge into the eastern flank of the Elgi force.
But on the whole, the massed fire of the dwarves had not thinned the enemy as he had hoped. There
192 were only a few seconds remaining before the two battle lines would meet.
“Will the Rune Lords not aid us?” Snulli demanded of Grondul.
“The Anvils are not trinkets to use lightly.” corrected Dornison. “But rest assured, the anger of our Ancestor, Azram, will be felt by our enemies.” With that he took both hands and drove the granite Rune Staff deep into the soil. He chanted a short prayer to the Heart of the Mountain and then struck the staff with the heel of his axe.
One of the runes on it flashed to life. The vibration of the hit magnified in the staff and discharged itself into the earth. With the sound of deep thunder, Snulli watched the energy flow out to the enemy at an unbelievable speed, the earth expanding as if a large gopher was making his burrow. The wave of force streaked out under the charging slayers and then the earth under three of the Timber Beasts exploded up into them. Grondul smiled as he repeated the prayer and made ready to strike the next rune, which seemed to Snulli exactly like the first one. Ironfist noticed with equal satisfaction that the Timber Beasts so struck did not rise from receiving the wrath of Azram.
“I see now why you call it the Makaz Duraz,” said Snulli with a smile. “It truly is a mighty weapon of stone.”
“Actually it is not the Makaz Duraz but one of several.” replied the Rune Striker, after sending the next burst of power from the staff. “Thunderbrow made a few and oversaw my work on this one. The Anvils are far more potent, as this is just a traveling version of the Wrath and Ruin. But even asleep in the mountains, Azram sends out his vengeance to our foes.”
Snulli saw that the ground was exploding under the Timber Beasts in multiple points all along their center. Not every one of affected Beasts fell, but the result was reassuring. A final volley of crossbow bolts passed through the hole in their line and struck down dozens of mounted elves.
Snulli saw that Grondul was about to strike again. “Wait! The Slayers are upon them, you can’t risk it.”
“True, but I thought we’d give that troublesome willow something to think about.”
Moments later the walking willow tree was knocked off it’s legs. Clearly it was wounded from the force of the blast.
“You see the power travels through the earth, so it can’t endanger our kin.” explained Dorinson. “Hmmn, I have used all my staff’s runes. It will take much work to recharge them.”
As he said this, Snulli watched as the last series of blasts coming from the other Rune Smiths reach out under the soil to their prey. One erupted under some dryads, another in the midst of the massed elven archers. The final one was headed to the huge walking pine.
**************** The battle line was rent open by some strange dwarven earthy enchantments. The crossbows exploited the gap, striking at the honored Wild Riders. Lartasin was knocked from his feet by these earth eruptions and half of the Glade guard archers were routing due the carnage another blast had caused. Q’entril saw another furrow of this stunty sorcery carving its way towards Bartosh, the pine Treeman. He halted his
193 overly impetuous charge and shouted a quick warning to him. Bartosh quickly stopped his run, planting his feet and sending out his root into the soil beneath him, wrapping the earth in a net of tendrils. The spell of the dwarves reached him and released its fury, but could not erupt through the mass of tightly held dirt. The explosion forced its way up around him. A circle of earth blasted out in a ring, but the mighty Treeman , although obviously pained, was unharmed.
Orion selected his first victim of the day. The mad dwarf was racing towards him with axe raised over his head, as if he actually believed it was capable of hurting Loren’s King. The Hunter joyfully pierced the dwarf in the middle of its orange beard, straight through the breast bone. As he passed over the gurgling dwarf he simply grasped the weapon with his other hand just behind the spearhead and pulled the shaft of the spear all the way through, never slowing his gait for a moment. His next kill was a dwarf who had been thrown off of a nearby Tree Kin. The instant he landed, Orion flattened his skull with one mighty hoof, utterly crushing it, and the stunty’s brains oozed out from the cleft of the hoof. Another was hacking at a fallen Tree Kin. As the crazed thing raised his axe, the Forest King swung his spear tip, severing the dwarf’s hands at the wrist. Spinning around he brought the deadly spear round like massive scythe to flatten all the dwarves around him with a single swing. Some defiant little menace managed to catch the spear point with a blow of his axe. His spear halted for a precious moment, two dwarves seized the opportunity and grabbed on to the haft of the spear, hopping to immobilize it or at least hamper his ability to use it. Pitiful fools. Orion lifted the spear with one hand to prove his might and brought it crashing down on top of a stump, impaling both dwarves in a mangled mess. He continued to unleash his unearthly anger, slaying two dwarves with every breath he took. They fought bravely but all their skill and power were totally out classed by the King of the Forest. **************
The Slayer Cult slammed into the Timber Beasts with eager anticipation. In some areas, the orange mohawks set about chopping wood with unquenchable fury. Their axes were turned aside in some cases by strange warding magics, but their impetuousness carried them forth until the logs lay still on the ground again. At other spots along the line, the wooden apparitions reaped a harvest of death and blood that would make the stoutest heart wretch his breakfast. Slayers were beaten to death with their own arms or legs that had been plucked from their sockets, even as they continued hacking at their enemy. Another tree daemon grabbed two Dwarves by had been chopping it by their ankles and used them as bludgeons to kill more Slayers. When it was done with their corpses, it smashed their mangled forms together and dropped the two slayers that were now so badly disfigured and dismembered that they were not distinguishable as having once been separate dwarves.
In the center of the line, where the Timber Beasts had been blasted down, the slayers eagerly climbed over the piles of logs and met the charge of the mounted elves. Here and there they were skewered on the spears of the chargers, but also many more used their height atop the mounds of blasted Timber Beasts to leap straight at the riders. Dwarf steel was buried into soft elf chests. Elf spear were deftly guided into the hate filled eyes of dwarves. Horses that had been ham strung whinnied their dying cries, as axe rang against swords. It was hard to know which side held the upper hand, but the warriors on both sides fell by the hundreds. Soon the blood and entrails on the ground was so thick that even the horses could not always find sure footing.
One of the slayers proved enterprising. With all his might he lifted one of the logs that had moments before been his foe and began to swing it like a massive cudgel, knocking down both rider and horse. Back and forth he punished any elf that dared to approach, except for a particularly agile elf that also wore his hair in a Mohawk. The elf was covered in tattoos, and fought with dual swords. Spinning and
194 flipping through the air, he evaded the mighty swings of the Slayer. In an acrobatic jump he landed behind the dwarf and brought both blades against each other, cleanly severing the arm of the Dawi. Having landed in a crouch, the deft elf stood up stabbing one sword through small of the slayers back and out his stomach, and the other through his neck, and lifted him bodily in triumph over his head. The slayer raged on, bringing one meaty fist into the back of the elgi’s head. The tattooed elf slumped lowering his kill to his shoulders. The dying slayer used all of his hatred in a final gambit. With his remaining hand he wound his own beard around the neck of the elgi and pulled with all his ebbing might. In moments both breathed their last, one choked and the other drowning in his own blood.
The sheer weight of numbers, and in some cases the literal weight of bodies, was soon felling the Timber Beasts. Fully half of the slayers had been slain by their mighty claws, their tough and muscled dwarven bodies ripped apart, or bashed and broken into distended corpses. Heads had been plucked directly off of their shoulders. This was not just war, but butchery of the highest form. But the Timber Beasts could not withstand the wrath of the Slayer Cult any more than sandstone can withstand a pick and shovel. Almost entirely, the raised logs were split, splintered and dashed into so much kindling.
Truly the Slayers were magnificent in their victories, and they also died in fantastic and revolting ways. In both instances, the Dwarves were overjoyed with the result.
Here they found a foe that was both mighty and fearsome. These elves and tree things were possessed by some vendetta of vengeance just like them. Best of all, these warriors of the forest seemed just as determined to not quit the field as they. It was clear that neither side would give the slightest ground.
The path of death tread by the Green Daemon and the three walking trees was so ravenous that it could not be missed by anyone. The Green Daemon ran amuck through the dwarves, never slowing, deftly stepping through the thickest fighting without harming his elf servants. His spear stuck so quickly as to nearly be lost to sight. And his might was so strong that once, a dwarf tried to block the spear point with the flat of his axe, only to find it pierced through, and his heart punctured all the same. This monstrous creature even had the insolence to pick up dwarves by their beards and swing them over his head until the force ripped the skin from their face. The foul Daemon had the audacity to store these beards in his quiver, as if they were mementos.
The walking trees were a problem of a different sort. They came directly, stomping on half a dozen dwarves at a time. Nearby, Slayers found themselves grasped and flayed by roots that sprang up from the earth, sometimes being pulled to the ground and thorny roots piercing into their ears, eyes, and other orifices. With his one remaining arm, the hickory brought down his hand to grant blessed death to four more brothers who all swung at the hand that smote them. As it raised its arm once more, the four slayers were a mound of red pulp and their axes embedded into it’s hand.
Thorin Jednooki and Sigurd were unphased by these wooden titans. As cousins they were well accustomed to felling trees, as their family was known for supplying the finest beer kegs. They knew very well how to bring trees down, and a moving tree should prove no different. With a knowing look exchanged between them, they nodded to each other and set to work. Darting between the hickory’s legs, Sigurd charged and cleft his axe deep to the leg, the blow so hard he could not pull his axe free. The hickory thing roared in anger and tried to grab him but he dove free. Thorin rushed in next, striking just below his cousin, also burying his axe to its neck. Angered the tree turned and tried to stomp on him with its other leg, but it was just what the pair wanted. With their precision blows it’s injured leg could not support it’s weight. With a mighty crack the leg-trunk buckled and down it went. The nearby Slayers
195 swarmed over it and quickly quartered it.
Thorin tossed his cousin’s axe back to him and pointed at the big pine that was yet unharmed. “Do you remember how to speed top a pine?”
“Aye, that is just the ticket.”
They both grabbed a spare axe from among the dead as they ran over to the nearby pine monster that was killing close to two score of Dwarves a minute. Dodging bow fire and hacking through slender elf sized wood daemons, they made their way to the rear of the pine.
“Last one up is squig dung,” challenged Sigurd. They proceeded to climb straight up the back of the great pine. Using their axes in each hand, with honed skill they rose up hand over hand. Their axes getting bite in the tough bark they hauled themselves up to strike and again with the other hand. Such was their proficiency that they ascended as quickly as one might climb a stairway. Reaching what could only be described that the pine’s shoulders, they began to chop away at its neck or head, or something, quickly cleaving gaps into both sides of the tree. Whatever part they attacked, it was effective as the pine definitely took notice. It spun around to dislodge them, but the clever Slayers simply bit their axes deep and held on. When it scratched and clawed at them they responded with the spare axes in hacking off its fingers. Finally, when they had nearly chopped through to each other, the pine in frustration slammed both hands directly against the sides of its head. Thus ended the woodsmen slayers Sigurd and Thorin Jednooki, crushed on the sides of the head of this pine monster. But even in death they were victorious, as the simple minded, or shortsighted tree hit itself in its weakened head, finishing their work for them, breaking the cut they had started. A moment later the pine simply collapsed where it stood.
*************** Q’entril could not quite believe the ferocity of these dwarves. Orion himself had slain hundreds. Barely one dwarf in ten still stood, yet still they persisted. They attacked with reckless disregard for defense. Perhaps they were mad, or perhaps these had been touched by the wyld in some way. Whatever the reason, they were definitely a worthy foe. Orion’s feelings of pleasure and enjoyment were intoxicating in his mind. The Hunt Lord was culling the last of the orange beards on the western slope, as the Treesinger surveyed the field. Two of the Treemen had fallen and on the eastern end of the field the willow, Lartasin, was just lit aflame by some impressive dwarf with an axe that glowed of magic. The Wild Hunt had been reduced to a few hundred now, but the dwarves were likewise sparse in number.
It was now at it’s end, a battle of the elite. Wardancers and Alters weaved and struck out at the determined Slayers. Some of the Wild Riders fought on still, their mounts having been cut from underneath them; they continued the hunt on foot. One such Rider had just run down a dwarf and speared him through the belly. Yet the stubborn dwarf simply pulled himself further onto the shaft of the spear and beheaded his killer before falling himself to the ground.
Elsewhere there was a Dryad locked in a contest with another dwarf, her hands on the haft of her opponents axe. In one flash of motion, she released her grip and plunged a fist into the belly of her adversary, only to open her claws inside him and withdrawn her hand along with the stunty's filthy innards. As she walked away to seek her next victim, she was ensnared by the dwarves intestines, as he roped her with them, and painfully pulled her back before cleaving her in two. ****************
196 Thus it was all over the field. The remaining hardened warriors on both sides slew each other with equally gruesome effectiveness. The only one that killed at will with out any impeding him was the Hunt Lord of Loren.
Soon he stood alone for Athel Loren, and only four Slayers remained to challenge him. Baltri Redbeard, Snorri Stonefist, Owsiak and Ssupras were all seasoned members of the Brotherhood of Grimnir, each having earned the title of Dragon or Daemon Slayer. So much blood dripped off of them that it was impossible to tell if they were nursing any wounds themselves. Each gripped an axe that pulsed with runic energy.
Orion had underestimated his quarry that day, but he would not continue to do so. These four remaining would not make prey of him, and he knew the glow of those axes was something to beware. He feinted at one and then another, testing to see which was mostly likely to commit an error. They didn’t even flinch. They were worthy of his attentions.
Owsiak took the initiative, putting to good use the Runes of Swiftness and Fury. Racing in, he swung deftly at the daemon who parried three blows and then, using his spear, he vaulted over the Slayer’s head. Redbeard moved in next, scoring a nasty cut on the monster’s thigh, which only proved to enrage the beast further, and in return received the butt of the spear in his face. As Baltri spat teeth from his mouth, he watched the Daemon attack Snorri to his right, while Ssupras moved in from it’s left. Snorii defended brilliantly, and took one minor wound in this right leg from the serrated edge of the spear. As Ssupras moved in he aimed high at the distracted Daemon, hoping to bury the axe in the small of it’s back.
Orion had anticipated this. He simply released his left hand from the spear and reached back and surprised the dwarf by grabbing the axe in midswing. and promptly lifting the dwarf up, pulling him down to be impaled upon his prodigious antlers.
Ssupras died well, though he failed to land the Rune of Smiting, he died clawing out one of the Daemon’s eyes. The foe half blinded now, Redbeard charged in again, determined to make the monster feel the bite of the Runes of Might and Fire. The Monster counter attacked while stamping his good leg in the blood soaked earth, spraying a carnal mud in the face of the approaching Owsiak. Baltri traded blow for blow and then saw an opening where he might remove the monsters leg right at the knee.
Orion was enjoying himself. It had been long since he had prey that could challenge him. This large dwarf swung at his wounded leg with a dismembering blow, so the Hunter leaned over and used all his strength to plan his spear haft in the ground and blocked the blow, though only just barely. Had not he held it with both hands against the strike, he may not have prevented it. With unnatural speed, he straightened up and flicked the butt of the spear staff between the legs of the impudent dwarf sending him flying up in the air.
Baltri had never expected to be flipped in the air like some flat cake. The hellish daemon had planned it well, and he saw that its plan was that he land on the raised point of it’s spear. “Well I still have my axe,” thought Baltri, and he prepared his final strike as he fell on the spear. For an instant his body hung helpless 5 meters in the air and then struck his final blow, bringing his axe down against the Daemon’s wrist. The blow was clean and took the monster by surprise. Green ichor gushed on Baltri from the wrist stump as he fell once again and died.
197 Owsiak had cleared his face and moved in with the blessing of the Rune of Swiftness and struck while the Daemon’s face was skyward, spitting Baltri. He landed his blow in the beast’s abdomen, and passed through its legs. But he did not escape. With it’s good leg the Daemon kicked out to the rear. The hoof broke his back and sent the slayer flying fifty meters until he was impaled on the jagged remains of a Timber Beast.
Orion was enraged beyond almost all reasonable thought. The pain angered him to a degree unimaginable by mortals. With his one remaining hand he picked up the spear and stepping on the skewered corpse of the cursed dwarf, pealed it from his weapon. Seeing the cursed axe that had taken his hand, Orion brought his spear down on the flat of the axe head. With a blinding flash the magic of the two weapons contested and then a loud crack was heard. Satisfied, now that the axe was broken in two, the Hunter looked for his final challanger. The last stunty was limping as well but had climbed a nearby tall tree stump a few dozen meters away. Very well, he wants me to come to him, then death will come. With a roar of pure rage, the Lord of the Hunt charged the last dwarf.
Snorri knew this was his doom and welcomed it. He only prayed the blessings of the Grudge Rune be granted today. He jumped forward and brought the axe down into the daemon’s left breast, even as he was run through with that massive spear. Both of their blood’s spilled freely from their dual deathblows.
There it ended. Just before midday, scarcely two hours after it the horn had been sounded the battle of the Slayers and Wild Hunt ended with both armies entirely spent.
*****************
Much later, after sundown, the last of the carts were rolling out for their long journey. The Engineers had limbered up their machines first, and then the Rune Lords left with their holy Anvils, accompanied by the honor guard of their respective holds. The rest of the great army of the Dwarven Empire had left in waves following that. Now it was just Snulli Stonefist and the last of the regiments that would accompany him back to Karak Kadrin.
Throughout the afternoon though, hardly a word had been spoken. The vision of the morning’s battle was sobering to all. The very trees that had been felled and burnt had risen up and fought with power and fury against the entire Slayer Cult that had been present. They had seen fifty meter trees walk and kill with brutal efficiency. And then the horror of that legendary Daemon. And yet the Slayers had stopped them all. In tribute to their ultimate sacrifice, they kept a silent vigil that day.
But still Snulli could not help but think that a more tangible tribute was needed to commemorate their glory that they had earned this day. He also remembered the rune axes that remained on the field. He asked the carts and warriors to wait as his shield bearers carried him to the center of the field of blood. They traveled carefully with miner’s lamps and soon found the body of Owsiak and wrapped his axe in a goat skin. Then the axe of Ssupras was found, its runes still glowing. Then, in the dark, they found the remains of the Daemon and Snorri
Snulli kept thinking that the Shrine of Grimnir deserved a fitting memento. The spear was immense and still seemed to pulse with forbidden energy. Even if he thought he could lift it, he dared not touch the spear, and for the same reasons the monster’s hunting horn. Then he noticed the corpse of Ssupras, impaled on those antlers. Yes he thought, that would be most appropriate. With care, he freed the Slayer’s corpse from them, then Snorri’s rune axe from it’s chest, and finally cut off the antlers. As he did
198 so, he and his shield bearers heard a loud noise, like the creaking of wood.
They hastily looked around, casting the light from their lanterns about them, searching for anything amiss. Nothing seemed wrong except for the burn marks on the tree growing near by. Then Snulli recalled the final moments of the battle. There had been no tree here where the Daemon and Snorri Stonefist fell.
Cautiously he cast the light of his lantern up the tree. There were multiple scars from both fire and axes. Then his fear was confirmed when he saw a face. Stumbling back Snulli could not catch himself on account of his bad leg and fell in the blood soaked earth. The Treeman just stared at the three of them for the longest time, his eyes focusing on Ironfist’s maimed leg for what seem like ages.
Then, though it made no sense to Snulli, it seemed the Treeman sighed, and then slowly turned to look at the road and the waiting warriors and carts. If he had to guess, the Dwarf Lord would have guessed that it was weakened and the movement pained it. It raised one branch or arm and then it’s mouth opened and a strange noise issued forth. It was a blend of the rustling of leaves, groaning of wood, and a deep resonating voice that made sounds undistinguishable as words.
But all the same, Snulli somehow knew exactly what it was saying to him
“You’re people . . . go?”, it asked.
“Yes, we leave this land for our homes in east.”
“All the kin . . . will go? . . . None to return?”
“Correct, we live under the mountains, and hope never to see this forest again.”
“Good. All while sun falled . . . you migrations . . . I was seeing.”
“What?” even the words in Snulli’s mind barely made sense.
“Regret. Your words patterns . . . very short . . . very direct. Not flowing like river . . . the dwarf thoughts. Hard to . . . transform . . . words rightly.” The Treeman turned back to them and groaned as it crouched down. Picking up one of the cut antlers he asked, “Why you want . . . do this?”
“I came to collect the weapons of my kin, and a token by which we can remember their bravery”, it was a simple answer and true enough, thought Snulli
“Hmmmmmn.” Clearly the tree creature was considering well his reply, and paused a long time staring at him. Then it asked, “You suffer . . . great battle damage?” it pointed to his bad leg.
“Yes. Fighting the followers of Malekith. They destroyed part of my home. We return now to rebuild our damaged holds and rest. But the health of my leg will never be recovered.”
“Malekith. Name of evil. Well known . . . to my peoples. I happier am . . . to know short ones . . . fight him too. I also forever . . . will carry my wounds.” It stood up tall showing it’s dozens of scars.
199 “Yes, they look horrible Tree Lord.” It was an honest appraisal. Snulli did not relish the thought of carrying such scars.
“Your kin . . . these make.” Suddenly Ironfist felt much more uneasy. He knew very well that the scars on the Treeman were almost certainly caused by runic axes bearing the Rune of Fire. The Treeman stood there for a long time looking at himself, at Snulli, at the dead Slayers, and then at the Daemon body. Finally it spoke again.
“Your people . . . my peoples . . . much the same. In battle . . . we fight well. We punish . . . evil Malekith. We both avenge . . . wrongs against our kin. We both now . . . remake homes damaged. We both can calm hearts . . . and speak with . . . respect.” The mighty Treeman bent down again, extending his hand which he opened, showing them the severed hand of the Daemon, but more importantly, the missing axe of Baltri Redbeard they had been searching for. Better said, it was the fragments of the axe of Redbeard, the blade and the runes broken.
Snulli considered the proffered gift carefully, knowing full well that this very axe may have been the one that nearly took the like of this wounded tree creature.
“Keep that TreeLord,” responded Lord Ironfist. The broken axe could possibly be reforged, but tradition didn’t compel him to bring back the broken axe, any more than it required him to bring back a dead Slayer. “You and your people have earned it. Let it serve as a reminder to your people of the savagery of this day, and the great power of your champion. Let them remember the great loss of life of this morning, that perhaps this bloodbath may never repeat itself between our people.”
“Thank you. I accept. Dwarf speak . . . nobly. You show honor . . . show want of peace. Your wisdom visions that . . . remembering token . . . will help keep peace. ”He then brought forth his other hand, still holding the antler of the Daemon. He looked at it a moment and then extended it to the three dwarves. “Take them. I honor you gift . . . am wanting . . . same for your kin.” Snulli reached out and took the offering “Your dead kin . . . earn this tribute. Orion is not . . . defeated with ease.
“Remember bargain . . . dwarf.” The Treeman stood up and the sounds that seemed to serve as it’s voice grew booming and threatening. “This no gift simple. This token is gaved . . . that you teach . . . your kin . . . must stay away. Must give peace . . . to my peoples. Teach them . . . terrible death come to all . . . that invade forest. The Hunt that fought today . . . was small force. Personal warband . . . of Orion. All power of my forest . . . with her peoples . . . more horrible still. Go home, honoring dwarf . . . . with the wound of . . . Malekith. Take your people home. With this gift, allow never to be forgetting . . . tragic lifecost . . . of today. Live in peace . . . in your mountains . . . far away from forest. But go. Do not come back.”
Snulli nodded and accepted the proffered gift of the antler. This Treelord was a bit pushy, but it matter not. The Children of Grungni were leaving regardless, thus his threats and terms were hollow because they were needless.
The Treeman bowed his head in salute, and then reached out and picked up the body of Orion, draping it over one great wooden arm. He already had the bow and now collected the spear and horn of the Hunter.
“Two questions, if I may be permitted Tree Lord.” It nodded. “What is your name?”
200 “I am Durthu . . . Ancient One.”
“Tree Lord Durthu, to teach my people well to remember this day, I would like to record the name of your champion. Who is he?” Snulli phrased his question well.
“He is Orion . . . Great Hunter . . . King of Athel Loren.” With that Durthu turned round to carry Orion back in to the forest.
“Wait,” Snulli was concerned or curious but he had to know. “He was your King?”
Durthu strode away to the trees with his royal burden, never stopping; only speaking back towards them, “No. You speak mistake. Orion IS . . . ever will be . . . our King.”
Snulli Ironfist was left alone to unravel the mystery of these words.
201 The Vision By TimmyMWD Hour of the Wolf
For days they had crept through the shadow of the forest, trailing the horde of rat creatures that penetrated into the forest of Athel Loren. The furred beasts spread out across the wide area, pouring out from an unknown chasm in the mountain range. The commander from the leading kindred had delayed the ambush until reinforcements arrived from the treeman Borithmor and his kin. Throughout the day, scattered bands of elves waited for the signal that help had arrived, as they were all eager to assault the invaders.
Tilting his head slightly to displace leaves from his field of vision, the waywatcher could see rats of all sizes skitter past only a few paces in front of him. Beads of sweat trickled down as his cover of leaves and twigs kept his body heat trapped. The uncomfortable temperature combined with his desire to slay the invaders, making him want to let lose an arrow right then and there. He chirped out a shrill call, and over the course of a few moments received similar sounds in response as his fellow waywatchers confirmed their position. They were scattered, and like him on their bellies under a pile of leaves, assuredly sharing his desire to shed their cover and strike at the enemy.
In the background, he saw the treeline shift slightly. Overhead, the cry of a great eagle rang out over the forest. Some of the rat creatures scanned the sky in fear, but many had become used to threatening sounds after a few days march in Athel Loren. As the waywatcher adjusted his head slightly to see if any other activity was going on, he felt several pricks along his back. Looking up to his forehead, he could see several tiny forest sprites leaping off his body and onto the forest floor, sprinting towards the skaven host. All around him the forest floor shook as dryads burst past his concealed position, roaring as they closed in on the rats. On the opposite side of enemy army more dryads and spirits were driving in on the enemy flank.
From behind him came a bellowing roar so loud that his ears rang out in pain. The approaching thuds of a treeman running was met with the sight of a long, wooden limb lifting above the waywatcher’s prone body and crashing down in front of him on the forest floor. The giant creature of the forest swung his huge arm out over a pack of skaven, sending a dozen flying into the air. As he watched the forest spirits battle, he waited intently for his signal to attack. Most of the skaven were in a state of panic as the forest came alive and began to slaughter them. But off to the north end of the battle, a brilliant light caught the corner of his eye. Bright green fire leaped out from some deranged invention and scorched a host of dryads in a single blast. All around the battle, more green fire leaped out as skaven weapon teams gained their composure and began to incinerate the forest spirits.
The treefolk were powerful and terrifying, but lacked precision. That’s where we come in. The waywatcher knew he and the rest of his kin had to take out those weapons teams now before they wiped out all of Borithmor’s forces. Apparently his commander felt the same way, because a clarion horn call pierced through the din of battle. Raising up to one knee and drawing his bow in one movement, the waywatcher appreciated his much-expanded field of view from when he was prone on
202 the ground. Signaling to his kin with shrill whistles, he identified the most immediate targets. Aiming carefully but quickly, he let loose his first arrow. It soared in on its target, piercing the neck of a skaven holding a warpfire thrower. He keeled back, his hand still on the release, and continued to spew forth liquid fire. The nozzle now aimed at a large pack of skaven, setting their short fur ablaze and creating panic in the surrounding area. All around him, he could hear other arrows release as his kin shot at their targets. Some missed their targets – only grazing the shoulder or hitting the leg of a rat – but most hit home and at least temporarily inhibited the skaven ability to set Loren to the torches.
The skaven had adjusted and established two fronts against the flank attacks of the tree spirits. It would prove a deadly error as the Asrai forces charged into the battlefield from what had previously been the skaven front lines. Elves on horseback sent a shower of arrows into the battle before drawing their spears and preparing to charge. From above, eagles and warhawks dove in on the battlefield, sowing terror as they grabbed skaven and tossed them into the trees. From all sides the skaven were assaulted. The ground itself awoke and roots surged upwards, encasing skaven and crushing them wholly.
He continued to scan the battlefield, occasionally slaying another rat with deadly precision. He eyed what appeared to be an important skaven, and as he was about to fire a jolting pain shot down his body. He winced and closed his eyes in reaction, collapsing to the forest floor. The sensation was extreme, feeling as though his soul itself had been cut into. When he opened his eyes again the landscape had completely changed. Before him stood a wolf, not an unusual site in Athel Loren. But the familiarness of the scene ended with the creature, for around the waywatcher was a snow-covered mountaintop. He turned to look around to try and find out more about his location, only to find that he was unable to turn. He felt every sensation, his senses taking everything in, but he was unable to move or to speak.
As he fought to scream at the top of his lungs, he found himself saying words that he never intended to utter. “They never once called me the Everchosen. Not once.” From the bottom of his vision, he saw his own arm reach out in a gesture towards the wolf. He realized; however, that while it was in fact an asur arm it was certainly not his. This provided more questions than answers; while he realized he was viewing someone else’s actions he had no idea whose they were.
“The Eye, the Sword, the Mark, the Armor, the Steed…None of that makes you the Everchosen.” The wolf seethed. “Not even close.” Was this a ritual? The waywatcher had no clue as to what was going on, but he knew the taint of chaos when he sensed it. He knew of the title Everchosen. He is viewing it from the body of an Asur; was Malekith being crowned Everchosen?
He found his host body speaking again, “Then finish it.” Before him, the wolf became consumed by shadow until only his golden eyes remained visible. The waywatcher began to realize that it was never a wolf at all, only a demon in wolf form. Every fiber in his being wanted to grab his sheathed twin blades and lash out at the shadowy aberration, but he again succumbed to the realization that he was trapped in the sensations and experiences of another elf.
After hesitation and more retorts, the shadow placed a crown on the elf’s head. The waywatcher recognized it as a crown from the court of Nagarythe. It was then that he realized it was not Malekith who was being crowned, but an elf the waywatcher thought had long departed from this world. The demon placed it on his head, and a rush of energy overtook him. In the distance, four ominous figures nodded in approval. The waywatcher saw his arms raise a gem of some kind and place it in the crown that had just been placed on his head. Suddenly, the entire world became visible. He appeared to be in control now, as his vision took him past mountains, tundra, fields, past the dwarf holds and over a raging
203 battle – his battle – that was going on in Athel Loren. Another wave of pain rolled through him, and he shut his eyes in reaction.
When he opened his eyes again, he was back on the forest floor. He stood up slowly and looked around. Six other waywatchers appeared to be doing the same thing he was, and the remaining two looked at them with expressions of concern and fear. The waywatcher looked down at his arm to see a brilliantly lit eight pointed star tattooed on his hand. He looked around, and sure enough the other six had the same glowing mark on their hand. The two who bore no taint of chaos cried out at the sight.
The waywatcher heard his name, his true name, called out for the first time in nearly a century, “Enthardon. You know whose vision we saw.”
The waywatcher, Enthardon, nodded quickly, “It appears, fellow Aesenar, that our father’s whereabouts are now known. We must make haste.” As Enthardon his six brothers began to depart from the battle, the two remaining waywatchers moved to stop them.
“You are no Asrai, you never were!” one of them shouted. “Stop right there, whoever you are, or you shall know my marksmanship personally.” Enthardon turned to look at the elf who had up until recently been a close comrade of his. But Enthardon knew that his secret could not be told, no matter the cost. Nodding to another Aesenar, Enthardon saw a short elven blade slice cleanly through the Asrai’s neck and the waywatcher collapsed to the forest floor. A few paces to the west, the other asrai in their band met the same fate.
The Aesenar now gathered around each other. Enthardon looked at them all and sighed, “We thought we would be at home here. These asrai are the closest to true Asur left on this world, and even then we are not fit to coexist. We all thought the magic of this place would conceal our long lifespan. It appears we may never find a home, save one.” He paused before saying there was one home for them, as they all knew what he meant. Enthardon was sure that visions of the glorious court of Nagarythe were flowing through their minds just as they were in his.
The din of battle replaced Enthardon’s voice until another Aesenar stepped forward. “We all saw the same vision. We all saw our father become the Everchosen. Perhaps, that is where we may finally find peace. At our father’s side.” The other Aesenar nodded in approval, and Enthardon looked up to speak again.
“Celfayas I cannot fathom the road our father must have taken to now be the chosen of Chaos. To be honest I don't care, as we all know there's only one reason why he would accept such a damned pact. As I have already said, we need to leave this place, if for no other reason than this forest will not take well to us any longer – especially with the mark of the four on our arms. Alith Anar awaits.” His brothers nodded in approval, and as the asrai and treefolk destroyed the last remaining skaven, the seven Aesenar began their long journey north.
204 Deliverance By Bob of Yvresse Hour of the Wolf
Stefan’s vision blurred for a moment as a cocktail of blood and sweat flooded into his eyes. He brushed it from his eyes as easily as he had brushed the traitor from his path. “Press the assault!” he bellowed. Glancing sideways, he could see that the field was strewn with the corpses of men and elves alike. Many still stood and fought, Reiklanders against elf and traitorous kin. At the edge of his vision Stefan caught sight of movement. Throwing himself back desperately, Stefan narrowly avoided a vicious blow. Desperately trying to mount a counter-offensive, Stefan grunted as he heaved his axe up one-handed. The axe found its mark, though the force behind it was insufficient to do more then scrape across the armour. Stefan pivoted to face his foe, bright elven steel lead his eye down the blade to the advancing elf. With a grunt Stefan stepped forward, his axe brought to bear perhaps for the last time. One step lead to another, the weapons swinging as the pair closed, each weapon ready to taste the flesh of the other.
****************
Earlier
Darkness slowly invaded, a gloom settling beneath the forest canopy chasing out the soft dying rays of the sun. A loud yell from within the tent shattered the tranquility, even if for a moment, causing the sentries to flinch at their posts, not daring to look away. Within the tent stood a group of mighty men around a table, resplendent in furs and leathers they looked down upon the crude map grimly.
It had been several generations now since the Elves had arrived, but it was only in recent times that the situation had become as dire as it was currently. At first, there were only stories and rumor, small groups even whole villages disappearing, now. As it was only the tribes of the south were free, if such could really be called freedom . The tribes of the north were under the sway of the foreigners, traitors to their own kind, united under a puppet king, Artur. In times gone past rebellions had been attempted, but in all cases they were horribly crushed. Even still there were those that continued to resist.
Stefan rubbed his temples, “you waste time squabbling over the most trivial of matters when our very existence and way of life continues to be under threat.”
Otto of Marienburg slammed his fist down on the map “This is madness, we cannot continue like this. We must once more rise up and throw off these shackles!”
“Easy to say for one close to the Bretonni and their 'protection', Otto,” grated Mathi. “We've all lost friends and family. It's up to us; we have to move fast if we're going to even disrupt the bastards.”
With that, the assembled Lords turned their gaze towards the northern most area of their tattered map. Their eyes fell upon the Fauschlag, the seat of power of the corrupt men of the north. “Here, the throne of Artur of the Teutogens, this should be our ultimate objective”
205
“Not all Teutons side with the puppet king,” growled Hartwig, Teuton-Lord of the south.
Mathi dismissively waved in acknowledgment “the Fauschlag is symbolic for both the elves and the men of the north. Though we are not yet ready to strike so deep into their territory. We must look closer to home first.”
Stefan pointed to a small stone on the map, “perhaps this would be a suitable target. We have recently discovered this camp. It appears to be a staging ground for their raids in the area; we believe we could liberate many of our brothers.”
The assembled looked at each other nodding in agreement.
“It is decided then,” announced Mathi.
****************
Stefan caught the elf's blade on the top of his axe and used his superior bulk to follow through, knocking the elf flat to the ground. Roaring, Stefan seized the axe-shaft in both hands and buried the head in the elf's ribcage.
Stefan surveyed the battle; it was not faring well. Many men, both traitor and Reiklander lay dead in the field alongside elvish corpses, many more still fought but. The initial fires were now raging out of control, consuming palisade and building alike with its insatiable hunger.
Racing forward, darting around the melee swirling around him, Stefan realised he had little time to enact his plan. Charging through the door of a nearby building, leading with his shoulder, the door splintered beneath Stefan’s bulk. The prisoners cheered as Stefan broke their chains with mighty swings of his axe. Surging forth from the building, they charged into the battle. Some had improvised weapons, chains, a piece of wood others did not even have that. Stefan grinned as the line of prisoners struck the elven line, crumpling it beneath their fury, and then slipped to another building. He had many more to free before the night would be over
****************
Earlier
As Stefan led his group of warriors down the street of their town, he could hear the sounds of fighting. Two dirty-faced boys were rolling in the street, kicking and punching. His face grim, Stefan strode over to them. Busy fighting, they never noticed until a great hand descended on the back of their necks and pulled them apart roughly. Their protests fell on deaf ears. “Valten, Jagen, why are you fighting?” “To see who was going to come with you!” announced Jagen. “To see who was going to sneak along with you.” corrected Valten, which prompted another half- hearted swipe from his adoptive brother. Stefan chuckled slightly, hiding his amusement behind the face of a stern father.
206 “There’s an easy way to resolve this boys. Neither of you are going. Now inside with the both of you, your mother is waiting.” Putting the two boys down they trudged off home grumbling and bickering with each other. Turning on his heel, assured that they were heading home, Stefan rejoined the expedition as it marched off.
Bound in chains the men trudged solemnly towards the camp, led by tall proud figures resplendent in elven armour. Stefan kept his gaze locked on the mud and feet of the man in front of him. A wagon creaked along behind the column, fully laden the wheels dug deeply into the earth. The elven slave compound crept into view on the crest of the horizon, a most terrible sight to behold, for those destined to enter it would be even worse. It was clearly not of elven construction, it lacked the beauty and style would one might expect. It was more than likely constructed by the traitor-men of the north. Crude spires of lumber jut out of the earth like rotten teeth forming the outer-wall.
Coming to a halt a few paces from the palisade their escorts were challenged by the gate sentries. Doing his best to avert his gaze, Stefan couldn’t help but notice a small plume of smoke rising on the opposite side of the compound, and the accompanying shouts of panic and calls for assistance. Ignoring, or oblivious to the fire on the other side of the compound, elven guards made their away around the column inspecting the ‘latest catch’. Hearing whispers of concern and panic, taking a moment to glance around, a lot of men were talking amongst themselves with concerned looks on their faces, small trickles of sweat swimming down their cheeks,
”This isn’t going to work!” “They’re not buying it!”
Stefan couldn’t help but hope that the guards didn’t notice that the physique of the 'elven' guards accompanying the caravan was far too stocky for the Fair Folk. Towards the rear of the group one of the elves paused, looking at the wagon quizzically. The men did their very best not to lose their composure, but their bodies were betraying them. Sweat ran freely down them as their nerve began to break.
“They’re not going for it!”
"They're not going to believe us," Stefan realized, horrified. "They'll check the wagon... and then we'll die..."
The commander paused eying the group. A fly buzzed overhead, the sound of its wings deafening. Then the gate commander nodded, and slowly the great doors began to swing open before them. A collective sigh of relief, a silent one at that, was breathed as they were waved in. Stefan almost allowed himself to smile…almost. His relief quickly turned to horror. In the corner of his vision an elven guard was looking inside their wagon, his eyes widening. The elf turned, about to raise the alarm. A swift blow silenced him before he could act, but the damage.
With a grunt of exertion, Stefan broke his brittle chains, as did those around him. The laden wagon was removed of its burden, a score of weapons. The men of the Reik surged forth to sow death to the cruel wardens of this internment camp, and return life to those imprisoned by its walls.
****************
207 The stench of death and smoke filled Stefan’s nostrils, together they formed a pungent odor the likes of which he had never tasted, nor wished to ever again. The fire laughed with its fiery melody, consuming all it touched. Cries of the wounded, maimed and dying floated on the wind, interposing itself amidst the din of battle. Death-cries and battle shouts rang in Stefan’s ears, a veritable cacophony of death dragging his mind back to the grim reality of what was unfolding around him, what he had started, must now be finished..
Stefan’s vision swam with a sleeve he wiped his eyes clear. Around and afar skirmishes were fought. Immediately around him he saw chiefs and elders roaring orders, inspiring by example or fear, rallying their men. Men desperately clung to life the only way they could, fighting for it. Prisoners recklessly, usually hopelessly, charged to their death.
Like a knife cutting through the veil of battle, on the very edge of his consciousness Stefan could hear the melodic voice of an elf. Not a panicked or abrupt outburst; but a calm, confident voice tempered by decades of authority. Stefan desperately searched for the source, spying a mass of elves on the opposite side of the compound. The Elven commander was rallying his troops for a last desperate attempt to survive or at least, make the invaders pay a terrible cost to overrun their position.
A grim feeling settled in the base of Stefan’s stomach, he knew that the battle wasn’t over. It would be won or lost with the elves and their commander, not these insignificant skirmishes raging around the last pockets of resistance.
As small pockets of fighting raged around Stefan, he watched helplessly as groups of men engaged the elves, only to be ruthlessly brought down by drilled bow fire or spear thrusts. Roaring for his men, Stefan gestured towards the elven commander, and a wedge of Teuton warriors formed about him. Blood splattered his face as his axe rose and fell, the wedge driving through the elven lines until Stefan stood opposite the cruel-faced elf.
The elf raised his blade so the hilt was kissing his lips in a salute, then swept the weapon back overhead into a dulling stance while Stefan swung his axe. Sunlight and firelight reflected off steel in a frenzied movement, and Stefan's axe felt resistance as it shattered bone, the elven skull crumpling under the impact while the elvish blade skittered away into the gore underfoot
****************
The ash drifting from the funeral pyre was already starting to settle as Stefan finally sat down with a grunt. He could feel the blood and sweat encrusted over him like a second skin. "How many dead?" he asked.
"Forty-three dead, many more wounded," replied Hartwig
Stefan sighed heavily “Freedom has its price…” trailing off for a moment his gaze wandered to the aftermath of their attack. Men lay wounded, calling out for aid; others heaved the corpses of friend and foe alike.
Stefan blinked. "Begging your pardon, m'lords." both Hartwig and Stefan turned to meet the voice.
208 “What is it?”
“Amongst those we rescued there were some…others. They’ve asked to see our leader,” explained the tribesman.
“If it was anyone Stefan, it would be you.”
Stefan groaned slightly, it wasn’t worth arguing the point. “Take me to them.”
Hartwig and Stefan made their way through the ruins of the internment camp, charred buildings and broken bodies all that remained of it now. A foul concoction of mud and blood splattered about them as rain began, bloated droplets splattering into the ground in a vain attempt to cleanse the slaughter. Through the veil of rain, Stefan could see men ahead, along with shorter shapes; the bearded mountain folk, surely. Three of them stood proudly, as if their coarse clothes were silken thread rather than prisoners' rags.
"Ye bein' the leader for yer people?" asked one of the Dwarfs.
Sighing slightly, “I am.”
"We should be thankin' ye fer what ye did. The durned elgi captured us an' had us in thar cells fer t' best part o' a month a' least."
"You don't need to thank me. My foe's foe is my friend."
"How did mountain folk such as yourselves come to be in their chains?" probed Hartwig.
The dwarf stopped and turned to speak to the dwarf next to him. They spoke a while, their words sounding like the scraping of rocks against rocks, the very sound that mountains might make when they spoke.
"We were travellin' atween holds an' found the tunnels blocked by a cave-in. Came above groun', and them elgi was waitin' fer us, all ambush-like.”
“Why would these Elves go to so much effort to capture some mountain folk? They usually prefer…softer targets”
The Dwarf paused for a moment and stared at Hartwig. He jerked one thumb over his shoulder, gesturing towards the middle dwarf. "...Ye do ken he's the High King, aye?"
Stefan and Hartwig stared in silence for a moment in disbelief. Rumours had been passed down amongst the men of the Reik for generations regarding the great empire in the mountains. Even if the stories were only half true they had earned themselves a truly great ally.
Realisation dawned, and the two men dropped unceremoniously to their knees before the Dwarfen king. Now Stefan looked closer, even the tattered rags the dwarfs wore could not disguise the air of dignity and the refined, if stern, demeanor that befitted a true king
209 The High King gestured briefly with one calloused hand for the two men to rise. In a rough voice, uttering the same gravely tongue, he began to speak, his dark eyes fixed upon Stefan's.
The dwarfen translator cocked his head to the side slightly, as if appraising and evaluating what the High King had said “By th' beards of our forefathers, we be brothers in blood. Our blades shall be one an' the same, and our lives shall be the same. Our empires shall stan' together 'til the mountains themselves be sand.”
Stefan stood a moment as shocked silence swirled around him, before realising he had to reply to the dwarf king's words. "The Men of the Reik will always stand by the kindred of the mountain," he swore, and extended his own hand to the dwarf king. The grime and gore of battle upon it forgotten as it was taken firmly in the kings own thick-fingered grip.
The King's attention was drawn past the pair, Stefan and Hartwig turned to see a yellow-bearded dwarf, leading a small group of Teutons bearing silver chests of elven design. "Yer Majesty," the newcomer greeted him, "we ha' found our belongin's what was taken by th' Elgi."
The chests were deposited before the dwarfen king. Stefan and Hartwig stepped back as the dwarf's aged hands ran for a moment over the gold leaf of the chest’s clasps, before fumbling with them, flipping them open. For a moment, his head was obscured by the top of the chest, and then he straightened, holding reverently before him an ornate helmet, open-faced and worked cunningly to crest into the visage of a roaring dragon. Slowly he raised it, and then set it upon his head
For a moment the old dwarf's eyes were distant, caught in the gleam of a faded memory. Then he bent down again, reaching into the chest for a second time, retrieving an ornate war hammer of Dwarfen design. Pausing for a moment Kurgan presented the hammer to Stefan, flat across his extended hands. His stony tones rang with a thoughtful tone as he began to speak, and the aide's words were careful and measured.
“This be Ghal Maraz, hammer o' the kings. Wield it, as a symbol o' our pact."
Stefan reached out and took the hammer from the calloused hands of the King, cradling it with the care one might use with a fragile relic. He stared at the golden head, as it gleamed in the dying light of the fires about them and the rays of the setting sun...
210 Coronation By VictorK Hour of the Wolf
For eight days a red comet hung in the sky above the Chaos Wastes. It was late in the year and the sun had almost disappeared from the day, to be replaced by comet’s red glare. The host of Alith Anar, the self-styled Everchosen, sprawled out on the cold plain. Warriors gathered from all across the wastes kept their eyes on the ground for fear of the comet. Even the strongest of the Tolkmars or the Kurgan were afraid to match their gaze against the comet’s, every man instinctively knew that it meant something, and none of them wanted to be found unworthy of what it portended. There were no good omens in the wastes, only those that signaled divine retribution or a new challenge for the weary but eager followers of the dark gods to face. Nothing was got that was not earned.
The air was hot and thick in the large hut where Alith Anar held his court. A fire reduced to its smoldering coals occupied the center of the hut while the Shadow King (he retained the title, though he was using it less and less) rested on a bed of furs. He was surrounded by the elves who had answered his call, though to those elves who remained scattered across the world Alith Anar remained dead, another tragic figure from a tragic age. Even the chieftains of the tribes Alith Anar had subjugated in his long march across the Chaos Wastes sat further from him than his Shadow Warriors. The closest to him, however, was the wolf curled at his feet. The wolf dozed while the chieftains sat forward on their hides watching as another old man attempted to explain the meaning of the comet that hung in the sky. The sheep’s entrails added to the already foul smell in the hut, but Alith Anar was willing to indulge the humans their superstitions. The haruspex chanted in the Tolkmar tongue as he held aloft a liver for the chieftains to see. The animal’s blood covered his hands and the organ quivered as they shook.
“The liver is the source of blood.” The haruspex wheezed. “A drop of blood colors the sky, the heavens bleed. The omen is delivered from Kharnan, though he speaks for all the gods. Praise be to the Blood Father.” A few chieftains murmured the prayer. “Kharnan gives his blood that we might witness it, taste it, and become mad with his frenzy.” The haruspex shuffled around the fire pit. “He calls us.” The old man tossed the liver onto the coals, where it began to hiss. Blood bubbled up from inside the organ as the fire slowly roasted it. Every human in the room stared intently at the pattern that emerged though only the haruspex could read it. He was well known throughout the tribes, his wisdom was beyond question. The sweet smell of cooked meat began to overwhelm the less pleasant odors. The haruspex shook his head. “The signs are not clear. The blood is silent as to our fate, but it screams your name, my lord.” The haruspex bowed his head toward Alith Anar. Soon all eyes were upon him. The Shadow King dismissed the haruspex with a wave of his hand.
“So long as I remain in the eye of the gods I do not care where my destiny lies.” The chieftains seemed satisfied with the answer and nodded their heads. The haruspex bowed his head and withdrew from the hut. Warriors from the human tribes came forward to dispose of the slaughtered sheep, discreetly carrying it out through the front of the hut. Everyone in the hut was silent for the moment, every chieftain could recognize the scowl on Alith Anar’ face and the Shadow Warriors were never much for conversation. “My Chieftains.” The Shadow King began quietly. “Are there any among you who would stand against me?”
211
They all shook their heads.
“Some of you I have defeated in war. Others swore allegiance to me for fear that I would defeat them in war. Are there are men left in these wastes who would bring war against me?”
“None, Everchosen.” A chieftain of the Kurgan whose father had sworn allegiance to Alith Anar replied.
The Shadow King nodded. “Then why am I still here? I have spent centuries in these wastes and proven myself a hundred times over. I am chosen.”
“Then go south.” The wolf muttered at Alith Anar’s feet. “You have an army; you have an enemy, why not take your revenge if you are so certain?” The elf just scowled. “Because you are afraid to act without the permission of your masters. It’s a wise fear to have.” The chieftains shied back, none of them would have ever spoken to Alith Anar so boldly. Only the wolf was allowed to undercut him. That was their relationship; the wolf was the only one who Alith Anar considered an equal. “As much as you may desire revenge, we both know you fear failure more.” The hut again lapsed into silence. The fire popped.
The wolf’s head shot up after a few minutes of silence, startling everyone around him. Alith Anar sat up and looked down on his companion whose golden eyes were fixed on the entrance to hut. The Shadow King followed the wolf’s gaze and narrowed his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak when the harsh sound of footsteps on the rocky earth answered his question. A small man, perhaps a servant for one of the lesser warriors in Alith Anar’s host was pushed through the hide flap that covered the hut by a pair of Shadow Warriors. The man shook visibly and had his gaze directed over his shoulder at the elves who had brought him to the hut. Clutched in his thin fingers was a simple leather bag. When he looked to see where he was going and his eyes met Alith Anar’s he yelped and fell onto his knees. Before the Shadow King could ask his name the man blurted out his story.
“Spare me, my lord! It fell from the sky not long ago, I swear! I did not mean to withhold it from you! I am but a simple man, forgive me if I hesitated in my awe to bring it to you!” He held up the leather bag and buried his face in to the dirt.
“Bring it to me.” Alith Anar commanded. His voice was strong but he cast a doubtful glance at the wolf, whose eyes were glued to the heavy depression at the bottom of the leather bag. The Shadow Warriors stepped forward to take the bag but Alith Anar waved them off. “If he wants to prove that he was not withholding something from his lord let him rise and deliver it himself.” The Shadow Warriors stepped back and the man took his face out of the dirt and searched Alith Anar’s face for any sign of a cruel joke. He found none and slowly got to his feet. The man advanced around the fire pit, shuffling his feet and ever once taking his eyes off the elf he believed to be the Everchosen. Alith Anar held out his hand and very gingerly placed the bag in his palm. He scurried back almost as soon as he was free from its weight.
Alith Anar felt the weight of the bag in his palm and glanced at the wolf a second time. As before his companion’s attention was completely locked on the bag. Nodding once Alith Anar carefully turned the bag over and lets its contents tumble into his other hand. The first thing he noticed about the object was that it fit almost perfectly into his palm. It was smooth to the touch and slightly warm. Alith Anar held it up to his face and looked into it. It was an amber orb that glowed with its own inner light. A single sliver of darkness cut through its center like a cat’s pupil.
212 “The Eye of Sheerian.” The wolf said hungrily.
Alith Anar titled the gem from side to side. The chieftains leaned forward for any chance to look upon it. “What is it?”
“It is a treasure.” The wolf replied as he sat up so as to have a better view of the gem. “It was sent to you, this is a sign.”
The Shadow King nodded. “Get the man who brought this to me whatever he wants.” With that sentiment he pushed the man out of his mind. “A sign of what?” he asked the wolf, continuing to peer into the gem. It glowed brighter, and before Alith Anar could even gasp it swallowed up his entire field of vision.
Alith Anar recognized his camp, even from the air. It sprawled out, a collection of hunts and smoky fires, over the whole plain. His field of vision turned away from it, and he began to fly. It seemed that the whole of the Chaos Wastes disappeared below him but he remembered every inch of it, moving slightly south towards the Olde World. The mountains loomed ahead, approaching with alarming speed. He was taken in between the peaks, through an impossible maze of ravines and cliffs until finally his pace slowed and he was brought to wall hewn from the rocks. There was a trail leading up the side of the mountain into a small cave, wide enough for a man to pass through. His vision disappeared into the darkness of the cave.
When he woke from the vision Alith Anar was on his back and his chieftains were arrayed around him. His fingers ached, and he realized the pain was from clenching the Eye of Sheerian in his hand. The wolf sat outside the circle, placidly watching his companion. The chieftains were clearly agitated, mumbling amongst themselves as Alith Anar returned to consciousness. The elf sat up, his attention on the wolf. “Prepare to move.” He told his chieftains. “I have received a vision.”
The whole host moved across the Chaos Wastes, turning south towards the mountain ranges that reached north from the Olde World. It was a slow migration but Alith Anar was patient. The Eye of Sheerian remained tucked in the same leather bag it had been delivered in. The comet seemed to follow the host as it traveled, hanging in the sky above until it crowned the mountain range itself with its blood red mark. The host could not support itself in the mountains themselves, and was forced to make camp in the plains. Alith Anar took his Shadow Warriors with him and entered the mountains to seek out the cave he had been shown in the vision. He remembered every inch of the maze, nothing had changed.
Alith Anar stood on the threshold of the cave which he could now see had been cut into the side of the mountain. “Shadow Warriors.” He called over his shoulder. “Await my return.” He started forward into the darkness before stopping. “Are you coming, wolf?”
The wolf settled onto his belly. “No. I will be quite comfortable right here. Go on ahead. I’ll see you at the end.”
Alith Anar nodded and resumed his descent. He had come armed. Two knives and a long sword, he didn’t think that a bow would do him much good. The Ruinous Powers did not favor that weapon. He felt that the cave was slowly tilting downwards and that he was being swallowed by the mountain. He couldn’t help the excitement he felt, something that hadn’t touched him in a long time. The war with the humans of the north, even if it was unending, had been all too simple. He was the Shadow King; no
213 crude king of the Hung could hope to defeat him. That was why he had hesitated to launch his attack. Did he command a force that could confront Malekith? The Dwarf King? The Lords of Sarthailor, that new land his Shadow Warriors had told him about? Could he hope to forge his host into a war machine that could topple the world? He didn’t know, so he hesitated to seek his revenge. And now he was in the bowels of a mountain, walking towards something he did not know because a sign had told him to come. He no longer questioned that he was in thrall to the Ruinous Powers.
There was a light at the end of the tunnel. Torches flickered, and after his time in the darkness Alith Anar had to restrain himself before he ran into the room to soak up the light. He kept his wits and approached cautiously, staying in the shadows for as long as possible before stepping into the light. He was in a small chamber, crudely carved out of the rock. Four torches provided enough light for the whole of the room. It was completely dry. Someone’s hands had fashioned it, Alith Anar was certain of it. The tunnel continued on the opposite side of the chamber, the same man sized opening leading towards the same darkness. The Shadow King stopped just as he entered the room and fixed his gaze on the man sitting just to the side of the tunnel.
He was loathsome and his rotting smell filled the room. He seemed to sag inside his black robes like a wet sack, his bulk spreading out over the stone bench he sat on. Alith Anar could not see anything of his features except for his wide, almost impossibly large lips which were turned down in an eternal frown. The rest of his face was hidden by a black hood. Long, blistered fingers wrapped around his knees. His lips glistened with sticky saliva. “You look so different when you are on your feet, rightful lord of Nagarythe.” The man burbled, as if drowning in his own fluids. “Are you ready to accept your strings? Go forward and there is no going back.”
Alith Anar only nodded. “I was wondering when I might see you again.”
“You have never been far from my sight.” The robed figure burbled. “I watched with delight every man you sent to my worms. You are confident in yourself, Alith Anar, yet I have seen the crude axes of these poor men break your flesh. More than once you have come close to me.” He raised one of his skeletal fingers and pointed at the wall. “There.”
A skeleton was mounted on the wall. A great hunting spear which Alith Anar recognized as coming from Nagarythe had killed the man and now pinned him skeleton against the wall. A suit of black armor with one clean hole through it still clung to the bones. “That armor is a gift.” The robed figured burbled. “Remove the spear and it is yours. I warn you, the arm that threw that spear was quite strong. It may be difficult to remove.”
Alith Anar looked from the armor to the figure. “Why would I want a suit of armor that has been breached?”
The robed figure laughed, though the sound was anything but pleasant. “It can be repaired. It is fine armor; you will never meet a foe like the one who pierced it.” His giant, frog-like lips twitched as he grinned. “Besides. The elf wrapped in coarse chain and beaten plates cannot afford to be picky.”
The Shadow King glared at the robed figure before he reluctantly turned towards the armor. It was a short walk to the wall and the skeleton was suspended only a few inches from the ground. Alith Anar took hold of the spear and braced himself, summoning up all his strength to pull it from the rock. He drew in a breath and then pulled. The spear came out of the wall with ease. Alith Anar stumbled
214 backwards and eventually fell from the effort he had exerted. The armor and the skeleton fell to the ground and crumbled to dust upon striking the rock floor. Only a few fragments remained, but the armor was gone. Alith Anar sat up and looked at the pile of dust in confusion. The robed figure stood and moved to block the way forward. “You fail.”
Alith Anar got back to his feet and advanced on the robed figure. “Failed? How can I have failed!” He shouted.
“The armor is destroyed. You failed the test. Turn around, you will not go further.”
The Shadow King howled in rage but refused to turn around. “This was your test? To trick me into destroying armor?”
“The gifts are ours to bestow, Shadow King. Remember that.”
“Then I bestow my gift on you.” Alith Anar seethed as he approached the foul smelling figured. “Die.” He grabbed one of the daggers at his waist and twisted, drawing the blade across the figure’s protruding belly. It split with ease, the dagger slid through the rotten fibers and the skin beneath them as if they were mush. The skin over the figure’s belly was still taught and sprung back, spilling his intestines onto the rock floor. As soon as his organs were loose the black flies that fed on his insides spilled out and took flight. Alith Anar screamed as they swarmed over him and began to feed. He dropped his dagger and stumbled back as his clothes were torn to pieces by the hungry flies. Even through the overwhelming buzzing he could the robed figure’s burbled laugh.
“I accept your gift; I hope you find mine just as satisfying!”
Alith Anar fell to his knees as the flies began to burrow into his flesh. He covered his face and screamed, every inch of him on fire. They crawled up his nose and into his mouth as he screamed, and soon his insides burned with the same pain as his outsides. They ignored his eyes which were wide open in order to see the flesh disappearing from his hands as the flies shifted over them. He would be reduced to bone, but despite the pain and the mutilation he remained awake, his face awash with terror.
“I release you, Shadow King. Die if you feel that you must. Feed my worms after the flies have had their fill.”
The Shadow King could not speak otherwise he would have protested. He gagged on the flies and managed only murmurs as he shuffled forward on his knees. Flies crunched beneath him. He lifted one leg and planted his foot on the ground. Even through the carpet of flies he could feel the warmth below him. He had stepped on the robed figure’s entrails. Alith Anar screamed again, expelling some flies before he pushed his decaying muscles to their limit and returned to his feet. He dared not try to move forward, he knew he would fall. As long as he stood, he refused to die.
“Very well. Live, then, if that is your choice. But remember, this is where we attach the strings.”
A new pain shot through Alith Anar as the flies seemed to bite as one. He screamed and held up his hands. The flies were disappearing; or rather the definition was disappearing between them. The hard carapace that covered each fly began to fuse with the carapace of the one next to it. They clung to the Shadow King’s bones and slowly began to shape themselves. For Alith Anar it felt like something was
215 pressing against his chest and that his limbs where in a vise. He couldn’t scream anymore, his lungs wouldn’t let him. Slowly the pain began to subside and the Shadow King could open his eyes. He didn’t feel any different than when the ordeal began, but he could sense that he was changed. He held a hand up to his face and regarded the black armor that now encased it with a mix of dread and fascination that weighed heavily in his stomach. There was some resemblance to the armor that had been pinned to the wall but it wasn’t much more than a recognition that the colors were similar and some of the angles were harsh. The same smith had fashioned both suits, but Alith Anar’s was tailored to his elven frame. It was even vaguely familiar; as if the smith had cobbled together the armor he had worn millennia earlier in his struggles against Malekith. There was an elven grace to it; no man could have done the armor justice.
The robed figure shuffled to the side to allow Alith Anar to pass. He dragged his organs with him. “Take your weapons and move forward. It is dangerous to linger for too long.” Alith Anar nodded and knelt to pick up his weapons and the Eye of Sheerian which had fallen from him. Even through the steel he could feel as well as he had when flesh had clung to his bones. He started forward, the armor almost weightless on his shoulders. As he moved past the robed figured one of his hands shot out to take the Shadow King’s wrist and hold him back. “An Everchosen is neither mortal nor daemon. He must be something else, the grey in between, the bridge between life and death, prone to fall to either if he is not balanced.” Alith Anar nodded and moved on.
The second passageway was just as dark as the first but Alith Anar could feel it sloping upwards. He moved at an even pace through the darkness, the armor did not tire. He wondered at the price he had paid, flesh for steel, and couldn’t help but think of the Witch King he sought to slay. He worried in the back of his mind that he might become like Malekith, but the thought was fleeting. He congratulate himself on entertaining the possibility, but pushed it away in the few moments it took to reassure himself that justice was on his side.
Hot air struck Alith Anar in the face and he realized the nature of the dark space had changed. He reached out to his right and couldn’t feel any stone. The same to his left. The passage had opened up suddenly and he was sure where he was, he had expected another light to tell him that he had arrived wherever he was intended to go. He walked forward and for the first time could hear his footsteps echo around him. He didn’t think it wise to call out for someone. He jumped as he felt a pair of hands slide around his waist and someone pressed against his back.
“I waited so long for you, my Dancer in the Dark…” A soft, alluring elven maiden’s voice whispered in Alith Anar’s ear. Every bit of his body tingled. He turned, slowly with his hands over those of the elven maiden so that he wouldn’t break her embrace as he turned around. She seemed to glow, extending her own soft aura into the darkness. Her eyes where mismatched, one blue and one purple, but to the Shadow King that made her all the more enticing. She sighed and laid her head on his hard chest. “So long...I’ve held out for you. I have had eyes for no one but you…” All that Alith Anar could do was pull her close to him. “Please, Shadow King…dance with me?” He nodded in reply.
They danced in the dark, holding each other tightly as they drew and redrew a pattern on the rock floor with their feet. The aura around the maiden began to radiate outward until the rock walls were exposed and Alith Anar’s shadow cast onto them. The Shadow King closed his eyes as he danced, giving in to the overwhelming feeling of contentment that washed over his body. When he opened them the rock walls had changed into something he had almost forgotten. The sights and smells of Ulthuan, real sunlight and elven architecture nearly overwhelmed with a longing for his home. They danced together as the rough
216 rock floor was transformed into a tile mosaic. Alith Anar’s steps began to slow as his senses buzzed with the beauty of the experience. He took his last step and sank to his knees, his arms still wrapped around the maiden’s legs. The Shadow King began to sob with joy. She knelt in front of him and wrapped her fingers in his black hair. “Stay with me, Dancer? Everything you desire can be yours here, with me.”
“Yes!” Alith Anar blurted out, hugging her closer. She smiled and picked him up, and they began to dance again, covering every inch of the floor.
The ecstasy began to fade as the dance wore on. The Shadow King didn’t know how long he had lasted before the empty feeling in his stomach began to suck the euphoria out of his bones. The maiden’s touch began to lose its electricity until it was just a dull warmth against his armor. For the first time he felt uncomfortable inside of it. The sunlight, the first clean rays he had seen in millennia, faded. The smooth elven architecture, such a relief after years of huts and rough hewn forts, melted back into the rocky cavern that had greeted him when the maiden’s aura had blossomed. Even that began to fade until darkness reigned and his heart ached. He couldn’t even picture the maiden anymore. The only figure that occupied the darkness was Malekith. When the magic was gone, he pushed her away.
The maiden gasped, and then was silent. Alith Anar stood alone, sweat beading on his brow. The tingling returned to his limbs, the electric feeling he had when touching her was back but it made him ache. “No one refuses me.” She seethed. “I forgave you for last time…It was the others…But it was just us here and…” She choked on the last words. “…You refused me?” The Shadow King was beginning to feel his mistake as his breathing picked up. Sweat stung his eyes. The wind in the cavern began to pick up and it carried the maiden’s voice away with it. “Never!” A gust rushed at Alith Anar and threw him back against the stone floor.
The cavern went mad with wind. The Shadow King could barely stand or breathe as the air was stolen from his mouth before he could take it in. He was in total darkness, and even he knew better than to fight the wind. Alith Anar reached into the pouch at his side and wrapped his fingers around the Eye of Sheerian. “Guide me…to safety…” He implored the gem with a wheeze as he stumbled forward; trying to find the exit he knew was on the other side.
“You will not escape me!” The wind howled in his ears. Alith Anar heard something crack and then tiny rock fragments struck his face, burying themselves into his flesh. It stung, and he felt the longing for the maiden’s presence intensify. The temperature dropped precipitously as the wind swirled around him, chilling the Shadow King even through his armor. He tightened his grip on the Eye and shut his eyes before they froze. “Come back to my arms! So warm…All you have is pain!” The wind rushed at him again and threatened to throw him back to the entrance of the cavern, but he stood firm. The warmth from the Eye of Sheerian comforted him, and he believed that it would guide his footsteps.
The Shadow King reached out, and touched rock. His heart fell and the need to touch the maiden again rose inside of him. There was no exit, or the Eye of Sheerian had led him astray. “You are empty!” He shouted. “I don’t want you, I never wanted you!”
“You’re lying. There’s nothing you want more than what I can give you.” The wind pressed him against the wall.
“No!” Alith Anar shouted, clawing at the rock wall and pulling himself up. “I have to move forward! I have to get back…” He was off the ground now, he had no idea how high but the ache in his stomach
217 was subsiding the higher he got, so he climbed. “I can’t stay…You are beautiful but I can’t stay…” His finger probed a ledge that was deeper than the others. It could be an exit…
“I will not let you.” The wind gusted, and tore Alith Anar from the wall. He fell.
When the Shadow King opened his eyes the maiden was kneeling over him. He felt nothing for her. “Take my gift.” She told him, laying her hand on his forehead. “Keep me in your heart; I will wait for you again. We aren’t through.” Alith Anar gasped at the touch. It rekindled for a moment the feelings towards her before they fell away, making his limbs feel lighter. She stood and smiled. “Every black knight needs his steed.” Then her aura dimmed, and she disappeared.
Alith Anar stood up. Something was building inside of him, light and fast. It was her gift, and he laughed as it overtook him. The darkness drained away as he melted into it and rocketed upwards, through the vent he had detected earlier. He ascended through the shaft rapidly, lost in the shadows. He would reach the top of the mountain soon, he could feel it. The shaft opened up into the largest chamber he had seen yet, and he began to feel heavy again. He was pulled down before he could get a look at the chamber, the rush of the wind dying down until his armored feet touched ground again and he materialized from the shadows.
“I was getting bored.” A monster crouched in front of Alith Anar. Its skin was bright yellow and its hair was red. To Alith Anar it appeared like a young girl, she was naked though she lacked real definition. A pair of wings were folded behind her back and she peered at him with slit eyes. “I hope you had fun with the others. I didn’t. You’ve kept me waiting. Do you have it?” She was deadpanning, barely using enough breath to spit out the sentences.
“Have what?” Alith Anar asked. He folded his arms over his chest and regarded the girl with a smirk. She hopped forward, fluttering her wings to cover the distance between her and the Shadow King. She looked him up and down, not bothering to reply.
“This.” Her claw shot out before Alith Anar could respond and snatched the leather bag from his waist. The Shadow King stepped forward, reaching for what was stolen. The girl just giggled and hopped back.
“Give it back!” Alith Anar shouted. His voice echoed. The girl tumbled the Eye of Sheerian out of his bag and rolled it between her hands.
“Ohhh…It’s warm…” She cooed. “This is much more interesting that you. Did you know it fell from the sky? An eye from the sky. Hee. It rhymes.” Alith Anar waited, letting her play with the gem. She sighed and her face fell. “But it’s too perfect. No flaws. Just like the others.” With barely a shrug of her shoulders she tossed the Eye off of the ledge.
“What have you done?” Alith Anar shouted as he ran to the ledge and peered over it. “Oh no…” Below him was a sea of amber, a million gems each resembling the Eye of Sheerian.
“Do you like them?” The girl asked, leaning into Alith Anar. “I collect them. I have lots.” Her face fell as she looked at the Shadow King. “Oh. Was that one special to you? I don’t see why…” She shrugged and stepped back. “You could go find it, I guess. I don’t mind if you look through my collection, but if you take the one that wasn’t yours…Well, I can’t let you steal from me.” She sat on her haunches and waited for Alith Anar to reply.
218
“I have had enough of tricks.” He seethed, clenching his fists. “That’s all I’ve been subjected to since I set foot in his mountain.”
The girl shrugged. “Our gifts, Shadow King.”
Alith Anar nodded. “More strings.” And then he leapt into the pit. He landed among the gems, which rang as they struck each other. “How do I even tell the difference?” He wondered aloud as he picked up one of the gems. It was cold. “If that’s the only clue…” The Shadow King looked over the amber waves of gems. “I will be here forever…” He set about sifting through them, trying to find the true Eye of Sheerian.
Alith Anar searched for as long as his mind could bear it. He had lost track of where he started and erased all the time he had consumed for his search. “The gods cannot value something so meticulous…” He reasoned as he once again looked over the vast treasure. He waded through the gems. In the time he had spent looking for his Eye he had come to despise the sound of his armor as it struck the gems. “The gem is mine.” He continued. “Even if she touched it, it was given to me…For my sight.” The Shadow King settled down, resting for a moment. He closed his eyes. “The Eye cannot be blind…”
Alith Anar returned to the hut where he had first found the eye. He returned to the earlier chamber of the winds where it had given him warmth. Of all of his gifts it was the only one given freely, the only one that truly belonged to him. “Show me what I cannot see.” He murmured. “As before.” The Shadow King felt himself detach from his body, but he wouldn’t pass out this time. He opened his eyes.
The edges of his vision burned with multi-colored fire. Everything was out of focus, and he had to will the picture to come. It was a dark room hewn from black stone. He recognized it. Malekith sat upon his throne with his mother at his side. The fire around Alith Anar’s vision intensified as hatred overtook him. Morathi narrowed her eyes, peering towards him before the pictured clouded over and he moved somewhere else. It was dark and twisted beasts ran through earthen tunnels. Rats, millions of them. Their cities glowed green. His vision unfocused, and he was in the wasted lands. A desert as far as the eye could see. Dying men toiled under the gaze of withered priests. Then they were gone with the rest and Alith Anar returned to the mountain. He looked into his own face, the scars from his battle with the winds healed over. He saw himself smile, and then the fire faded and he returned to his normal vision.
Alith Anar bent over and picked up the Eye of Sheerian. It was warm. He smiled, looking the flawless gem over. The girl’s membranous wings fluttered and she landed beside him. “The Eye is the key.” She told him before pointing at a door set in the wall. “Well done. I didn’t think you could do it, but the Eye likes you. Go.”
The Shadow King smirked at the girl and turned for the door. He was stopped as she reached out and took his left hand. “Wait.” She told him. “Not yet.” Alith Anar knit his brow towards her before a searing pain was burned into his hand. His eyes widened and fought back the urge to scream. “There.” She told him as she removed her hand. The Shadow King held it up to his face. An eight pointed star glowed like a fire on the back of his hand. “You can wield power from the shadows, but you can only lead when you are visible. Now all shall know your devotion and that you are favored. When they doubt you, show them this Mark. They will fear you.” She fluttered away.
The door opened to a long staircase that led up to the peak of the mountain. It was lined with torches.
219 Alith Anar didn’t hesitate to climb it. The pain in his hand was beginning to subside, but the mark burned as furiously as before. It glowed with its own light. His whole body was tingling; he could feel currents in the air that he hadn’t noticed before. Colors sometimes jumped out of the corner of his vision as he climbed the stairs. There was a new pulse that pounded in his ears. The mountain wasn’t changing as he ascended. He became aware of its stability as the new sensations flooded his mind. By the time he reached the peak the entire world glowed with colors he had never perceived, each pulsing to its own rhythm. He wondered how he got on before.
Alith Anar entered the throne room. Where the rest of the mountain had been rough stone this chamber had received an artisan’s touch. The ceiling was vaulted with heavy rock supports that seemed to hold up the mountain itself. The emblems of Chaos were everywhere apparent. The throne was part of the wall itself, and it was occupied. A barbarian in red armor with blonde hair lounged in the stone chair, a knife in his hands.
“Your weight has changed since last we spoke, Alith Anar.” The barbarian said. He spoke in normal tones but the hall amplified them. “This blade has not changed. I have kept it with me, to remind me of you. But how could I forget? You have moved swiftly across my domains and delivered to me many skulls. The blood weight you have acquired…It is considerable, but of little note in the wider world.” The barbarian jammed the dagger into the arm of the throne. “I don’t care how many of my people you sent to their graves. They were nothing. You are tired of tricks.”
Alith Anar nodded as he approached the thrones. “Nothing but tricks since I stepped into this mountain.”
“I agree.” The barbarian replied. “I have never had a penchant for them, so this will be simple. Any elf with a rusty blade can kill a human if the time is right. A band of elves with arrows can slaughter hundreds without shedding a single drop of their blood. It proves nothing. You have proven nothing to me. Survive, and you may proceed. That is all.”
Alith Anar narrowed his eyes and reached for the sword on his back. He heard a hissing sound behind him and turned. Blocking the exit was a daemon, a thin creature made up of spines and teeth. It towered over the entrance, though it didn’t approach the vaulted ceiling.
“U’zuhl.” The barbarian spoke the daemon’s name. “Kill him.”
The daemon screeched and launched itself forward, swiping at Alith Anar with its claws. The Shadow King jumped back, feeling as light as ever. He unsheathed is sword and prepared to meet the daemon. U’zuhl lashed out again and Alith Anar jabbed at his hand. The blade stuck but caused U’zuhl no pain. The daemon reached out with his other claw and wrapped it around the elf warrior. Alith Anar grit his teeth as he was hoisted into the air. He managed to pull his sword free and drove it into U’zuhl’s wrist even as the daemon began to apply pressure in an attempt to crush the life out of Alith Anar. His armor creaked in the daemon’s grasp but held, though Alith Anar knew he could not last long. He began to yell as the air was forced out of his lungs. “You…cannot…hold me…” The Shadow King gasped. He recalled the winds, and soon the daemon’s pressure disappeared.
Alith Anar flowed out of the daemon’s claw on the wind and the shadow, returning to the floor of the throne room. He exhaled, noting that his ribs still burned from the attack. U’zuhl howled in rage and charged the Shadow King. Alith Anar tucked his shoulder and rolled out of the way, letting the daemon
220 smash itself against the wall. He watched it fall to the ground and then scramble to its feet. The Shadow King took time to focus, steadying his breathing and ignoring the pain. The colors he had noticed before returned to his vision and the daemon glowed the brightest of all. Threads of light radiated from U’zuhl, connecting the daemon to something the Shadow King couldn’t see. The threads began to throb, as if feeding the creature. Alith Anar charged, summoning the speed he had used to free himself from the daemon’s grasp to close the distance and strike at the spots where it was connected to the other world. U’zuhl howled in rage as Alith Anar plunged his blade into one of the bright spots before swatting the elf away.
Alith Anar struck the floor of the throne room with a metallic bang. He had kept his sword in his hand was quick to get back on his feet. U’zuhl turned and ran his tongue over his teeth as he sized up his elven opponent. His side bled where Alith Anar had struck him. He could be wounded with a mortal blade, but the daemon was too fast to allow fatal damage to be done to him. Already Alith Anar could see the daemon’s hide begin to repair itself. The Shadow King didn’t think he could pull of the same trick. He had to go toe-to-toe with the daemon and win, something the light and fast Alith Anar wasn’t confident that he could do with the daemon’s speed. Almost without thinking it the elf’s hand strayed down to the pouch at his waist and his fingers touched the Eye of Sheerian. He needed to know more. His fingers closed around the orb and he pulled it out, allowing the Eye to see. He say U’zuhl lurch forward and readied his guard before he saw the image separate from the daemon’s body, who just a moment behind it. It was enough time for Alith Anar to step off to the side and strike at another weak point. U’zuhl howled.
The two clashed again and again now that Alith Anar was armed for the fight. Even with the Eye of Sheerian’s prophetic gaze the daemon’s claws found a hold in his armor and tore it apart. Blood flowed freely from both warriors. For the Shadow King the disparate effects of his gifts began to merge together in the forge of combat until he no longer took special notice of the colors or the subtle images that betrayed U’zuhl’s motions before he made them. He was light on his feet without actively summoning his speed. Everything came together, and that was why he defeated the daemon as he plunged his sword into its chest, eliciting a last howl. U’zuhl collapsed onto the blood slicked floor and began to unravel, his time on this plane finished.
The barbarian applauded. Slowly. “Well done. He was one of my best, and now I give him to you. Pull your sword from his body.”
Alith Anar gripped the hilt of his sword and began to pull it free. U’zuhl howled in rage. Alith Anar watched as the threads which had been dissipated bound themselves to his sword, and the daemon with them. The daemon began to whimper as it was dragged into the steel, it eyes wide as it perceived the real world for the last time before being imprisoned forever. When the sword was free, there was no U’zuhl left except for the face that was contorted in rage on the blade’s surface.
“Say his name. He won’t fight for you, but his rage means that he will fight.” The barbarian told Alith Anar before standing from the throne. He eyed the knife. “I don’t think you need this any more. You are ready. Go.” The barbarian pulled the dagger from the arm of the throne and began to walk away. The throne cracked, and then collapsed. Another passageway led up. A cool breeze filtered down through it. The Shadow King sheathed his sword and started forward. His armor was broken and he bled freely, but the pain was gone. His heart swelled and he couldn’t help but smile.
The wolf snarled at Alith Anar as the elf stepped onto the snow at the top of the peak. The Shadow King
221 stopped and eyed his companion, though his new sight revealed nothing out of the ordinary. “I hope I haven’t kept you.” He said to the wolf. His voice radiated calm.
“Your hand burns with their mark…” The wolf looked down at his own paws. “I hate you, elf. You were supposed to die. Now…now…” The wolf’s fangs knit together and he growled. “Now you make me do this! I hate you!”
“They never once called me the Everchosen.” Alith Anar replied, his voice unchanged. “Not once.”
“The Eye, the Sword, the Mark, the Armor, the Steed…None of that makes you the Everchosen.” The wolf seethed. “Not even close.”
“Then finish it.”
The wolf tilted his head back and howled. Its grey fur began to turn black and grow longer until it merged together to form a shadow. It continued to howl until it was overtaken by darkness and only the golden eyes remained. The shadow billowed out and the eyes rose into the sky until they loomed over Alith Anar. “You will understand.” It spoke to Alith Anar. “Some day you will understand what it means to touch this thing twice…” It formed a pair of claws and held them together, then drew them apart. A black circlet was suspended between them. Alith Anar recognized it as the crown he had worn in his court at Nagarythe, but it was not the same. He could feel the power radiating from this crown; his new vision was almost blinded by it. His shadow crown was nothing to this black monster. He understood what the wolf meant; the other treasures he carried meant nothing when compared to this elegant circlet. Alith Anar noticed the wolf’s eyes focused on it. He frowned.
“Crown me.”
“Never!” The wolf howled, his hands shaking. “Give me another moment…I want to savor it...”
“Crown me now! You can savor it all you want when it rests on my head.”
Reluctantly the shadow leaned forward, inching closer to Alith Anar’s head. For a moment their eyes locked and the shadow fought for the crown. Alith Anar had only to narrow his eyes for the shadow to know that it was beaten. Slowly but firmly it set the Crown of Domination on the Shadow King’s head, and erased that title forever.
The Everchosen gasped as the power flowed through him. The unifying affect of the battle against U’zuhl was forgotten in an instant by the influence of the crown. Thunder rolled in the skies and the mountain’s shook. From he heavens the robed figure, the maiden, the girl and the barbarian looked upon Alith Anar and nodded their heads yes. The ground trembled where he stood and the snow melted from his presence. The shadow shrank away; overawed by the being he had created. It curled up on the side of the mountain. When it was finished Alith Anar exhaled and without thinking it raised the Eye of Sheerian to his brow and locked it into the crown. He could see for miles. His host below him was just a speck on the vast expanse of the world. He heard every heart that beat across the Wastes and beyond. The weak ones were pushed aside and forgotten. To the strong he sent his image, calling them to his service. A million possibilities for the future unfolded as the Eye of Sheerian glowed. Alith Anar could grin, he was confident in each one. “Everyone will soon hear my name.” He declared from the top of the mountain. “When Chaos wields justice in its right had and retribution in its left while Order harbors evil
222 and weakness this world will fall.” The Everchosen pronounced his death sentence before striding forward. “Join me, wolf. I will have need of you yet. We will have need of many. They will be the first to hear the call.”
The shadow, reduced to a wolf who could no longer call his companion an equal rose from the rocks and began to follow Alith Anar.
In the sky above the red comet flashed gold. Its tail split, and it soared over the world.
223 The Assassination of Malekith By VictorK Hour of the Wolf
The Drachau of the Eastern Colonies, Santhil of the House Arhukyl, was forced to wait on the docks of Tor Cynath in the gray early morning hours. The heavy curtain of clouds threatened the small army that had been diverted from the battlefield with rain. Fog covered the ocean, and Santhil couldn’t help but wonder if the elf she was waiting for had altered the weather so that his arrival would be dramatic enough. She folded her arms and looked back at her sisters, annoyance writ clear on her face. Lahnia looked up and past her sister, her eyes narrowing at something in the distance. Santhil turned back to the sea and dropped her arms as a group of black sails began to appear through the fog. They were first part of the black ships to materialize, followed by their iron prows. They drifted towards the Tor Cynath docks in a silence which was broken only when the breeze would snap one of the many banners that proclaimed the ships as being manned by some of the most elite units of the Druchii on land or sea. The massive iron ships blocked out the little light the weather allowed to fall on the Druchii port. A cold shadow was drawn across Santhil and her entourage.
The gangplank from the lead ship crashed onto the dock at Santhil’s feet. She stood her ground and lifted her gaze to the dark interior of the ship. Black Guard, the Druchii elite, stood two by two in full armor. As one a column marched forward, their armored boots ringing against the gangplank until they thudded in low tones against the heavy wood of the dock. The Black Guard fanned out, separating the ship and the water from Santhil’s garrison. The sky began to brighten as more Black Guard poured out of the ship to take up their posts, until finally a ray of soft morning sunshine chased away the fog. Malekith, the Witch King, emerged from the shadows of the iron ship just in time to meet the light. His armor gleamed for a moment, and Santhil no longer had to wonder if the sorcerer king had been manipulating the weather.
Malekith paused at the top of the gangplank before slowly making his way down towards where Santhil was waiting to greet him. His armored frame was wrapped in purple robes, and the mages in the welcoming crowd noted that the iron circlet grafted to his helm no longer buzzed with magical power. No matter how much Malekith wished it he could not simply erase his earlier defeat in the Olde World. Black Guard followed him down, though the king was given enough space to breathe. The Witch Elves who stood behind Santhil looked warily at the Black Guard until their king held up his wicked left hand and revealed the rune of Khaine on the back of his hand. They were satisfied, and settled to let the Witch King pursue his business. He paused at the bottom of the gangplank and eyed Santhil. “Drachau.”
Santhil bowed deeply, and those behind her lowered their heads. “My king.” She spoke to the planks of the dock.
“Do you know why I have come halfway across the world?”
Santhil remained bowed. “To reclaim this land for our glorious empire, my Lord.”
“I can build empires within the halls of Tor Anlec. No, my hand is required when circumstances on the ground surpass the abilities of my commanders. Drachau, this…rebellion threatens my realms. While you may feel that the humans are well within your grasp and it might be sufficient to allow them to
224 expend their anger in a futile struggle against us I cannot allow an underestimation. Do not fear for your post, Drachau. I am satisfied. For now.” Malekith didn’t wait for Santhil to reply. He turned towards Tor Cynath and the Black Guard followed. “I will be inspecting your operations in the countryside tomorrow. When I am finished I will review the disposition of your forces. Be prepared.”
Santhil finally straightened, glaring at Malekith’s back. She and her bodyguard turned to join the train, but she was separated from the king by the Black Guard. “Make arrangements for our Lord.” Santhil told her sister. “Take him to our lumber operations. He can see the humans at work there and judge them for himself. I will need to prepare my papers.”
***
The forests to the south of Tor Cynath had been stripped bare by the accumulated effort of human slaves. A regiment of Black Guard bearing the king’s banner moved down the road from Tor Cynath where a group of Druchii overseers were poised to meet them. The Witch King marched at the front of the column where he seemed more like a general than the body his guards were protecting. The company came to a halt in front of the overseers who bowed deeply. Malekith regarded them with an aloof eye; the barbarism these elves wielded was writ in the scars that ran along their exposed backs and chests. They were useful, but dangerous. “I have heard a great deal about the humans. Tell me.”
The leader overseer, a short stocky elf with black hair and a missing eye straightened and had the audacity to grin at his king. “They lack the strength of the Dwarfs and the diligence, but they are easier to catch and control. Weak minded creatures; they do have their moments of stubbornness. We do not allow these moments to linger.”
“I have fought humans before, overseer.” Malekith reminded his servant. “Slaughtered them, in fact. Perhaps we are to blame for this recent state of affairs, as we cleansed this land of Chaos and gave rise to their tribes. How strange is the fruit that a seed thoughtlessly discarded might bear.”
“Of course, my Lord.” The overseer replied, his smile wavering as he searched for a hidden meaning in the word. “The humans cannot govern themselves…This is why your kings have failed.”
“Failed?” Malekith asked quietly. The overseer felt the hair on the back of his neck prick ad a chill run down his spine. His breathing began to grow more harried and his throat turned dry. He looked from side to side with his good eye, trying to find the source of his unease. It hurt to look at the Witch King. “Have I misunderstood you, my subject? If I am not mistaken you were telling me that I had failed, that my choice for the king of these humans was not the best, and that this upstart in the South outsmarted me.”
“No, my Lord!” The overseer protested.
“Then you are saying I am mistaken?”
“No!” As Malekith flexed his power, the overseers shrank back. “Here…here your will is absolute! The humans do not even dream of revolt, they worship you as a god!”
The wave of power subsided and Malekith was silent for a moment. “Show me.” The overseer nodded and with the rest of his crew walked towards the tree line. It was a few steps before his heart had begun
225 to slow down. The sound of a column of heavily armored elves marching was almost drowned out by the sounds of humans tearing away at the trees with the crude axes the Druchii had given them. Masked overseers stood among them to remind the humans of their servitude and reinforce the barrier that prevented them from turning their axes against their masters.
The small company was right at the edge of the tree line. The overseer was rattling off production numbers and explaining the system of overseers to the Witch King. Malekith was barely paying attention, letting his eyes appraise the operation on their own. He liked what he saw. The humans were in a state of near exhaustion, and none of them met eyes with the others. They were the animals Malekith remembered, the trappings of dignity that they had acquired had once again been stripped away. He would rebuild the east on the backs of these humans. The defeat at the hands of the Dawi still stung, but it was not a defeat that could not be reversed. The Witch King liked to see that the overseers were not being overtly physical towards the humans. It wasn’t necessary; they were wrapped around the Druchii’s finger as long as the master remained. Malekith smiled beneath his stern iron mask. He liked what he saw.
The head overseer gasped and his speech was cut off by a gurgle as blood choked his words. Malekith knew the sound. His withered heart began to pump and he slowly turned back towards the overseer. A finely shaped elven arrowhead, slicked with a thin sheen of elven blood protruded from his chest. The overseer looked up to Malekith’s face, his brows folding down as if asking his King’s impassive face why he was dying. The Witch King turned his gaze down and examined the arrowhead. He frowned. It was a style that was very familiar to him.
The Witch King stood his ground calmly as missile poured out of the forest. He could see each arrow clearly. They were seeking out elves. Before the overseer had collapsed a volley of arrows had found his brethren. The Black Guard rushed forward but the arrows started to catch them too, piercing their heavy armor. A few of his bodyguard managed to get in front of him but they were struck down. The high pitched whine of arrows was met with the whoops and startled cries of human workers as they abandoned their work stations out of fear. The Black Guard started screaming at each other in panic, trying to cover the Witch King who showed no signs of retreat. He stared intently at the forest, even as his elite soldiers died.
The first of the ambushers emerged from the trees. They were elves in full armor, heavier than Malekith had expected the renegade elves of Sarthailor to wear, especially when moving through the forest. More began to emerge as the numbers of the Black Guard dwindled. They wore grey cloaks and were silent as they completed their ambush and moved into the open. “My lord, we must withdraw!” One Black Guard, not the captain, shouted at Malekith. He died a moment later when an arrow pierced his head. The Witch King didn’t see a reason to respond. The elves who were now moving to surround him were a mystery. They didn’t make sense to him, and he would rather figure it out now than be frustrated with it for weeks. He let his bodyguard die.
The last of the Black Guard collapsed. The small regiment had offered no resistance to their attackers, but Malekith wasn’t going to hold it against the dead. Even he was impressed with the ambush. The elven warriors drew back their bows, their arrows pointed at the Witch King. “No.” He murmured, holding the Hand of Khaine aloft. The bowstrings sang as they released the arrows, though not one came close to Malekith. They were suspended in the air, quivering as they struggled to pierce the Witch King’s magic. “Did you really think that you would kill me here?” Malekith asked. “With arrows? I don’t know who sent you but they are a fool. I am the Witch King, Lord of All Elves. Die.” The Witch King
226 brought his arm down. The field of magic he had erected burst outward in a rush of wind and power, shattering the arrows and throwing the elves who had fired them onto their backs. None of them moved. “Nagarythean arrows.” Malekith murmured, looking over the corpses of his assailants. “Crude, but unmistakable.”
Something laughed behind the Witch King. He turned around and narrowed his eyes at the black wolf that sat on its haunches, tongue lolling out over its fangs as it panted out its laughter. “And what trickery is this?” Malekith asked before something pricked at the back of his mind and he turned around, drawing his sword. A familiar taint was in the air, and to taste more of it Malekith released the restraint he kept on his magic and became aware of the world’s secrets once again. The winds of magic contorted around the forest, the threads of life that sustained it crying out in anguish. A familiar feeling emanating from the forest, a taste he had once enjoyed but magnified to the point that it almost overwhelmed him. It was the taste of the fruit, the power of Chaos that had once infused him with life.
The source of the disturbance finally emerged from the tree line and Malekith couldn’t say a word. The bark on the trees curled as he passed. The ground was blighted beneath his feet, the undergrowth shriveling away and the soil itself drying up until it cracked apart. The Witch King could feel more than mortal eyes upon him; a third presence coldly looked through his armor and into his mind. But all of this, even the blinding power that emanated from the figure, was second in the Witch King’s mind to the features of his face. “I had forgotten your face, Alith Anar.” Malekith said calmly. “Your hatred runs deeper than I ever imagined if you have done this to yourself.”
“Your face was never far from my mind, Malekith.” The Everchosen’s words were soft but his eyes were locked on Malekith’s mask. “Justice runs deep in me. Hatred is only the instrument of that justice.”
“You cannot rule by strength alone.” The Witch King replied before raising his hand at Alith Anar and summoning a bolt of power which he unleashed at the Everchosen. Alith Anar closed his eyes, sensing the motion of the magical bolt through the ether. He allowed the ripples to move him, to set into motion his dance that carried him away from danger. To Malekith he simply seemed to disappear from the line of danger and materialize in a safe place. The forest withered further as the bolt of power passed into them.
“Strange words, from a tyrant.” Alith Anar responded as he slowly advanced on Malekith.
“Do you think if I ruled by strength I would be here now? I would have been overthrown a hundred times over. Strength is essential, but it is not enough.” Malekith held his ground and drew his sword. “Alith Anar…I suppose you and your gods believe I betrayed you. If you think you can trust them, you are sorely mistaken. They turned to you only when they were through with me.”
Alith Anar laughed. “I’m giddy, you have no idea. Not only am I about to kill you but I get to correct the lies of your past. You have never been their chosen. None are chosen but they who earn it. You did not, I have. We are nothing alike.”
“The lies we tell ourselves, Alith Anar, are all eventually revealed.” Malekith lunged forward to strike. Alith Anar saw a ghost of the Witch King move forward before Malekith actually moved, and easily sidestepped blow. Malekith’s eyes widened. The Everchosen was inside his reach, and moving closer. He raised the Hand of Khaine to ward off the attack he knew was coming, but was thwarted when one of Alith Anar’s knives batted away his claw with strength the Witch King had not perceived the former
227 Shadow King capable of. He was wide open.
The first of the twin knives was slipped into Malekith’s ribs, shredding the Armor of Midnight with ease. The second followed a split second later and it was driven into his chest. The Witch King gasped at the unfamiliar pain before quickly recovering his breath. Alith Anar did not press his attack. He allowed the Witch King to stumble as his black blood bubbled up from the wounds. Malekith dropped his sword and took hold of the knife planted in his chest. He began to murmur. “What’s that?” Alith Anar said as he moved forward. “No speech before you die, Witch King? I wonder what you’re seeing right now? Your mother? Nairalindel? You said you couldn’t remember my face, can you remember hers? Caledor? Do you remember him? Rythion Pendragon? Arcanaus? Khalir Vraneth, who you sacrificed to save your own skin? Do you remember any of them?” The Everchosen shook his head and Malekith collapsed. “No. The only face you remember is your own. As it is now, scarred and made from iron. You don’t even remember Malekith the Fair. I do. Like the others he is gone for good, never to rise again. Soon the Witch King will join him.” Alith Anar drew his sword. U’zuhl’s eyes stared at Malekith hungrily. “Only one name will be resurrected today. And that is mine. Justice will not be done when you are gone, no. Erasing Malekith means more than burning away the flesh. Erasing Malekith means that I will destroy the foundation of this world.” He leveled his sword at the Witch King. “But first, I will remove the cornerstone. U’zuhl.” The demon lashed out at the Witch King who had spent his breath and could barely scream.
***
When Santhil and the rest of the Black Guard came to the work site Malekith’s armor had been torn asunder. The Shadow Warriors remained where they lay, and the only sign of battle was the Witch King’s fallen sword and the ruined forest. The old symbol of Nagarythean kingship had been burned onto Malekith’s helm. It had been fully enclosed in an eight pointed star. Santhil’s sister Lahnia recognized it at once as belonging to Alith Anar. It was not difficult to put together what had happened. An attempt was made to keep the King’s death a secret in the colonies but it was impossible to silence all the hands who had to prepare the body for a return to Ulthuan. The assassination, and the name of Alith Anar and Chaos, spread throughout the east from every elven garrison down to the Reikland and from there to the Dwarfs and Sarthailor. There was a muted celebration in the streets of Avalaer, the news of the tyrant’s death tainted by the emergence of Alith Anar and Chaos. The Dwarfs offered a sacrifice in the shrine of Karaz-a-Karak and more than once the story of Grombrindal’s duel with Malekith was retold. Silence greeted the arrival of the Witch King at Tor Anlec. Morathi was the only one to cry out in anguish at the sight of her son. She refused a funeral and took the body into her chambers. While priests and princes demanded cremation and burial Morathi would have none of it, her son remained with her.
The Druchii prepared for a new war. Heads had to roll for the failure, and the House Arhukyl took the fall. Santhil was removed from the Colonies, for the moment Ulthuan was united in seeking revenge, and vast fleets of Druchii warriors began to arrive in the Eastern Colonies. The new commander prepared to strike north and hunt for Alith Anar’s head, until a note from Morathi was delivered to her. It was short, only a few lines of elegant script that communicated the will of the Queen.
The Druchii armies turned south against the Reik. More than one officer frowned at the news from Morathi. Malekith’s final plans would not be disturbed. Alith Anar would go unmolested. For the first time in its long history the empire of the Druchii was without a clear leader. Its foundation was gone, but in the fires of war they sought to forge a new one.
228 Found Once More By TimmyMWD Hour of the Wolf
Some time before the Hour of the Wolf …
Alnar’s mind struggled to find the words needed to describe the sensations that were rolling over his body. Certainly, he had expected what his eyes presented him. As far as he could see, bones of the long dead completely covered the plain. But it was his other senses that were providing him with the true euphoria he was now feeling. Dimly, more quiet than a whisper, Alnar Darkblade could hear the sounds of battles fought millennia ago playing out for all of eternity. He could smell and taste the blood of battle, as if Khaine himself had suspended the sensations of combat over the island for all eternity. All around him, his fellow black robed elves reveled in the same sensations Alnar was taking in. Looking ahead he saw that their pilgrimage was almost complete, as the black altar of Khaine loomed ever closer.
Although he knew he could never draw the weapon forged by Vaul, Alnar had pondered for months in what form it would appear to him. To his brother, it appeared as a longbow. To his father, it was in the form of a Cothiquan trident. His personal lust to see the weapon of Khaine almost eclipsed his religious desire to visit the altar.
Continuing his march, Alnar looked past his fellow devotees and into the bones once more. Above the sensations of battle, he could feel something in the bones. He did not see or hear anything; rather it felt as if his heart itself was being called. Without any thought or decision on his part, he suddenly found himself walking to his right, out of the group and over the bodies of the long dead. He could hear the other elves demand he stop, but it was if he heard them through water – they were distant, unclear, muddled. His hearing began to fade and his eyesight turned black on the edges, narrowing his field of vision to a small mound of bones a few paces in front of him.
After a few more slow and confused steps, he finally saw something besides bones. Glinting in the sun, Alnar could see untarnished ithilmar armor almost entirely covered by bones. His intentions now focused, he rushed towards the object with reckless abandon. Others must have seen it too, he thought, because now their calls for him to return stopped and instead he heard bones snapping as other elves ran in his wake. Reaching the mound, he quickly brushed aside skulls and ribs to become almost blinded by the sun’s light reflecting off the armor. The suit and helm were intricate, constructed by what he assumed were the Priests of Vaul before the gods left Ulthuan in their jealous fit. The runes were beautiful, but all were dark save those that drew their power from Kaela Mensha Khaine. He grasped the breastplate by the sides and picked it up to study it more.
By this time, the other elves had caught up to where he knelt and were standing around him, looking at the armor. Above the whispers of curiosity, a cold voice rang out, “Do you know what you have found, Alnar Darkblade?”
Alnar sneered. Tethlis was the leader of their pilgrimage. His devotion to Khaine and the slaughter of
229 combat was second to none, but his obsession with self-glory left him little friends. “A finely constructed suit of armor, Tethlis. I have seen none like it, in fact. Clearly, based on the runes, it was made before our gods abandoned us.”
Although Alnar could not see Tethlis, he could tell the elf was sneering from the way he spoke his next sentence, “Alnar, you are young and I will look over your ignorance. This armor is not just ancient, it is the armor of Aenarion himself.” At this point, Alnar turned around to face Tethlis in disbelief. Tethlis looked down at Alnar, “We shall present it to our glorious king as a sign of Khaine’s favor. Clearly, he smiles at our devotion to his ways.”
Standing up to celebrate with his fellow Khanites, Alnar suddenly heard an unmistakable sound. Behind him now, close by, an arrow was fired from a longbow. Before he could ponder if his mind was playing tricks on him, one of the robed pilgrims to his left collapsed in an ever-increasing pool of blood. The pilgrims drew their blades and scanned around the plain of bones. The seventeen remaining pilgrims saw six other elves appear around them. They wore brilliant suits of ilithmar scale armor, covered by royal blue cloaks. Their longbows were drawn, and they began to pick off the pilgrims one by one, their ritual robes offering no protection against the arrows.
Ducking to the ground, Alnar looked at Tethlis for leadership, “What must we do? Who are these elves!?” Certainly they were not the bastard half breeds of Sarthailor, Alnar thought, they would never be able to get near a site as revered as the Blighted Isle.
Tethlis looked at Alnar and began to form a reply on his lips, but before he could Alnar watched in horror as a blade erupted from Tethlis’ ribcage. From behind Tethlis, another elf placed his boot on the now dying elf’s back and pulled the sword back out. This elf was not one of the six, but was a fellow pilgrim. He removed his hood to reveal features he had not seen on an elf of Ulthuan. His eyes showed no malice, no hatred for the gods or the half-breeds. Two more pilgrims had also removed their hoods, and were driving their blades into the backs and sides of Alnar’s fellow Khainites. In the distance, the six mail-armored elves now ran in with weapons drawn to assist the traitors.
Crawling on the ground, Alnar pushed his way through a few feet of bones to reach the armor he had found only moments before. Grabbing the breastplate, he held it high in the air and begged, “Take the armor, I have done nothing but serve Khaine!”
One of the traitor pilgrims walked over to where Alnar was and took the armor from him. Alnar’s eyes were closed for fear of being struck by a sword, but he immediately opened them after he felt a wave of magical energy come over him. Looking up, the once dead runes on Aenarion’s armor now glowed brilliantly. Alnar was breathless as he saw the bright blue rune of Asuryan radiate before him. The sight of the runes was so beautiful to him that he almost overcame his hatred for the pantheon of gods that had abandoned his people. The feeling lasted only for a moment, and his malice filled eyes narrowed as he spat at the armor. “Those runes disgust me.”
He could hear a voice behind him, “And you disgust me. Look at what has become of our race.” Still focused on the runes, Alnar had no time to react to the sounds of the elf behind him, and he gasped in pain as a sword pierced his rib cage from behind. Collapsing onto the ground with agony, he watched as the six armored elves and the three traitors began to sprint away with the armor and helm of Aenarion. Even as they grew further and further away, even as his own vision faded from him, he could still see the runes of the elven gods glowing brightly. His last thought before he left this world was how the runes
230 were dead when he had touched them.
Although none of the pilgrims were left alive to see it, and none of the mysterious elves had any intent to look at it, from the moment the runes of Aenarion’s armor glowed brightly again, the Widowmaker began pulsing with dark energy. When the strange elves boarded their Eagleship on the coast and departed the Blighted Isle, a beam of dark energy lanced into the night sky. It was a show of force and defiance, meant for no mortal being.
231 Tears of the Oak Father By JaggedOldRed Hour of the Wolf
Deep in the ever-changing glades of Athel Loren, a woeful mood emanated from the ancient forest. One by one, the great treemen were being hunted and brought down. An enemy that struck unseen, but left an unmistakable mark. Pain and rage seethed through boughs and roots that had laid dormant for centuries, whipping the wild spirits of Loren into a single formless entity, all powerful in its domain, yet blind, and lost for the first time since Creation. In that darkness, a grim resolve coalesced amongst the oldest of the old. Their silent cry of outrage reverberated throughout the forest. The Compact has been broken! Strike back and avenge our ancient brothers!
As the waxing moon rose through the unquiet branches of the forest. Athel Loren was on the brink of civil war.
*****
The wayfinders were Asrai, the finest hunters in the world, but even their peerless woodsmanship afforded them scant progress against the forest’s own will. Their only hope of reaching their target rested with the nine Seers whose lore guided and sheltered them from the malice that possessed the woods. Stoically they pushed on, chanting in a trance. Exhausted, surprised, they stepped into a glade where the forest’s heavy hand seemed to lift, a blind area where the trees and spirits held no sway. As if pushing mightily against an unresisting door, the Seers stumbled and fell forward. The Guards entrusted with their safety took only fractions of an instant to react to the new threat. It was not fast enough. Swan-feathered Asrai arrows fell on them like angry birds. Four Seers died before they hit the ground. Fourteen Guards gave their lives to save the others.
The glade exploded with frantic motion and the shouted orders of war. Their ambush exhausted, the kinslayers were no match for the host assembled against them. Wayfinders’ arrows scoured every shadow, extracting bloody penance for their dead; Sentinels arrayed into phalanxes advanced with unearthly precision, while elven cavalry rode fast, weaving through the trees, and flushing their prey towards the unyielding center. No enemy in that cursed glade survived the night. The traitor’s host had been broken, but their master was nowhere to be found. Some say that its soul was carried off by demons, others that his foul magic, stolen from tortured treemen, concealed his escape through the woods, as it had done before. The elven Lords and Seers broke through the remaining defenders only to find the bound husk of an Oak Father ancient beyond recollection, its limbs burned to a cinder, its trunk scarred with the vilest of runes. The mark of the treacherous Asrai Lord known as the Rabid One.
In a last act of betrayal, the Rabid One used his misguided kindred as bait. As he fled the glade, the dark magic that kept the forest spirits at bay failed. In their wild rage, they would not tell friend from foe. Advancing in a tide of green they overwhelmed the lesser wards of the surviving Seers, condemning all Asrai to perish at the hands of those they swore to protect. But as the two armies were about to clash, a shrill sound of cymbals and horns filled the glade. In its wake, in strode a god, his antlered head and eyes radiating with uncontrolled fury. As he strode across the field, treemen and Asrai kneeled to their Lord.
232 As they rose, the spirits of the forest could finally see beyond the sorcery of the Rabid One.
Surrounded by elves and spirits, Kurnous reached the centre of the accursed glade. It is said, by those who were there, that the Hunter God then cried by the husk of the Oak Father. But as he looked to the sky, lightning struck the site countless times, so much that all but three of elven Lords had to protect their ears and shield their eyes kneeling in fearsome awe of their god. When the lightning ceased, only ash remained from the lifeless husk. Stepping forward, the bravest of the three standing Asrai stuck his hands into the hot ash and retrieved a single fire-hardened arrow, which he fletched with the treeman’s last leaves. Next, the wisest of the Lords blew away the ash to uncover the Oak Father’s gnarled heart, which he took and cleaned, and brought to his lips. Once again, he blew mightily and the call of a great hunting horn resonated through the forest, bringing back with it the pounding of running hooves and the baying of fearsome hounds. The host and the spirits once again fell to their knees, for the Lord was now as Kurnous himself, and his horn had summoned the Wild Hunt. Then, the Hunter God spoke. To the first Lord, older brother to the other two, he said: “You are now my Hound. Bring down and sacrifice to me your Forsaken kin”. He then faced the second Lord: “You are my Huntsman and will lead the hunt in my name. Take the Hearthorn. You have blown it once, and can blow it twice more. Lead the host where the Hound will strike!” Upon hearing that, Lord and host left in haste and with the blaring of the Horn still echoing through the forest.
For a long time after the Hunt had departed, a young maid stood in the glade. She was the third Asrai to endure Orion’s fury unflinchingly, and younger sister to the other two. Kurnous’ great horned head finally turned to her: “You belong to me not at all, but still I beseech your favour, for without it all hope will falter. Join your brothers to remind them of the gift of Isha”. For a moment, the God’s eyes betrayed a great suffering, then he turned and disappeared into the woods. The Lady then went to the place where Kurnous had been standing, and digging briefly retrieved a single acorn.
The Wild Hunt swelled with those who heard the call of its baying hounds as it marched for Skavenblight where the Rabid One schemed with its foul denizens. This close to the Athel Loren it reached its destination with the momentum of a raging river, routing foul Skaven armies in a flood of arrows and steel. But the Rabid One had already fled. The Hunt pursued him throughout the span of the peninsula, destroying every Skaven hole it came across, freeing their slaves and collapsing their warpstone mines. Eventually, they reached the very southern shores of Tilea. Standing on a tall cliff, the Hound looked at his brother and once more pointed seawards. Their quarry had eluded them, taking ship to the empire of Nehekhara. The Hunt came to a halt with a growing sense of fear. How could they give chase now? As if in answer, the Huntsman took and blew the Hearthorn for the second time.
As its echo spread over the high cliffs and waves of the cold Tilean shore, a cold wind began to rise. The resonating call of the horn played amongst the clouds, bringing again the sounds of horses at a gallop. Hound reared his warhorse and leaped from the cliff, as if in pursuit of that heavenly call. For a moment, there was no sound but the keening of the wind and the breaking of the waves. Then came the sound of drumming hooves racing through the water, followed by the Hound’s joyful, manic laughter. By twos, threes, and soon dozens, the Asrai leapt from the cliff into the hands of their God. The Wild Hunt had taken to the skies of the Old World. ------
It had been a cold night in the Royal Port of Zandri. A chill from the sea spread through the docks as a red-horned moon rode in the sky. The sailors at port shivered and made signs against evil spirits, as the Royal guards chuckled and joked at their barbarian superstitions. Riding the North wind, the Wild Hunt
233 hit the sleeping sea-port like so many strikes of lightning, taking its garrison completely unawares and from within. Its defenders died before any alarm had been sounded. Then, the wrath of Kurnous turned on those who aided the Rabid One’s escape, and the docks filled up with the burning hulks of Nagash’s fleet.
Leaving Zandri, the Asrai chase the Rabid One through verdant valleys to the outskirts of mighty Khemri, Capital of Nehekhara and unholy sanctum of one who would deem himself a God. Here, there was no element of surprise. The elven host had been seen from the lofty pyramids days before its arrival. Eager to avenge the humiliations of Zandri, the proud nobles of Nehekara flocked to their capital in droves assembling themselves in traditional fashion across the wide open plain. First, a hard and unyielding center fielded by legions of archers and fearless undead. On the left flank, the huge Tuskers and gleaming chariots of the Southern nobility; on the right, heavy cavalry. More than enough troops and space to envelop and crush the smaller Elven army. As one, the flower of Nehekaran nobility lowered their spears and charged; pinions gleaming in the desert sun in a mad dash for glory. It was over almost before it begun. The Asrai lifted their longbows to the sky and started picking targets at a range and with accuracy never seen before. Every bowman would more likely than not hit his intended target. The Hound alone killed four necromancers before the others realized the danger and fled leaving their skeletons to crumble in the dust. Princes, Generals and Captains died according to rank. Leaderless, the soldiers attempted to retreat for the walls, only to be cut down by Asrai cavalry.
That very day, Khemri fell thanks to a rebellion of the Dwarven slaves that had been brought into the city by Nagash to work on the pyramids or fight in the arena. Through the years of slavery, their spirit had never been broken, now, seizing their opportunity, they rose as one to gain control of the Northern gate and hold it open long enough for the Hunt to enter the city as a flock of vengeful angels. The necromancers, morgues, and unhallowed obelisks of Khemri burned that night, but not a single slave was harmed. The next day, as the Asrai prepared to leave once more in pursuit of their elusive kin, a contingent of 50 dwarves swore themselves to the Asrai Maiden who took them as their own, and treated them as kindered.
The crossing of the desert was harrowing. Nagash had poisoned the wells as he fled towards Karak- Eight-Peaks, wining through treachery what could not be had by force of arms. Scores of Asrai and most of the spirits perished in the sands. Thus weakened, the Hunters would have all perished, were it not for the intervention of the Lady’s dwarven bodyguards, who steered the forces past the hordes of undead besieging the mountains, through tunnels and passes never before seen by non-dwarven eyes until they reached the forested slopes of that great mountain fastness of Karak-Eight-Peaks.
The Dwarven Capital was under a strange siege. Nagash controlled most of it, but deep in the tunnels resolute leaders continued to fight the invader. To deny the trapped dwarves reinforcements from above or bellow, Nagash split his army in two. The undead were kept by his side in the bowels of the mountain, while the humans camped on the outside. The size and built of Karak-Eight-Peaks was such that the either force could reinforce the other in a matter of moments.
The situation was desperate. Neither dwarves, nor elves could hope to win against such overwhelming odds. This far from the sources of its power the spirits were also weakening, and becoming dormant. There was no time to lose. The Huntsman agreed to participate on a combined assault with the Dwarves. Both forces would strike from above and bellow, and if the Hunt could delay the Nehekharan’s long enough, the dwarven armies could deal a decisive blow to Nagash. He knew that even if the Dwarves achieved their goal, the Hunt would be wiped out. His only hope was that their attack would
234 draw forth the Rabid One, and give the Hound a chance to fulfill his destiny. His sister had other plans.
As the last moon of spring rose in the sky, the Wild Hunt charged down the forested slopes like night raptors in search of pray. Silent as death, their arrows reached the first ring of guards before an alarm could be raised. Never stopping, the hunters bounded over the earth ramparts protecting the tents and fell upon their enemies. Surprise, speed and darkness almost carried the Asrai all the way towards gates they were to hold. But their path had been blocked by the Rabid One himself and Nagash’s elite undead bodyguard. A shivering blast of energy destroyed the Hound’s bow and right hand. Rearing his horse to protect his remaining sibling, the Huntsman managed a strangled blow to his Hearthorn, before having his horse was cut down from under him. It blared harmlessly over the Rabid One’s head before disappearing in the distance.
With an evil cackle, the Rabid One ordered the death of his former kin. Surrounded, elves and dwarves joined in a shieldwall to protect their Lady, forcing their enemies to send more men and horses into the press. As the small circle of defenders was about to break, The Maiden cast her sacred acorn on the soft soil with a prayer to Isha. Immediately the ground began to tremble as old and new roots received the Goddess’s gift. Horses bolted, chariots became stuck soldiers fought with the grasp of vines come alive.
A feeble attempt, thought the Rabid One, as he summoned enough energy to blight the elfling’s desperate attempt. Too late he realized his danger. The Hearthorn’s power had not been aimed at him, but at the mountains. Now, Kurnous’s call rebounded in echoes from the verdant slopes of the Karak- Eight-Peaks calling to war every tree and plant who received the living gift of Isha through its roots. As one, mighty trees rose and charged down the mountains slaying every enemy on their part. He attempted to redirect his magic, to make render himself again invisible to the trees, but as he tried to speak, his breath left him, and his arms started to flail about chaotically. Before the end, he had time to hear the Hound’s manic laughter as the wildling twisted with, his one remaining hand, the Oak Father’s arrow in his heart.
With their quarry brought low, the Wild Hunt disbanded, the remaining Asrai making their way back through various routs. All but one, that is, for it is said that the Maiden still resides on a secret glade on the slopes of Karak-Eight-Peaks, attended by a secret society of dwarven rangers, where she veils for the tomb of her fallen brother and the young sapling of the new Oak Father.
235 Changing of the Guard By Lord Anubis and Tastyfish Hour of the Wolf
Standing outside the huge bronze doors to the council chamber, Jalrhek shifted his feet uncomfortably as he watched the dark clouds of ravens circle beyond the walls of Tor Ardansal. As another muffled shout echoed out from within the chamber behind him, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the scene outside was unsettlingly apt.
The day had started out gloriously as the combined legions of Ulthuan had finally broken through the city’s defenses, slaughtering the last of its beleaguered defenders and taking scores of captives from amongst its wretched inhabitants. Jalrhek himself had taken nearly a year’s worth of wages in loot when the squad he was leading broke into one of the manors where some of what passed for the nobility in this blighted land had hidden themselves during the siege. So great had been the massacre that the evening sky itself appeared as stained with blood as the stones of the street, and yet that omen of victory was now tainted by the Crone’s black garbed heralds, their harsh calls echoing the dire news another dark clad messenger had brought from the docks at Kithanan.
Not a single member of the Witch King’s Black Guard had returned, and Jalrhek and a host of other veterans had found themselves pressed into service as the High Council’s bodyguards. As loyal as he was, Jalrhek was experienced enough to recognize a power vacuum when he saw one and to know that being a bodyguard during one was more dangerous than anything he had encountered during the siege. As he looked around, he saw in his fellow guards’ faces the same realization. His thoughts were interrupted by a loud crash and the great bronze doors swinging open as Sirhael Malenti, one of the battle group captains, strode out angrily.
“She’s gone too far this time Karkhadath!” The Vaulkhar shouted back at the rest of the council. His eyes passed over the gathered nobles to finally fix on Drachau Hanzin Karkhadath, “I’ll not stand idly by whilst that witch drags our homeland into depravity. Our heritage will not be debased for the glory of some barbarian’s religion.”
Jalrhek watched the young Vaulkhar’s glare falter under the withering gaze of the ancient Drachau, the anger visibly draining from his body to be replaced with a sudden realization of what he had just done.
***
Durza Viricarsi, Vaulkhar of the Hand of Khaine, watched while his fellow noble strode from the hall, those under his command straggling behind him. As the shouting began to break out, he stood and gave an ironic bow to the Drachau before spinning on his heel and following Malenti from the hall. Once outside he beckoned one of his guards over.
“Find Lords Raneth Nailo and Mal-Fait Ephialtes, and bring them to my chambers immediately. Then….”
He paused, considering what he was about to do.
236 “Then go to Lord Malenti and tell him that I wish to meet with him as soon as possible concerning a matter of great importance to our future. Go.”
As the guard obeyed, Viricarsi stared after him for a long moment before waving another messenger over. Plans of treachery or not, the war had to continue.
***
Later that day, as the sun drifted down towards the horizon, two figures wrapped in heavy cloaks stood on a balcony and stared out over the mist-shrouded city. From their high perch, they could see the guards moving along the walls, the camp of the army outside and the lands beyond. A grim smile drew across the face of the first figure as his attention turned from the vista in front of them to his scowling companion.
"We are agreed then?"
"Yes. I have the pendants, and my guards are ready"
A leather pouch exchanged hands, vanishing silently into the interior pocket of a robe.
The second elf shifted uneasily, his eyes still on the army beyond the walls.
“And what about the other? She is loyal to Morathi. It is foolish to leave her alive. We should make a clean sweep tonight, while we have the opportunity.”
The other shook his head. “Perhaps. But we need her for the moment. With Karkhadath dead and Drannath out of the way, their replacements must be appointed by either the remaining Drachau or Morathi. Once she has done so, then there are plenty of ways to eliminate even a High Sorceress. After all, we are at war.”
The second figure sighed and turned away from the view. “In that case, I shall go and ensure that I am in a public place for the next few hours. I suggest you do the same. We must not be seen to be linked to these tragic events.”
With that, he swept out, leaving his colleague to his thoughts.
***
Hanzin Karkhadath was at the height of his power and influence. He was a Drachau, one of only three Druchii who ruled the colonies. As the dominant Triumvir, it would inevitably be he who ruled the new empire that the elves would found in the Old World, an empire built on the skill of the army that Slaaneshi witch, Morathi, had sent to him. The irony was delicious and he savoured it as he walked slowly back from the assembly to his quarters. Even the dramatic exits of Malenti and Viricarsi had lost the power to trouble him. They would be dealt with soon enough; along with any others he could not trust to remain loyal to him.
Perhaps it was this sense of impending triumph that caused him to fail to see the slave before the half- breed fool cannoned into the Drachau, sending them both to the ground in a heap. The ceramic jar the
237 slave had been carrying smashed, drenching Karkhadath from head to toe in a clear odourless liquid. The other elf had somehow managed to avoid the deluge and was just standing when the enraged Druchii grasped him by the throat and squeezed.
”Next time, watch where you are going, fool.” Karkhadath spat, throwing the slave back to the ground. He began to turn and then stopped, his eye caught by a pendant around the neck of the servant. His attack must have shaken it loose. The Drachau stooped to see it more clearly, knowing that it was somehow familiar. As he did, his blood ran cold. A silver flame; the symbol of the Cult of Asuryan. Almost simultaneously, it struck him what exactly had been in the shattered amphora. Oil.
As he turned, too late, to flee, he saw the flame ignite in the shadows before him. Saw the other Druchii smile. Then all he knew was pain and finally darkness.
His screams of agony brought aid swiftly, but it was too late. The guards seized the slave and the assassin, both wearing the badge of the forbidden sect, and dragged them away but they were unable to save the Drachau or even to extinguish the flames. Eventually, they surrendered to the inevitable and summoned a noble. The news swept through the citadel with the speed of lightning, and in the panic, the commanders of the garrison seized their moment.
***
Accompanied by a contingent of his household guards, Lord Viricarsi marched through the hallways of Tor Ardansal with an air of triumph, his blood red cloak streaming behind him. From the courtyards adjoining the palace, he could hear the screams of the ‘traitors’ as the soldiers of the dead Drachau tore them apart. His fellow conspirator, Lord Malenti, would be supervising the executions even now, leaving to Viricarsi the task of bringing the last remnant of the old Triumvirate into line. A pair of guards flanked the entrance to what had been the wing housing the Drachau, but they stepped aside as Viricarsi neared.
Within, there was a short corridor, with a single doorway at its end guarded by a pair of stoic Druchii bearing the arms of the House Cadsane. They snapped to attention at the first sound, crossing their spears in front of the door. Viricarsi eyed them for a long moment, a calculating look crossing his face.
“Your devotion to Lady Cadsane’s well being is most admirable. However, I merely wish to speak with her. Stand aside.”
The guardsmen did not move.
The Druchii lord’s eyes narrowed.
“Stand aside.”
When they did not do so, he stepped back with a small shrug. A moment passed and the two guards slumped silently to the ground. A slender Dark Elf woman with long brown hair stepped over the bodies and curtseyed to Viricarsi, before retrieving a small dagger from each corpse and wiping it clean on their cloaks. Without acknowledging his aide, the new Drachau gestured and a pair of his escort moved to drag the deceased away. Two more stood beside the door, leaving one to either side of Viricarsi as he strode into the room beyond.
238
A tall Druchii was in the process of standing from behind a table on the far side of the room. One hand clutched at a scroll, whilst the other slammed a heavy tome closed. She glared at the intruders, her identity confirmed by the triad of purple lines that slashed across her right eye. Viricarsi simply smiled at her.
“Ah. Lady Cadsane, it is good to see that you are unharmed by the disturbance of last night. It is a pity that your guards were murdered outside your very door by the treacherous cultists. I will, of course, leave two of my own personal warriors here to ensure your safety. After all, we must protect our leaders especially carefully now that Drachau Karkhadath has been murdered by the Cult of Asuryan. There must be no more accidents, would you not agree?”
He stepped casually across the room, ignoring the woman in favour of reading the titles of some of the books on her shelf. Running his fingers along the spines, he pulled one out, and began to skim through its pages.
“On a similar topic, you may not be aware that Kharan Drannath has disappeared. Perhaps he also felt that his life was threatened? Nevertheless, the Triumvirate must stand united for the duration of this war against all threats – both from within and from without. To this end, the last surviving member must appoint two more captains to fill the places that have opened. That would be you, my Lady.”
The last two words were sneered as Viricarsi turned back to face Cadsane across her black desk, snapping the book closed and tossing it disdainfully onto the floor.
“Given the available options, might I suggest that you support the candidacy of Lord Malenti and myself as the new Drachau. You will be able to announce this to the assembled soldiers this evening.”
He moved closer, his lacquered armour glinting in the torchlight.
“There will be little protest, as the garrison is made up of those commanded by myself and Lord Malenti. The others, including the supporters of the late Drachau Karkhadath, are away in the north, conveniently out of reach for the moment. You have no choice.”
“No.” The quiet dignity in Jesamine Cadsane’s voice echoed in the quiet room, contrasting with the malevolence that shrouded Viricarsi. She walked out from behind the table to confront him, her vibrant blue dress in stark opposition to his dark crimson armour, her appearance that of an otherworldly figure.
“No, I do not have much choice.”
Suddenly her hands flew up, a veil of violet power burning into existence around Viricarsi and his guards. Even as the warriors slumped to the floor, Viricarsi held his ground, watching the High Sorceress through the magic with detached interest. After a long moment, the fire collapsed into itself, fading as though it had never been. The Druchii lord gazed at the Sorceress, raising an eyebrow.
“Unless you have any more tricks that you wish to try, I will leave you to consider your decision. Good day to you, Lady Cadsane.”
239 With that, he spun on his heel and strode out, ignoring the smoldering corpses by the door. The soldiers by the door fell into step with him as their master exited, pulling a small gem from his robes and examining it carefully. Without stopping, he addressed his aide.
“Good work. Oh, and Kherith? Arrange for Lady Cadsane to suffer an unfortunate accident at the earliest opportunity.”
***
As the cool mists of morning drew around the camp of the Druchii army encamped around Tor Ardansal, the soldiers gathered around a hastily erected wooden platform draped with the banner of Ulthuan. Behind it, an unnatural mist hid the city walls, although tall shapes peeked through in places. The gathered troops muttered uneasily.
Durza stepped out onto the platform, flanking Jesamine Cadsane on her right even as Sirhael Malenti flanked her on the left. Another sorceress brought up the rear, pale and faint from the magic that she was holding in place. The Drachau stepped to the front of the platform and held up her arms for silence.
Down below, Kiraseth gripped his spear tightly, eager to learn why this gathering had been called on such short notice and why only one Drachau stood on the platform. Normally, it was Lord Karkhadath that spoke, while Lady Cadsane stood at the back watching. Now though, Karkhadath was nowhere to be seen and his own captain, Viricarsi, and another Vaulkhar accompanied Cadsane. Both wore full armour and looked grim.
“Loyal warriors of the Druchii, I come before you now with news of the gravest treachery. Drachau Hanzin Karkhadath was murdered last night by members of the Cult of Asuryan….”
Her voice trailed off as a roar of outrage rose from the assembled soldiery. The crows rose from the battlements at the sound, their mocking cries challenging the anger of the Druchii below. Sirhael Malenti strode forward, arrogantly knocking Cadsane out of his way and deliberately ignoring the malevolent snarl she directed at his back.
“Soldiers of Ulthuan. Due to the treacherous murder of Drachau Karkhadath and the recall of Drachau Drannath to Ulthuan, the Triumvirate has been reduced to one. Due to the kind assent of Lady Cadsane, the ranks will be filled by Lord Viricarsi and me. We will bring this war against the rebels to a swift and victorious conclusion, as our departed king wished, and then sail home to return Ulthuan to a golden time. To that end, we shall no longer show any mercy to the enemies of our Empire. All who opposes the ascendancy of our people will perish.”
He raised his arms to the darkened sky. “Behold the dawn of a new age for the children of Aenarion!”
With that, the shadows that had cloaked the walls of the city fell away, revealing a new forest before the gates of Tor Ardansal. Row upon on row of men and elves had been impaled upon long wooden stakes, their moans of agony echoing from the walls. Blood soaked the ground below.
As the serried ranks below cheered, Malenti drew his sword and gestured to the west. “To war!”
240 Valaya Protects By Orcslicer Hour of the Wolf
A dusty cough echoed across the dimly lit council chamber, a harsh noise like rocks grinding against each other. The sound brought the dozen members of the warcouncil to a respectful silence as they retook their crafted stone seats and looked to the figure at the head of the table. High King Kurgan Ironbeard rapped his knuckles thoughtfully against the surface, sweeping his gaze across the assembly of figures. On his immediate left sat Grogan Helgenhammer, War-mourner and General of the Enduring Realm. To his side sat Thanes Hullin Hwellin and Alrik Dragonaxe, both grave faced and attentive. Opposite the King were five Dwarfs so ancient that their faces were barely visible beneath beards so long they flowed like rivers of pearl. Next to them, Furgil Hirndour and Noldir Greymane. The remaining two Thanes finished their whispered conversation and turned dutifully to face the High King. The final seat was empty, its would-be occupant pacing the room tirelessly. Alrik snorted disdainfully at the visitor’s disrespectful behaviour, but resolved to remain silent. The Asrai were a strange folk, and their ambassador was, after all, their guest.
“Is there no other way?” asked Kurgan, directing his question at no-one in particular. “Nagash can not be allowed to reconstruct the staff himself. The consequences would be dire for the entire alliance,” responded Garn Thunderbrow, the oldest of the Runelords facing the High King. The remainder all gave affirmations of the statement, nodding tiredly or murmuring in agreement. “Thanes, what say you?” Hullin was first to reply. “If we go ahead with this plan, we stand to lose our empire.” “If we do not, we could stand to lose the Old World to the forces of darkness. Nagash knows of the staff – he will come looking for it regardless of our actions,” countered Noldir. “We have two options; cower in our holds while Nagash grows in strength with his experiments into the black arts, or make a sacrifice that’ll render Nagash paralyzed if we succeed,” spoke Furgil, his voice resolute in contrast to the uncertainty in his eyes. “You make it sound like we have no choice at all…” replied Kurgan, a slight smile playing on his lips for the first time in hours. “What choice do we have my liege? We can not afford to stand idle. This is a sacrifice we must make, for the greater good of the alliance.” Kurgan sighed heavily and stared at the small, gold statue of Grungni in front of him. The scene was like a painting, the council all motionless as they waited for the King’s decision. A moment that would define the fate of the Dwarven Empire.
After what seemed an eternity, Kurgan Ironbeard grasped the small statue. Holding it out to Furgil, he spoke with the resolve of a Dwarf that had made up his mind. “For Grungni, and the glory of the Burning Star.”
*******
A writhing storm of sand battered the dwarven artillery as they stood atop the shifting dunes. It was as
241 though the deserts of Nehekhara knew the Dwarfs were intruders and the land itself was rejecting them like some sort of parasite. Despite the sweltering conditions, the cannons had done their job. A final barrage smashed into an already weakened fault line. With an ominous groan the colossal sandstone walls of Khemri tumbled to the ground and scattered across the sands.
Dwarf and Elven forces poured into the city, overwhelming the armies of the desert in a matter of minutes. They drove the defenders deeper into the city, leaving them with no avenue escape with which to warn their allies; it was vital to the alliance that no reinforcements arrived to interfere with their plan before it reached fruition.
Inside the city, Furgil dropped his helmet to the ground and threw the contents of a canteen across his face. Sweat and blood filtered through his beard and fell to the ground, where it quickly evaporated in the heat before a pool could form. Looking around for some shade, he moved to the dark side of the Black Pyramid. The proximity to the building made him feel queasy; Runelord Garn Thunderbrow had explained to him about the building being a sink for Dhar magic. Though he did not have the sight of the Elven Seers, he could still sense the malevolence and corruption that infused the building. “It disturbs you too?” spoke a quiet voice behind him. Turning slowly, the Dwarf smiled. Aeliaria, Kindred Leader of the Wood Elves stood behind him, her face wrinkled in disgust. Unusually fair even for an Elf, she tossed her hair over her loose silk robes and met the Dwarf’s steady gaze. He could see why she was referred to as “The Princess”. “What disturbs me is how ye’ survive this intolerable heat without breaking a sweat. I’m down two notches on me belt already!” growled Furgil, shaking off the question gruffly. Aeliaria merely smiled in response, motioning the Dwarf to follow. “Come Thane, the Seers have found the layline to the pyramid.”
The pair walked to the other side of the pyramid, meeting a cluster of Asrai standing at what appeared to be an identical wall of black rock. “Here,” one of the Seers said to the Dwarf, tracing a symbol over the black rock. “I’ll take your word for it.” responded Furgil, seeing no difference in that particular point from any other on the sloping wall. Several moments passed in silence. “So… this stone circle. You can find it?” prompted the Dwarf somewhat awkwardly. He had not dealt with Elves for a long time, and forgotten how aloof they were. Perhaps that was why he felt somewhat closer to Aeliaria than the other Wood Elves, her mannerisms were often far more down to earth and direct. “Yes,” answered another of the Seers, as they continued to examine the black stone.
From a pouch at his side, Furgil withdrew an item wrapped in cloth. Removing it from its protective bindings he was almost dazzled by the brightness of the solid gold effigy. It was statue of an aged Dwarf in flowing robes holding a staff. Grungni himself. The Runelord’s had explained the process that was to be conducted by the Seers to him, but he remembered little of it. Only that gold attracted a specific wind of magic, which would be amplified greatly by the presence of a stone circle. What it would do to magic trapped in the rune on the statue, Furgil did not know. Only that it was worth risking the lives of the Dal-Undim and the Wild Hunt on this assault deep into Nehekhara.
Handing the statue warily to the Seers, Furgil spoke: “Do what you must.”
242
*********
A howling wind buffeted the peaks of the Worlds Edge Mountains, a low and mournful sound to the ears of Thane Noldir Greymane. He stood atop Karagril, the highest of Karak-Eight-Peak’s bastion mountains. Below him, the entire known world stretched in all directions. Had it been day, Noldir would be able to see as far as the great forests of Reikland in the north, down to the arid deserts of the south. That night however, Noldir ignored the wonders laid out before him. Instead, mesmerized by the orange glow of thousands of torch lights, he watched as the hosts of Nehekhara neared the city. He had stood on this great balcony many times before, ever since his father had brought him there as a child. The hold had been his home all his life, and he had never thought that he would live to see it fall. The numbers of the besiegers were vast beyond imagination, and he knew in his heart that the city walls would fall despite their best defenses.
“Have faith, old friend,” spoke a warm voice from behind Noldir. Noldir whipped round in surprise and anger. “How did you get up here? I locked the doorway! My orders were not to be distur…” he began, somewhat startled. His voice trailed off as he looked at the Dwarf standing behind him. His beard was great and white; his eyes were like pools of ice. Noldir glimpsed great age and wisdom in the depths of those eyes that the Dwarf’s muscular frame did not reveal. “Do I know you?” Noldir asked uncertainly. The Dwarf chuckled quietly, with a twinkle in his eye. “Now, that really is a question that would befuddle a beardling. Look deep inside yourself Thane, and you will find you’ve always known me.” With dawning realization, the Thane dropped humbly to one knee. “My lord Grombrindal, you have returned.” “Stand up Noldir, and less of the titles. I am not your lord or master. I’m just an old Dwarf here to lend my axe to the cause.” The White Dwarf offered a rough hand to the kneeling Dwarf. “And for the record, I never left.” Noldir nodded, and with a deep breath pulled himself to his feet with renewed determination. The walls of Karak Eight Peaks would fall, but the spirit and strength of the Dwarfs would not. By the will of his people, Noldir would hold the vaults beneath the hold against the forces of darkness to his dying breath.
*********
“Steady lads!” yelled Noldir down the line of Dwarf rangers. They stood shoulder to shoulder, crossbows raised towards the opening at the far end of the dark underground chamber. Six long months had passed since Grombrindal had first appeared. The constant warfare had worn down the Khazrik-Undim, but not their spirit or resolve. The first of the Nehekaran forces began to pile into the subterranean catacomb, a full hundred longspears dressed simple white robes, followed by a smaller contingent of the royal guard dressed in crimson, armour decorated with intricate swirls of gold. Noldir groaned silently. His own only numbered two dozen. He only hoped that their experience and skill would be his great equalizer. “Wait for my command!” he shouted, somewhat redundantly. Months of war had turned even the youngest of beardlings into veterans, and they waited unflinchingly for the Thane’s command to fire.
Noldir counted down the paces as the enemy charged closer, waiting for them to get into optimum
243 range. Every shot had to count, as there would be no chance to reload. About to raise his arm to signal to fire, Noldir stopped. With warning, an unremitting hail of bow fire began to rain from the darkness either side of the Nehekharan raiding force. The strange war cries of the southlanders quickly changed to shouts of panic and pain, as scores fell under the rain of missiles. Within a minute, the enemy either lay dead, mortally wounded or fleeing for their lives.
Noldir took a hearty swig from his hip flask, watching the darkness with a cautious eye. From it, began to emerge scores of Elves dressed in flowing green and a Dwarf he knew well. “Furgil, you sly dog! You’ve returned!” Noldir bellowed across the hall, dropping his crossbow and running towards his old friend. He embraced Furgil in a great bear hug. “It’s great to see you Noldir!” replied Furgil, grinning broadly as he motioned to his companions. “Meet Aeliaria and her kindred of Wood Elves.” “Mistress, I speak with all sincerity when I say that I’ve never been happier to see an Elf in all my days!” laughed Noldir, extending a hand to the elven leader. “But come, now is not the time for joviality. You’ve arrived not a moment too soon; Nagash is throwing everything at our defenses in a final attempt to overwhelm them.” “Has anything fallen?” asked Furgil, suddenly serious again. “We lost Khaz-Galaz and all the surrounding vaults a few weeks back. Nagash will have stumbled on some pretty trinkets like the iron circlet I’ll wager, but nothing compared to the treasures in the vaults we still hold.” Furgil nodded in agreement. “How many of you left?” “Four hundred maybe, it’s hard to keep track. More die every day.” Noldir sighed deeply, letting his eyes wander over the elves in the hall before resting on Furgil once more. “I take it your mission was successful?” enquired Noldir. In answer, Furgil reached for the pouch by his side and pulled out a bundle wrapped in a velvet cloth. Pulling it delicately aside he held it out to Noldir, who gasped in awe. The statue of Grungni was the same that he had seen the King give to Furgil, yet somehow… different. The gold glowed more fervently, the rune shimmered and swirled like nothing Noldir had ever seen.
“CONSTRUCTS!” The cry from one of his rangers brought the Thane from his semi-trance. “How many?” “Groz.” Came the reply in Khazalid. Lots. Noldir swore violently. “Our time runs short. Take the passage behind me, follow it left, right, then left again. The passwords are the same as before. Get the statue to Runelord Thunderbrow.” Noldir whispered quickly to Furgil before walking back to pick over his crossbow. Seeing Furgil hesitating, Noldir shouted back to him. “The Ushabti are Nagash’s twisted sorcery at their strongest. Fearsome fighters. Go Furgil, and for Grungni’s sake get the staff reforged. I’ll buy you time.” Furgil nodded, and signaled for the Dwarfs and Elves to follow him.
******
Garn Thunderbrow squinted; his curious face creasing into a network of deep fissures like the stalagmite above him. “Amazing,” he murmured as he examined the rune of Grimnir on the statue. After what seemed an eternity, he looked up. Mildly surprised to find the many of the original
244 warcouncil all watching in stony silence. “Furgil, I do believe we owe you and the Elves a debt of gratitude.” A rolling explosion echoed somewhere far above them, dislodging flakes of dust and stone from the vaulted ceiling that rained down on the Dwarfs and Elves.
Nagash was desperately trying to breach the upper sanctum, assaulting the runic gateway with the full extent of his corrupt magic.
Garn turned to the council of runesmiths and motioned to them from his position by the simple stone altar. “Bring forth the staff pieces.” Three of the Runelords stepped forward, each carrying an object covered with a silk cloth trimmed with burnished gold. Climbing the eight steps to the top of the ziggurat where the altar was built they laid the items on the altar, and respectfully stepped back to give Garn room to work. Each was over half a millennia in age, but this was nothing compared to the rumours of Garn Thunderbrow’s true age.
One by one, he lovingly removed the cloth from each staff part. The first revealed a headpiece of flawless craftsmanship, a sculpt of the dwarven goddess herself crowned with a winged helm. The second, a beautifully cut diamond in the shape of a white dove, the symbol of healing. The final part was a slender rod made of silver, completely smooth save for a single rune etched into the surface. The runelord with an air of finality placed the statue among the objects, watching as they began to glow and glitter as if in excitement. The Runelord closed his eyes and murmured a short prayer to the ancestors. When he had steadied himself, he placed a hand on the staff. “Valaya Karin,” he spoke willfully, invoking the rune’s magic. Valaya Protects.
The altar disappeared in a blinding flash of light, the shockwave throwing all the observers to the floor as the very bones of the mountains shuddered. In that same instant, the Old World shook. Throughout the Karaz Angkor the mighty armies of Nagash began to crumble. The fearful Ushabti constructs and walking dead crumbled to the ground, their vacant, macabre grins seemed to sigh as they embraced the deaths Nagash had denied. The Lord of Undeath himself gave a single ethereal scream as his body was torn from his muscular host and forced into the withered husk that had once been his own, his dark magic choked and useless.
In that instant, the tide was turned. The staff of Valaya herself, banisher of magic, healer of the wounded and mother of the enduring realm had been reforged. By nightfall, the once great armies of Nehekhara had fled the great city in disarray. Above them, a burning star lit up the night sky, brighter than ever before.
245 The Fall of Sarthailor By TimmyMWD Hour of the Wolf
Talian’s eyes scanned over the rows of names displayed before him. His finger traced down the list, vainly searching for just one of the several individuals he hoped had found refuge in this place. He shifted to the right, and began studying the next list of names that had been attached to the stone wall. He recognized almost all of the names on the list, but his frustration grew as none of the elves he had hoped to find were on the list. “The burden is now on me,” he sighed.
From behind him, Talian heard a gruff cough. As he turned to face the dwarf, his splendid ithilmar scale armor reflected the torch light back throughout the tunnel. Nodding his head in respect, Talian greeted the dwarf, “Is there something I can do for you dawi?”
The dwarf was also well-armored and armed for combat, encased in ornate gromril armor and a mighty two handed hammer strapped to his back. “Captain Talian, you are the highest ranking elf we could find out of those seeking refuge from Avalaer. Your presence is therefore requested by Thane Faelric.”
Talian nodded and walked away from the refugee lists with his dwarf escort. In the past few days that he has lived among the dwarfs he grew used to them calling him an elf, even though the last member of his family that could truly be called Asur was his grandfather. He chuckled slightly at the dawi’s inability to distinguish between a true elf and a half blood, and then realized it was the first time he had even remotely smiled since the fall of Avalaer.
The half elf and dwarf entered a massive stone chamber, brilliantly lit by massive torches scattered throughout the room. Dawi, half elves, and humans filled the chamber with a roar of conversation as they plotted over maps and charts. Talian’s dwarf escort leaned over to a guard and whispered in his ear. A moment later, the guard slammed the shaft of his weapon onto the floor several times, and the conversations slowly ceased.
“At the request of Thane Faelric, Captain Talian is to command the Sarthailor forces in the hold. He is the highest ranking elf remaining from the legions surrounding Avalaer.”
The dwarfs in the room nodded in approval, while the humans and half elves bowed slightly to greet their new commander. Talian stood in the entrance for a moment, stunned as the gravity of the situation rushed over him. He had commanded no more than one hundred elves and men, and now he was tasked with commanding the remaining soldiers of the legions he had fought in. Swallowing the growing lump in his throat, he walked forward to the tables where the various planners and soldiers stood.
“What is the current status of our forces?” he asked.
One of the human advisors looked up at him as he gestured to various points on the map, “The last of
246 the retreating forces from Avalaer are currently arriving through the western gate. We have about eight thousand of our soldiers that we recovered from the city fighting. The dwarf numbers are much higher obviously, as we’re currently receiving Karak Norn. But most of those are only here temporarily, as many are being dispatched to aid the humans to the east in retaking some of their lost positions. Several engineering guilds will be remaining here in Karak Harn to –“
Talian raised his open hand to stop the human, “What forces are we allocating to the retaking of Avalaer? Surely the few thousand of Sarthailor are not sufficient for the effort. We require the aid of the dawi in this endeavor.”
A robed dwarf walked up to Talian and gasped his mail-clad arm. “Elgi, I appreciate your determination to retake your home. There’s not a dwarf in this room who would not share your feelings if this hold were to fall, but we are not returning to Avalaer.”
Anger and despair boiled within Talian’s stomach. Looking around the room, he realized that none of the elves or men shared his frustrated expression. He starred at his countrymen with disdain, “I expect dawi to defend their home and not risk their lives for others –“
Several dwarfs stepped closer to Talian, and many of them had their hands on the shafts of their weapons. The dwarf that had escorted the half elf interrupted the captain, “Watch your words elgi, or have you forgotten your surroundings?”
Before Talian could reply to the threat, another dwarf spoke, “Algnir Oakenshield bite your tongue. The whole of his land is lost, now is not the time to set grudges.”
“It is NOT lost,” the half elf yelled. “The capital can be retaken! Surely, Alith Anar no longer commands the assault personally.” Indeed, everyone in the room bitterly remembered when the successful endeavor in Avalaer rapidly reversed as Alith Anar himself entered the capital and led the Forces of Ruin.
One of the dwarfs unfurled a new map, detailing the passes connecting the former Sarthailor capital and the hold they were now living in. He grabbed several wooden pieces displaying icons representing the ruinous powers and placed them in two of the passes connecting the settlements. “Alith Anar has shifted a lot of his forces to Avalaer and the surrounding region. They are now moving rapidly to our position, which is why retaking your city is not an option.”
“It is our guess, Captain, that they want another route to assault Reikdorf from. The humans in the east have heavily fortified their position in the city, but would be hard pressed if a second front was opened up.”
Talian eyed the map and looked up at the other individuals in the room, “I will organize the soldiers of Sarthailor present in the hold. We will help your soldiers secure the Sempron gate from assault. I ask you do but one thing.”
One of the dwarfs looked up at home curiously, “What do you ask of us Captain?” The half elf donned his tall helm as he replied, “When the defense of this hold is finished, allow us to travel through the remnants of my land. Last I heard, there were two cities yet holding out, and if they are all that remains of my homeland, my fate lies there.”
247
Alyeth Elileth was a broken elf. His robes were caked with mud and his blood as well as that of many others. The other prisoners in their procession looked to be in similar shape, bruised and broken not just in the physical sense. What was once a point of pride – his pure blood - was now the reason why he had been captured by these druchii. He and his fellow riders had been traveling with haste to a rumored mustering of Sarthailorian forces, hoping to aid the army in fighting the druchii, when a massive cavalry force attacked them. He would have gladly given his life in that fight, but he was dragged down to the ground and captured. Elileth had watched in horror as all but a handful of his comrades were executed. It took him only a few moments to realize that only true Asur were spared death.
The chilling voice echoed through his mind was he walked with his arms chained. “You will be brought back to Ulthuan as trophies of our war. They will see you broken, tortured; mutilated. They will all see that you disgusting creatures are nothing like the so called ‘true elves’ you claim yourselves to be.”
Ulthuan. He had longed to see the homeland of his people for his entire lifetime, and now he deepest desire had been turned into his greatest nightmare.
As the line of prisoners and sentries marched into the outskirts of Tor Andruin, Elileth could make out the brazen runes of Malekith that filled the dark banners that were now hanging from the ruined towers of the once great port. Defiant to the last, Elileth looked up at the nearest guard and laughed. “You still cling to the memory of a dead fool I see.” The Asur felt the comment was worth it, even after he felt the chained gauntlet of a druchii strike his already scarred back.
Looking around as they continued to march, he could see the corpses of humans and elves alike scattered throughout the buildings and streets of the city. The druchii must not plan on staying here long, Elileth thought, or they would have a greater fear for the diseases these corpses could bring. The dead grew more and more numerous as they neared the waters, and it became clear that the forces of Sarthailor had fought a staggered withdrawl to the shores of the ocean, only to meet another force of druchii that had arrived by sea.
After another half hour of walking, they had reached one of the sprawling dock facilities of the city. There were half a dozen ships waiting for them, and they were far more elegant and graceful in appearance than any of the ships constructed in Sarthailor. Although he had never seen a starwood tree, he knew instantly that they were constructed out of the magical giant from Ulthuan. He felt the weight of despair grow even larger as he realized it was on these majestic vessels that he would be transported to Ulthuan to face his fate at the hands of the twisted druchii.
As he stepped onto the wooden planks of the docks, one of the druchii that escorted him and his fellow asur spoke. “We bring the last of the so called ‘asur’ that we could find; Noble. You are charged with transporting them to Ulthuan at the request of the Lady Morathi.”
One of the druchii from the ships stepped forward. From underneath his hood, he scanned the two dozen prisoners closely, and then looked up at the druchii who had just delivered his instructions. He removed his hood as he spoke, “They will indeed return to Ulthuan in due time.”
Elileth looked at the elf in stunned silence. He recognized instantly that he was not druchii. His eyes bore no malice, but he was indeed a pure elf; although no one that Elileth knew from his travels of Sarthailor.
248
The druchii escorts now drew their weapons and began shouting in confusion. “Who are you?” one of them demanded. The others now began to slowly move towards the elf in question.
The reply was not in the form of words, but in a volley of arrows that flew in from behind several locations. Most of the druchii crumpled to the ground, but a small handful survived the volley and began running in the opposite direction of the ships. The mysterious elf turned to his armored comrades behind him and spoke quickly, “Leave no survivors. Track them down.”
Those elves then removed their hoods, revealing that they too were not druchii, but again were pure blood elves. Their armor was a splendid sight, flowing white and blue cloth intermixed with expertly crafted scale armor. They matched the fine suits of armor that had come over to Sarthailor in the days of Bel-Shannar. As they sprinted past Elileth and the other prisoners to chase down the druchii, Elileth recognized none of them. What was only a moment ago a joyous turn of events was now a concerning one. To not identify one high elf is one thing, but for a Prince of Sarthailor to not recognize two-dozen high elves is a completely different matter. The conclusion became very clear as an elf helped him to his feet and unchained his arms: these elves were not of Sarthailor.
The elf that had removed his hood beaconed to the now freed prisoners, “Friends, you must get on the ships. My comrades who are pursuing will join us later. Your safety is paramount and supercedes all other concerns. Please, to the Eagleship.” He gestured to one of the ships currently docked, which was now bustling with crew that was busy preparing to cast off.
Prince Elileth was not so willing to comply, “You may be an enemy of the druchii, but that does not make you an ally of the Asur. Just who are you?”
Smiling slightly, the mysterious elf nodded before replying, “I am not an ally of the Asur, good prince. I am an Asur, as are my brethren. We have come to take you and the remaining true Asur from this corpse of a kingdom, and bring you home with us.”
Stammering, the Prince of Sarthailor inquired, “Home? As in Ulthuan?”
“In due time we will be able to call Ulthuan home again, but for now I take you to another place, a place the druchii do not even know exists. The one place in the world where the gods still smile upon us. They have not abandoned us entirely, Prince.” The elf took off his robe, revealing a beautiful set of ithilmar scale armor, mixed with the blues and greens of the Sea Guard. Resting on the chest of the elf was a brightly glowing blue rune bearing the name Asuryan.
Elileth reached out and grasped the rune, and instantly felt warmth rush over him. The feeling was difficult for the elf to comprehend. It was if he was standing on the top of a tall hill and could see his long lost home in the distance. The warmth that filled him was a feeling of anticipation and joy, but it was not a complete feeling. His home was not yet reached. For the first time in his life, Elileth felt the slightest presence of Asuryan, and it filled him with an indefinable amount of purpose.
The elf pulled the rune back to his chest and stepped back, his hand now gesturing to the various ships. He looked at the former prisoners and asked them all, “Children of Caledor, are you ready to sail with me?”
249 Though they gave no verbal acknowledgment, they all boarded the various ships. And so it came to pass on that night, with no one to witness, the last of the pureblood elves – the true Asur – departed Sarthailor forever.
250 At the Reik’s Throat By VictorK Hour of the Wolf
The dark clouds that hung over the fields west of Reikdorf became alive as splashes of crimson and gold reflected off of them and told the men who defended their capitol that the one person who they feared more than any other had arrived. Alith Anar, the Everchosen of Chaos, stood at the forefront of his army and did not allow a single Reikman to approach him. The greater daemon U’zuhl flashed from the end of his blade, an ethereal monster that was nonetheless full of deadly teeth and claws. Entire regiments disappeared in front of the Everchosen as he walked forward; swinging his blade and guiding the rampant daemon to feast upon the mortals who dared to confront him. Banners were torn down from their poles and men were rent to pieces so that when Alith Anar walked upon the same ground they had the grass gushed with the blood of men. All that stood between the Everchosen and the reconquest of the greatest city men had built along the River Reik was a thin ribbon of mortals.
Alith Anar flicked his wrist and drew the demon back into its prison. U’zuhl roared with protest but was soon sealed inside the Everchosen’s steel. Alith Anar stopped and eyed the men who now huddled around him who were waiting for the man next to them to make a move before they committed themselves. In the relative darkness of the day his features were unreadable, only the amber glow from the Eye of Sheerian seemed to indicate that he was alive. It seemed that he was alone; the supernatural daemon’s howls that haunted the battlefield seemed to be silenced around him, as if he commanded his own zone of personal peace. The men hesitated for a moment, but even the figure of Alith Anar was not enough to prevent them from seeking to defend the jewel of their home. As one, as if every man had summoned his courage at the same time, they surged forward. The Men of the Reik issued their war cries and lowered their weapons, as if hoping that momentum and spirit alone would slay the Everchosen.
Alith Anar watched them charge and held his ground. Hidden from the eyes of the men his mouth moved. “Kill their hope.” Materializing from the blackness that surrounded the Everchosen elven Shadow Warriors formed up around their master, their bowstrings drawn taut. They loosed their arrows at the oncoming men, slaying them by the dozens. Alith Anar stepped forward and his blade flashed, removing the throat from the nearest man. Blood flew from the wound, but none of it seemed to touch the Everchosen and what was left on his blade quickly burned away. The Shadow Warriors slung their bows and drew their swords, stepping forward with Alith Anar to dismantle the latest regiment to stand against them. The men that could, fled. Those who could not, died.
The stockades of Reikdorf, hastily erected to patch the holes in the capitol’s once mighty walls, came into view as the regiment fell away. A forest of banners belonging to Men and Dawi stood between Alith Anar and his prize. They were marching towards him, but he knew there was no enthusiasm in those steps, just a reluctance to face the inevitable. “Characteristic of the stubborn races.” The Everchosen remarked to one of his Shadow Warriors. “They fight for everything and die for nothing.” Chaos brought the fight to Men, legions of armored warriors surging forward to overwhelm the last defenders of Reikdorf. Alith Anar went through the motions of cutting them down, keeping his daemon caged for the
251 time being. He realized, as he cut through a man who attempted to flee from him, that he found no joy in killing him. He found about as much joy in this as he did from walking or breathing. A horn sounded, a baleful song that reminded Alith Anar of a funeral dirge. The Everchosen looked up from his work. Shadow Warriors swarmed around him and pushed back the warriors of the Reik so that Alith Anar could contemplate the song in peace. He spied a new banner rapidly approaching, a simple standard done in black and grey with a raven ringed in red emblazoned on it. “The heart of their army approaches.” Alith Anar murmured before he started forward again.
The Everchosen perceived Mathi Alfblut breaking through a line of men to charge him before he even appeared. A ghostly image of the Reik’s warmaster was screaming silently at Alith Anar, the head of his great axe poised to remove the Everchosen’s head with a single swing. When a break in the line of Reikmen did appear and Mathi moved to fill it Alith Anar simply stepped back, avoiding the blow he had been expecting since before Mathi even laid eyes on him. The Everchosen saw the man’s eyes widen as they fell on him, causing the elf to smile with satisfaction. This man had not been expecting to fight him. Alith Anar briefly wondered if he would run, but as soon as Mathi’s face returned to the mask of rage and determination that characterized his long career the elf abandoned that hope. Mathi struck again, swinging his axe just inches from Alith Anar’s face. The Everchosen continued to backpedal, frustrating the Reikman’s attacks.
“They call you Mathi Alfblut.” Alith Anar taunted as another strike just barely missed him. “Elf blood. You wield a favored axe; the men we have captured call it the Elvenslayer. Will you draw my blood, human? Of all the elves your axe must desire mine more than any other.” The Everchosen laughed and finally brought his blade into the battle, barely catching the head of the axe and stopping a fatal blow in its tracks. “I’m afraid your axe will go thirsty.” Alith Anar pushed forward, causing Mathi to stumble backwards from the strength of the seemingly effortless shrug of the elf’s shoulders. He looked up, his grip tightening around his axe a he prepared for the dark figure to strike. Alith Anar’s blade darted forward and pierced Mathi’s shoulder. The Reikman did not even cry out in pain, the wounds he had suffered in the long war had made that sensation too familiar to warrant a cry. Instead he channeled his pain into a warcry as he swung his axe at Alith Anar’s head. Again the Everchosen’s blade caught the axe head and turned it aside. Mathi was not a man who would waste even the slightest bit of momentum and so he turned the Everchosen’s block against him, letting the weight of the axe head fall towards Alith Anar’s knees.
The Everchosen stepped back to avoid the blow, but Mathi smiled as he heard the sharp ring that betrayed the head of his axe glancing off Alith Anar’s armor. “Is that really worth celebration?” The Everchosen wondered aloud. “Really? Am I so terrifying that you would die with a smile on your face only having nicked my armor? Is that how far you’ve fallen? Or is this how far you’ve come?” Alith Anar lashed out at Mathi, drawing a deep scar down his side. He quickly turned his wrist and converted the strike, sending the point of his blade deep into Mathi’s leg. This was enough to cause the Reikman to cry out in pain, but it was not enough to make him back down. He swung the butt of his axe at the exposed Alith Anar, but once again the Everchosen stole away what should have been a certain hit. In return Alith Anar sapped Mathi, bringing the pommel of his sword down on the man’s head. Stunned and vulnerable Mathi’s eyes flashed before Alith Anar kicked him back.
Mathi Alfblut sprawled onto the ground, his head throbbing. His bodyguard was engaged in fighting the Everchosen’s Shadow Warriors so no man came to help him to his feet. He pushed himself up, careful to favor his wounded leg. “You should pray to me.” Alith Anar told Mathi as he returned to his feet. “Surely in the last minute I have saved your life more than any god you worship. What is the point of gods if
252 they don’t provide results?” Mathi howled at the insult, swinging his big axe as quickly as he could and as many times as his arms could bear it. He trusted in the gods to provide him with one hit, the hit that might save the Reik if he could cut this monster down. No one answered his call. His attack came to an abrupt end as Alith Anar hooked his sword under the axe’s beard, catching it between shaft and blade. The Everchosen swung his sword over his head, removing the axe from Mathi’s hands and sending it sailing into the air. As the two blades crossed each other they sang.
Mathi stepped back now that he was disarmed. “Run away, human.” Alith Anar told him as he advanced. “Stand down. The city is mine. The Reik is mine. The world is mine. Take your army and run, and perhaps it will be spared, if you have the proper attitude. It is within your power to do this. Back down, and perhaps this kingdom you have carved out of the wilderness might yet endure.” Mathi only stared back, the look of determination on his weathered face never wavering. The Everchosen frowned. Something told him that this picture wasn’t right, Mathi’s face was all wrong for a beaten man. “No, you’ve never backed down from anything in your life…”
The Eye of Sheerian did not give the Everchosen even a second of warning. It was Alith Anar’s elven reflexes and not the gifts of the Chaos gods that saved his life. He caught the golden hammer that had appeared from nowhere into Mathi’s hand just before it crushed his skull. The Everchosen’s armored hand was wrapped around its haft, and it ached from having to stop its weight. He eyed the hammer for a moment, tracing the dwarven runes with his eyes before turning back to Mathi. He was still defiant, but Alith Anar no recognized the face of a man who had exhausted his last option. Still, the Everchosen’s stomach was twisted in a knot. He replayed the battle in his mind and realized the hammer had been on Mathi’s back the entire time, but how had he missed it? Alith Anar snarled, trying to dispel the feeling as his grip tightened on the hammer. The rune began to glow red along it surface, reacting to the Everchosen’s power. Mathi flinched but tried to hide it. He held on for a few more moments before crying out in pain as the runes burned his hand. He was forced to let go, surrendering the hammer to the Everchosen of Chaos. Alith Anar laughed as Mathi held his hand and stepped back. “You thought this trinket would save you?” His confidence was returning. “A weapon so worthless that the Dawi would give it to a man?” He laughed again and casually tossed the hammer over Mathi’s head.
Mathi didn’t have time to formulate a new plan before Alith Anar ran him through with his sword. The Rinkr’s eyes widened with surprise before pain numbed him. “If you will not run, you will die.” Mathi felt the ground disappear as he was lifted off his feet. The sword burned in his gut, be he felt cold. He started to work his lips into prayer before Alith Anar raised his left hand up so that Mathi could see it. The Mark of Chaos smoldered on the surface of his armor, burning itself into Mathi’s vision. “Your gods have forsaken you. The last moments of your life will be spent without the comfort of faith.” Mathi could not close his eyes. He wanted to tear his vision away from the symbol of evil that was working its way into his mind but it would not let him. He tried to focus on the faces of his gods, to remind himself of their strength and the ultimate justice in his mission but everywhere he turned he saw the destruction that this symbol would bring to his lands. Instead of justice he found futility, instead of hope despair. The Rinkr started to shake, twisting painfully on the sword as he tried to find some refuge from the awful vision he was being privileged with. Tears welled up in his eyes as he offered one last silent apology to his gods and his people. As soon as the first tears fell his eyes dried and Mathi Alfblut ceased to exist. The body that had held his soul began to scream. It screamed so loud that it seemed every man on the field could hear it and perceive the depth of despair that had driven a man to issue that terrible cry. He screamed and screamed until his throat was raw. For the few moments that the scream lasted it seemed that not even death could silence it. A war cry, full of rage and the sorrow that had given rise to it broke through Mathi’s screaming. Alith
253 Anar turned away from Mathi just in time to see something golden flash by the Rinkr’s body before it smashed into his marked arm. Pain shot through the Everchosen and the force of the blow made him stumble to the side. He dropped his sword arm and Mathi slid off of his blade to the group where at last he was silent. Alith Anar had barely regained his footing before something smashed into the shoulder of his sword arm. The same pain shot through him and he stumbled back. The wailing war cry of his opponent was constant in his mind and combined with panic it was impossible to focus. He continued to stumble as he was hit yet again, the heavy weight of the strike coming down on his chest. The Everchosen’s knees buckled and he fell back. He threw out his left arm to catch him but as soon as he needed it to hold up his weight the pain from the earlier blow shot through him and he collapsed onto his back. Alith Anar perceived that the next blow was coming to his skull. He turned onto his side and raised his sword, fighting the ache in his shoulder. He hoped that his aim was true “U’zuhl!”
The demon flew out of Alith Anar’s blade and caught his assailant in its talons. Daemon and warrior both were thrown back from the prone Everchosen. They battled while Alith Anar collected his thoughts, regaining his focus so that he could dispel the pain in his damaged body. Slowly the Everchosen returned to his feet. He exhaled once, finding peace in the midst of his demon’s unearthly screeching and he warrior’s determined cries. The pain disappeared and his confidence returned. Alith Anar turned his attention to the battle between his daemon and the warrior who had struck him. He caught U’zuhl’s final wail as the golden hammer that Mathi had been wielding was brought down on its ethereal skull. Subdued, the daemon slinked back towards its prison and disappeared. The Everchosen eyed the warrior with contempt.
U’zuhl had done its damage to the young man. His armor and clothes were torn away, leaving his chest bare and bleeding from the daemon’s talons. His dirty blonde hair had come undone and clumps of it were missing while the tips were dyed red with blood. The warrior breathed heavily, but it was clear that he was rapidly regaining his breath. Despite his wounds his grip on the hammer was strong. The weapon seemed to fit him naturally, as if the two belonged together. His piercing blue eyes were directed straight at Alith Anar, and there was not an ounce of fear in them. They were as confident as Alith Anar imagined that his were; a confidence that had not been present in Mathi’s worn face. But the Everchosen was not going to allow a young man to get away with a few luck shots. He stepped forward.
The warrior hefted his hammer, prepared to meet Alith Anar. As soon as the hammer came up Alith Anar stopped. He hadn’t foreseen the move. The Everchosen paused, and realized that he hadn’t foreseen the warrior’s original attack either. Had he been too distracted? No, that was impossible. The Eye would have seen it. The warrior adjusted his stance, still waiting for Alith Anar. The Everchosen had not foreseen that move either. He looked up and surveyed the battlefield. All around, on both sides he could see ghostly armies fighting just one step aside of the real forces they represented. He knew who would live and who would die before the fatal blow was struck, and whose courage would fail before fear even gripped their heart. There had not been an ounce of uncertainty in Alith Anar’s life since he emerged from Chaos’ Shrine as their Everchosen, but as soon as he turned his gaze on the warrior who now waited for him to strike he wasn’t certain of anything.
Alith Anar straightened. He didn’t understand why this man was able to blind the Eye of Sheerian. As the battle paused the Men of the Reik began to push forward, the Everchosen’s hesitation spreading to his Shadow Warriors. Men turned their eyes on the bloody warrior who opposed their most terrible enemy and seemed to find renewed consciousness. Alith Anar’s army was losing the battle, the Men of the Reik were holding. At the center of the battle the two warriors stood off from one another. After several long moments of consideration Alith Anar turned his back on the warrior and began to walk away. The
254 warrior straightened then, but he did not pursue. All across the field the armies of Chaos fell back, though they did not have far to go to safety. The land around the city still belonged to them, an empire that the Everchosen had carved out of the Olde World. As he walked away Alith Anar heard a single cry forming at his back.
“UNBEROGEN!”
255 Hidden Hope By Voodoomaster Hour of the Wolf
The water lapped at the edge of the Eagle Ship as it slowly pulled into Tor Cynath, the crew busying themselves with the preparations to dock alongside. Hands were running up and down the rigging taking in sails and preparing the ship for its ceremonial duty. The captain gazed at the docks and the troop of soldiers that stood upon the docks. Nodding at a young Corsair the captain walked forward a hand idly resting upon his sword hilt at his side as the Eagle Ship scraped along the dockside.
“All is well, captain?”
The captain turned as the soft calm voice behind him spoke, and looked at the regal lady behind him, her hand idly caressing her stomach which was heavy with a child. Jesamine Cadsane, High Sorceress and former Dread Lady of the Elthin Arvan had returned to the place where she had led the forces of the Witch King south to crush the rebellion in the deep forests. The captain bowed as he replied.
“My lady, the dock guard awaits you.”
Smiling to herself, she nodded to her guard as they began to glide towards the ramp and to the awaiting guards upon the deck, and from there to the palace of Tor Cynath where the Council of the Slavers City was awaiting her, and the messages that she bore. Jesamine smiled to herself as she easily stepped of the gangplank, the guards already were terrified of her, the tattoo that covered part of her face, and the fact that her pearl white hair seemed to have a mind of its own. Yes, Jesamine thought to herself, the Council of Slavers will be interesting indeed.
******************
Lord Durza and Sirhael Malenti were furious at having been summoned here, by someone who no longer had any military or political power within Tor Cynath. The only reason why they had returned from the frontlines at all was because of what Jesamine carried with her, orders from Tor Anlec, and therefore from the court of the King himself. They both sat, in full regalia in twin chairs at the head of the council, flanking them out from either side were the other generals of the empire on the left, and the city elders on the right. All told, a total of twelve warlords and advisors all told, the final seat upon the council, again at the head was for the final Drachau of the colonies, who was even now leading the forces of the Witch King in the south. All the members of the council sat hands clasped and listening to Jesamine’s proclamation from Tor Anlec.
“In conclusion generals and nobles of Elthin Arvan, your orders are to continue to advance south from the coasts, do not cross the river Reik and to continue the slave raids on both the rebellious forces and upon the traitor kingdom of Sarthailor. Ensure that the cities are fortified from any attempt by the humans to enter and free the slaves. Signed, Queen Morathi of Ulthuan, and King Malekith.”
Jesamine smiled at her final statement and settled back into her chair in the centre of the room, she felt
256 all of the eyes boring upon her, watching her every move, some even looking into he soul, but she blocked these attempts. Her anger flared slightly as Lord Durza spoke; she still had not forgiven him for the betrayal that cost her dearly. He stood up and spoke clearly, his voice showing no sign of emotion.
“Lady Cadsane, the words of King Malekith are indeed gracious to hear, and his orders shall be carried out immediately. The words of the Drachau are final in this matter, only another Drachau can reject the orders. Lord Malenti, do you agree with the orders?”
Lord Malenti stood up slowly and looked around the table, his eyes settling upon the only set of eyes who had not agreed, the hooded figure at the end of the table whose eyes had not lost sight of Jesamine since she had entered the room, it was he who had asked the cloaked old woman to enter the council chamber, and he wasn’t about to neglect advice.
“Lady Vraneth, you disagree with our Kings word?”
Jesamine’s head spun round rapidly at those words, and her heart skipped a beat, the former maniac general of the Witch king’s armies? Here? One of the most deadly foes to her mistress of all, the family of Vraneth, like so many other families was loyal to the King, and the King only. Numerous times had the Queen tried to command them, only to face rebuttal from the cold voices of nearly half the nobles in all of Ulthuan, especially in Nagarythe, Tiranoc and Saphery where the King’s word was most respected, and the Queen’s most insulted. Caledor too was highly insulting to the Queen at the moment, especially with the death of the Prince of the Realm under mysterious circumstances. Her eyes widened as the hood was removed from Lady Vraneth’s head, revealing her ancient face, her eyes now bloodshot and her teeth sharp, as the true crone she was. Her voice however was still as powerful as ever.
“Those orders were not written by the King, they were written by Queen Morathi. The King’s wisdom has not touched those orders, and has not done for over a year now, you all know of what I speak.”
Jesamine’s eyes locked with that of Idril Vraneth the ancients eyes seemed to radiate power as both seemed to read the other from the inside, rather than out. The gaze however was broken as Lord Malenti spoke up once again.
“What do you mean Lady Vraneth? Are you suggesting that the rumours are true?”
Idril Vraneth stood up, and placed her hands upon the table but her gaze did not shift from Jesamine.
“I am saying the rumours are true, I saw the King being carried upon a stretcher into the Citadel of Tor Anlec. His armour had been torn asunder and a heinous mark placed upon his helm. I have seen the Queen Mother cry out in a mix of joy and despair, the King is dead.”
Jesamine stood up sharply and glared at Idril Vraneth, her eyes ablaze with fury as she hissed out what many in the chamber were thinking.
“Heresy”
Idril Vraneth’s hand vanished under her cloak a moment before Lord Malenti bellowed out to cease the potential battle between the two women.
257 “Enough!”
Both women glared at him as he continued.
“Until the elections for a new king our held, Malekith is not dead. Is that clear?”
The final part of the question was addressed to the entire hall, and there was some mumbling of agreement, Lady Vraneth however stood up and swept out of the room her eyes ablaze with fury, Jesamine watched her go, with great doubt upon her mind.
****************
Jesamine settled down in her chair as she awaited her servants to bring her what she requested, her mind was troubled. Idril Vraneth knew far too much, she was a threat to the Queen’s plans. But she was a respected member of the council, the same council that had thrown her out. Bitter thoughts filled her mind but they were thrown from it as the servants entered once more, bearing a chest with various intricate locks upon it. Waving her hand she dismissed the servants who had carried the chest into her chambers.
“You may leave.”
Waiting until the last of the servants left she raised her hand, closed her eyes and felt the door close and lock at her will. Smiling to herself she moved over to the chest and caressed her hand across its intricate surface, and pulled a key from a chain around her neck, and slowly inserted it into the locks with each turn of the key her fear and anticipation growing with each lock, sighing to herself she drew out the object within.
A Blackwood staff, forged from a ruined tree deep in Averlorn and covered in great silver runes, and upon its head was crafted the Mark of Slaanesh. Taking the staff in her hand a shudder of excitement moved through Jesamine’s entire being as she stood up and held the staff just above the marble floor, closing her eyes she brought the staff to the floor and a flash filled the air, gasping Jesamine concentrated upon her destination and whispered the words she needed to.
“My Queen, I have need of your council”
A gently soothing feeling filled her ears as she felt her mistress’ presence glide gently into the back of her mind, her heart fluttering as her mistress spoke deep into her mind.
“What is it, Lady Cadsane?”
“My Queen, I have urgent news from the colonies. It appears that Idril Vraneth is here, and that she knows about the King.”
Jesamine cringed as her Mistress screamed into her mind,
“She must be silenced; if she continues to spread the truth then all will be lost, my rule is not cemented
258 yet there are still voices to be eliminated, including that accursed Captain of the Black Guard who will not leave me be.”
“My Queen do you wish me to kill Lady Vraneth?”
“Yes Cadsane, kill her and any of her supporters within the city, Vraneth has always despised me, and because of that, she is dangerous to us.”
Smiling to herself Cadsane prepared to break the spell that connected her mind to her mistress.
“And what of Lasgalen?”
“It shall be burned to the ground, my dear. Now go.”
Opening her eyes and lifting the staff Jesamine fell backwards with a gasp, the staff still in her grasp and the tattoo that covered her face painfully throbbing as she recovered her strength. Slowly however she began to laugh, she knew what she had to do, and no force could stop her.
*********************
Idril Vraneth stormed up the stairs of her tower. Anger filled her entire being; she had been refused access to the council chambers once again. Why were the council so stubbornly stupid to admit the fact that the King was dead, and that Morathi was controlling them all for the benefit of her patron? Kicking open the door of her chambers, she strode in. Suddenly her frown deepened and her hand grasped the sword underneath her cloak.
There was someone else in the room with her. Side stepping to the left Idril felt the air ripple beside her as a massive bladed spear swung down to the place where she had been standing seconds before. The sword was drawn in an instant and Idril spun around and sliced the throat of another spear wielding foe in the corner of the room. As the foe gagged its last bit of breath Idril turned to the open balcony and looked around at the entire room. Aside from the foe whom she had cut his throat, who lay gagging on the floor, there were four others in the room with her, three Elves with spears, and another. A blond haired Human clad in dark armour with the Mark of Slaanesh hanging around her neck. The spear in her hands pulsated slowly with black purple runes upon the dark steel blade. Licking her lips the ancient commander of Malekith’s armies looked at the foes within the room.
“So, it seems the harlot has finally gotten reason to get rid of me. Are you there, Cadsane?”
Smirking to herself, Idril glanced over her shoulder at the stunned looking sorceress and her tethered albino Pegasus upon the balcony. Turning around Idril looked the sorceress in the eyes her blade held loosely by her side, smiling her teeth drawn back in her skull, Idril addressed the stunned Sorceress.
“So what is the charge, Cadsane? Treason? Or is it rather a case of being loyal to the King?”
“You know the charge is treason Vraneth, you have betrayed your Queen, and have been sentenced to death. You and all your family and allies.”
259
Idril smiled, aware of the Human behind moving towards her, and walked a step towards the sorceress upon the balcony her sword coming up to point at Cadsane before her. Her voice filled with malice, hatred and spite.
“She is not the Queen, and if she wishes to kill myself, and my allies, then more than half of the Empire must be wiped out, like you.”
Idril darted forward, her blade swiping through the air towards the stunned sorceress who snarled, a dark light filling her eyes as she seemed to dissolve into the air only to reappear around three feet to the right standing next to her albino mount, and grasping the reigns she hissed.
“Kill her!”
Idril spun around to deflect the blow from the Human and then spinning her sword to deflect another blow from the Elf that had advanced on the right. Spinning the blade back around Idril deflected another blow from the second Elf who tried to land a blow. Diving to the left as the third Elf’s spear and the Human’s spear smashed into the ground where she had previously been standing. Ducking under another blow she brought her blade up and watched in grim satisfaction as the blade dug deep into the stomach of the third Elf, blood dripping down the blade onto her hands withdrawing the blade she stepped around the falling corpse and looked up at the sky and laughed, her voice like thunder to the ears of the three remaining warriors against her.
Jesamine looked with horror at the blood covered ancient below her, as her albino mount circled the tower once again, for the first time she felt doubt. Here was an Elf who should be dead, but would not lie down and die. Hissing she held up her hand, manipulating the winds that blew around her. Hair rippling like snakes Jesamine felt the spell take form around her fingers smiling she hurled the purple ball of flames straight at the Vraneth. Cackling she watched as Vraneth looked up at her, and brought her sword up at the incoming fireball and swung her sword at the last minute directly at the spell, deflecting it into the chamber that exploded into flames, throwing Vraneth into sharp light as she spun around and embedded her smoking sword into the shoulder of another charging spear Elf.
Jesamine’s cackling died on her lips as she saw this display of defiance, the flames now burning even the stones of the tower, as Vraneth continued to battle the final Elf and her human champion.
“How is this possible?”
Idril screamed out in joy as the final Elf fell to her blade, his head lobbed clean off his shoulders, now only the tall Human remained, her spear blade rippling in the blazing eldritch fire behind her. This Human was obviously a powerful champion of the Ruinous Powers. Yet more prey for her. Lunging forward Idril brought her blade up aiming for the neck, yet as the Human moved the spear to block the move, Idril twisted her arm and spun under her foes guard, cutting deeply into the dark armour but not enough to draw blood. The raze sharp edge of the blade sang out as it carved through the armour, and Idril spun around to parry from the spear as it returned the blow. The ancient spun away from the combat for a moment and circled her opponent, watching carefully.
“So Human, what brought you here?”
260
The Human smiled, and spun her spear in her hands, a feral grin planted upon her features as she replied in the crude tongue that the southerners that dwelled in Elthin Arvan used.
“My master ordered me here, Vraneth; he would like his companion’s sword returned, and your head.”
“So sorry to disappoint.”
Lunging forward once more Idril knocked the spear aside to plunge her sword deep into the right hand pauldron upon her armour, a sigh of pleasure escaping from the Human followed by a scream of pain as the medallion around Idril’s neck burned brightly, the Human’s own medallion burning too as she spun back and kicked the Elf, the brute force sending Vraneth sprawling through the doorway and into the burning room, a scream emerging from it. The Human smiled and turned her back upon the doorway and grasped the rope that she had used to get up to the tower, ignoring the explosion behind her as the entire tower finally fully burst into flames.
A scream split the air causing the Human to turn. She stared in amazement as the burning figure of Idril Vraneth slammed into her. A sword flashing and cutting through part of her hair, losing her balanced. She screamed as both she and Vraneth plunged from the tower into the darkness below.
****************
Jesamine Cadsane directed her albino mount downwards towards the two prone figures that she could see in the murk at the foot of the tower. Her champion and her enemy had fallen from the tower, and she knew both had to be dead. There was no way any mortal could survive such a fall, it was well over one thousand feet. The pegasi’s head reared up as it touched down its hoofs onto the cobbled street, trotting the final distance to the place where the two figures were, one lay broken upon the floor, the other was kneeling spitting blood onto the floor.
“You’re alive Imenja? How, no one should have survived that fall!”
The human champion looked up, her lips bloody and her face soot stained, but she was defiant: her spear lay embedded in the ground beside Vraneth’s head, and standing up she clicked her neck and clutched at her ribs, blood already seeming to slow its flow from the wound on her shoulder.
“Slaanesh has plans for me yet, my lady.”
Taking a grip upon her spear Imenja yanked it out of the ground and kicked Vraneth’s body over.
It was not a pretty sight, the entire body was burnt black, her sword lay shattered beside her and the medallion around her neck, the rune of Khaine upon it, still burned brightly as if in defiance, snarling Imenja spun her spear around and plunged it into the ancient’s shattered chest, destroying the medallion in the process. Lifting the sword hilt, she handed it to Cadsane.
“Here’s evidence for Morathi, Vraneth is dead.”
“Yes indeed, her greatest enemy is dead.”
261
Laughter filled the narrow street as both Jesamine and Imenja laughed, while below them the ruined body of Idril Vraneth, former General of the Witch king’s armies gently smoked, as the remnants of the fire burnt itself out. The old order was dead, a new power was rising.
*******************
High in the middle mountains, a tall figure stood looking to the south; below him the men of the Reik continued their assault on the mighty fortress of the Men under the sway of the Druchii, the Fauschlag Citadel. Sighing the Elf turned back to the hooded aid beside him, who held a mighty double handed sword: its blade smooth upon one side, and curved upon the other. It was the mighty blade of his family, and now it was his. He was the only one left, the others killed at the orders of the one he hated above all others. Taking the sword he looked down upon the siege going on below him, sighing he looked at his aid, tears in his eyes, as he spoke what many of his kin now felt, it was words that would go along way, and shake the very resolve of all who lived in the Empire of Elves.
“There is a cancer in the elves, a rotten heart that needs to be destroyed. We do not engage the enemy that killed our King, instead we attack people who have done nothing to us. These people deserve our pity, not our vengeance. Our vengeance should be targeted at the one thing that has prevented us from bringing Khaine’s vengeance upon the killer of the King. Morathi, she must pay for what she has done to us.”
Drukh Vraneth, son of Idril Vraneth held his grandfather’s sword high, as the wind whistled around him revealing the armour that his grandfather had worn long ago, he was Vraneth re-born. Turning at the aid, he looked him in the eyes.
“Are you with me, old friend?”
The aid removed his hood, the talisman of Asuryan hung around his neck, glinting slightly in the weak sun, an indication that although outcast, followers of the Old Ways were still strong in the armies of Elthin Arvan. A fire burned in his eyes, a determination that would shake any to the core, as he drew his own sword, and held it aloft.
“We are with you, old friend.”
262 The Last Journey By Voodoomaster Hour of the Wolf
Tor Ylanthar stood tall and proud in the late evening sunlight, casting an air of eeriness across the city, the lone remaining tall white tower glinting in the waning sun. The air was still and peaceful - it would have been the perfect sunset in a perfect city. But beyond the white walls of the city there was darkness, waiting and watching. Inside its walls the populace of the city lay slumped against buildings and walls, exhaustion stamped all over their features. Even the doughty Dwarfs were utterly exhausted by the constant warfare. High upon one of the shattered battlements Arcanus Firestorm stood looking to the north at the Druchii army amassed there. His armour was battered and his sword notched, and beside him to his left stood the half elf Uther di Asturien. Uther was entering his one hundred and fifty sixth year and his age was finally beginning to show, hair beginning to lose colour and fade to white, his armour as battered as Arcanus’ was. To Arcanus’ right stood Furgil Hindour. The Dwarf Lord was leaning on his axe and rubbing a scar on his forehead as all three looked out to the north, where their opponents waited.
“They’ll attack at sunset, Arcanus. They always do.”
Arcanus turned and looked at Furgil as he grumbled this. The old dwarf was right, unfortunately. The scarred walls of Tor Ylanthar had held out for some six days now, a heroic accomplishment given the size of the force opposing them, but now they were showing true battle damage. Cracks could be seen wherever one looked, and in the northeast quarter a great breach had been rent in the wall. Here, Arcanaus predicted, the attack would strike hardest.
“Aye, the northeast wall will bear the brunt of the attack,” he agreed with the Dwarf’s assumption. “The remaining Senthoi and Ironbreakers will have to hold the breach for as long as possible.”
“I can hold the Knights and the Silver Helms in reserve near the northeast quarter in case the breach widens,” Uther offered.
Arcanus nodded at the half-elf, who was donning his helm as he bowed to the Elf Prince and walked away down the steps to where his horse was waiting. Furgil walked up and patted him on the side as he hefted the rune axe Grimmaz onto his shoulder and walked away. Tales had been told of that axe, and how the Dwarf Lord had fought alongside his High King in the battle that saw to the reclamation of the ancient and powerful weapon. It was undoubtedly one of the strongest blades within the city, or so the High Mages claimed – or had claimed, he corrected himself, before they had been eventually overwhelmed.
The Elf Prince stood there for a moment as he looked out across the city, over the once green fields and into the camp of the Druchii. He remembered the tales of his father, of the War of the Beard, but yet now he could not fully understand why he hated the Dark Elves. Those who were across the field fighting him now were not the ones who forced them out of Ulthuan; they were not the ones who killed
263 his ancestors. They were merely descendants like him.
Sighing deeply, he turned and jogged down the stairs. He was the last pure-blood commander left. Only Uther’s shattered legion had survived to reach Tor Ylanthar for the final stand, in addition to his own legion, which had re-taken the city when it first fell.
Tonight would be the last night for Tor Ylanthar, he knew.
*********************
Narza Scornsong stood high upon a rocky outcrop as the first Reaper batteries opened up on the crumbling city walls. Globes of alchemic fire that had been attached to their tips were smashing and burning upon the stone walls of Tor Ylanthar, lighting up the twilight sky. He laughed as he unsheathed his sword Nepenthe and indicated that the assault would begin. Beside him stood two potent sorceresses, one representing the Drachau of the colonies and the other representing the Court of Ulthuan. Lady Gieselle, commander of the Reaper of Sorrows and Lady Naiadriel of Avelorn (what was left of Avelorn, he reminded himself - much of the forest had been destroyed on the orders of Morathi). Neither sorceres was using their considerable power in the destruction of the battered walls, but were rather using their abilities to keep the majority of the Druchii host hidden – something they had assured him was difficult, but not beyond their combined strength. Narza turned and grinned wolfishly at the two sorceresses as yet another white tower collapsed.
“Are you sure that the barbarians will attack the south wall, m’ladies? It seems very unlike them to aid us directly in battle.”
Lady Naiadriel walked forward onto the outcrop and stood up high, watching the missiles from Reaper batteries slam into their target, flames erupting around the breach in the northeast wall. She licked her lips in anticipation of the slaughter that would soon follow.
“Yes,” she replied, “For as uncouth the barbarians are, the leader of this band is at least a competent fighter. The Crown of Ulthuan uses our allies carefully when necessary. Do not worry, Scornsong - this ‘Kaas’ will lead us to victory.”
Narza grinned savagely as he leaped from the rocky outcrop and landed amongst a group of Chracian Hunters that were advancing toward the siege at full pace. Crying out his war cry, Narza joined them in their charge for the wall. Leaving the two sorceresses behind him watching the combat troops advancing for the walls, he noticed that heading directly for the breach were a pair of Hydra supported by Cold One Knights. Lady Gieselle stepped up behind Naiadriel, her ancient brow creased in a frown. She did not fully trust this advisor. Neither did one of the Drachau, and she continued to survey the battle before her.
“Do you really trust the forces of the Dark Gods?” she asked of her companion. “They are unpredictable at best, but trusting them to this level is foolish. HE did wound the king of all elves you know, and why would HE stop now?”
“You worry too much, Gieselle,” Naiadriel replied scornfully. “You are a remnant from a former age, and your time has come and gone. A new order has arisen, and the Crown of Ulthuan has seen the light to follow the true path. And look where it has gotten us. The utter destruction of the last holdout in the
264 Caledor rebellion.” She didn’t bother to see if her words had offended or not – higher authorities had placed her on a level equal with that of Gieselle, and she was untouchable.
Naiadriel moved her hand across the destruction that was now being caused. The two Hydra had slammed deep into the traitor lines, and even those Khaine-cursed Dwarfs were being slowly beaten back, only for the Senthoi to fill their place and be cut down when the Cold One Knights charged and began to punch through. The city was falling, even as the remaining cavalry of the ‘Sarthailirim’ slammed into the breach to hold the final defense.
“Tor Ylanthar will fall soon. Even as we speak, the armies of Chaos are ready to begin their assault from within the city itself. Soon it will begin, and the final remnants that rebel against our empire shall be utterly destroyed.”
Naradriel opened her hands as another tower crumbled into nothing. The city was now fully ablaze, and the screams of the dying were coming from all over the walls. The press on the breach was beginning to break through, the walls were being over-run, yet beside her the Lady Gieselle took a step backwards. Something was wrong here, she sensed. The air was changing. The winds were blowing stronger from the north.
“If you will excuse me, Gieselle, I have some business to attend to on the southern forces. I bid you a good evening and stand ready to send in the final reserves on my order.”
Spinning on her heel, Naradriel walked back down the rocky outcrop to where her steed was waiting, a fine black charger with silver reigns and a single broach upon them. Swinging her leg over the black steed, she settled down in the saddle and dug her heels into the beast, which taking off at a gallop towards the south. Gieselle stood alone for a few minutes longer, her fists clenched and black fury coursing through her veins, though she noted at the same time that another emotion was there. Sadness. Something she had not felt in her life before now. Tears formed upon her cheeks as she finally turned and walked towards the two hooded figures that now stood waiting at a piece of gorse some twenty yards away from the outcrop. Pausing, she stopped a mere two yards from them to look the taller one directly in the eyes.
“You were right,” she said softly. “I am with you. There is nothing more that can be done besides saving as many as we can and returning home to defend our last hope. I shall hold the line here, and kill as many as is possible. I shall send word north on my authority to stand by to fall back to the ports. Go.”
The two figures nodded and the smaller slipped away into the night immediately, running in the direction of the siege. The other stayed put for a moment and looked at the tired old sorceress. He could see that her world was falling apart around her. Stepping forward he placed an armoured hand upon her shoulder and smiled. Gieselle looked at the young elf before her and smiled weakly, waving him off.
“Go young one, and make your grandfather proud. Save them all.”
The elf turned and sprinted away into the darkness towards the battle, leaving Gieselle alone and angry, summoning up all her magic while she waited for the inevitable to arrive.
******************************
265 Arcanus staggered from the west wall clutching his arm. A blow from one of the Dark Elf Chracians had slammed into his shield arm and left a deep cut. He had been forced to fall back from the wall back to the ruins of the command tower, leaving command to a single human. Normally he would be loath to do such a thing, but now in these times of need he had no choice. He would have to take overall command from the rear of the battle line. Dodging some falling masonry, Arcanus entered the former command building to find it deserted of all inhabitants. Swearing, he turned about only to be flung backwards by a massive explosion caused by a lump of masonry landing in the court yard behind him. Turning and coughing his heart seemed to stop and his blood chilled as he beheld what was happening outside.
“No,” he whispered to himself, hardly believing what he was seeing. “Please, gods, wherever you have gone, don’t let it be like this.”
The sky began to ripple and fluctuate as if something from beyond was trying to reach through, and reaching through it was. Slowly but surely, dozens of shapes began to form from both nothingness and the ripples in the sky. Finally, the sound of a sonic boom crashed through the air around him, and Arcanus was flung backwards once more as hundreds of Daemons formed in the courtyard. All lesser Daemons, small comfort though that was, save for the tall one in the centre. He almost still looked partially human. This…thing stood tall and waved his hands to his assembled horde, uttering words that Arcanus did not understand as far as language went, but the meaning of which was crystal clear even to his dazed mind.
“Kill them all.”
Arcanus ran from the command tower as the Daemons began to spread out amongst the city, ready to kill any foe in their paths. Arcanus now knew that the city had truly fallen and that he had to get as many of his people out as he could. He could already hear screaming and continued to run, drawing his notched blade as he felt the air change again, the human beginning to summon more Daemons to his side.
Ducking under a broken arch, he slid to a stop as four things stepped in front of him, their partially feminine faces and breasts making them look almost normal, if it were not for the large claws that ended on their left hands, unholy aura and blue-tinged skin. Bellowing a war cry, Arcanus continued his advance and ducked underneath the sweeping claw of one of the Daemonettes while running his sword deep into the second. Deep purple ichor spilled from the wound and stung his hand deeply, yet pulling the sword out, he deflected a blow from another and ducked under a swinging claw only to feel a knife slide under his armour. But all the wounds he had suffered thus far in the war did not cause him to cry out in pain, and nor would this.
Swinging his sword upwards towards the source of the pain, he was rewarded with a shrill cry and the feeling of yet more ichor splashing onto his sword arm. Spinning around, he studied the remaining two Daemonettes for a moment before they charged him once more, this time with an obvious intent to kill him rather than toy with his senses. Deflecting one blow but being forced back from the attacks, the stumbling Arcanus swung his sword upwards and forced the knife that the Deamonette was holding away from its target - his heart. But that didn’t stop the claw from punching him backwards and tightening its grip around his neck. Pain filled his entire being as the claw began to tighten and he was slammed against a wall. Coughing up blood, Arcanus looked into the thing’s eyes and spat through bloodied lips.
266 “Do it,” he said coldly.
Closing his eyes, Arcanus waited for his life to end, but the death blow never came. Instead, ichor splashed onto his face, and he opened his eyes to see the Daemonette headless and a black cloaked figure behind it, a long sword dripping with the ichor of the creature. Around him stood seven other figures, all clad in the same dark cloaks and carrying long swords of a similar design to a figure who stood beside the one with the rippled blade but wore no hood. Instead he wore a tall winged helm, and Arcanus looked around with a mixture of confusion and hatred on his face. Why were the Druchii helping him? Getting to his feet and grabbing his sword again, he stood en-guard as the Dark Elf looked at him, removing his helm to reveal a sharp, angular face with jet-black hair.
“Caledorian, now is not the time to fight me. Get your people out of this city now, before it is too late.”
Arcanus snarled as he circled away from the Druchii before him towards the open passageway that led towards the east wall, his blade still pointing at the Dark Elf.
“Why should I believe you?” he spat.
“Because you have no choice, Caledorian. Now run. We shall hold them off. Run!”
Not knowing what else to do, Arcanus turned and ran as he heard the sound of clashing steel from behind him. He had to get to the east gate where the last of the intact stables were, together with Furgil. The city had fallen if Druchii had made it this far already, and there was nothing left to do now but run.
*************************
Lady Naradriel stalked forward towards the commander of the Chaos forces that were now killing every last traitor in the ruined city. Druchii warriors were moving from building to building killing the inhabitants and then taking them outside to be burned, while the Daemons were still hunting through the streets, killing any survivors that could be found. Today was a good day for the people of Ulthuan, for the last of the rebellion had been crushed at last over two thousand years after it began. Smirking she came and stood beside Kaas Daemonsoul, secure in her authority and at least partly consumed by thoughts of the new vistas opened up before her, new heights of power she could aspire to.
“Excellent work, Kaas,” Naradriel said brusquely. “You can tell your master that the last remnants of Sarthailor have been crushed and that the threat to his western flank is gone. The next target to be taken out is the Dwarf hold to the southeast of here. We will move out once this city has been destroyed.”
“No.”
Naradriel froze as Kaas spoke up in his twin tongues, the Daemonic and the human. There was something very wrong here; she summoned a little power to her staff.
“Do you intend to pursue the rumoured two score horsemen that broke through your lines last night then?”
267 “No.” Kaas seemed to almost be amused at her orders.
Naradriel was angry now - the leader of Chaos Incursion had given Kaas to her so that they could crush all resistance in Sarthailor, but there was still work to be done to establish the old colonies of Elthin Arvan, and to restore the Druchii command over this region.
“You will obey me, Kaas,” she said softly, with as much venom as she could muster to her voice. “Your master has given me command over your forces, so you will obey me.”
“I said no,” the other hissed in reply.
Naradriel gasped as a knife suddenly flashed across her neck, a rush of blood filling her vision as she saw Kaas kneel down beside her, his face twisted in a sinister and insane smile. He licked some of the pool of blood that was now forming at the twitching sorceress’ feet. Standing again, Kaas looked down at her with scorn.
“You see, puppet of Morathi, I do not listen to elves anymore.” His entire voice was laden with contempt at the pitiful, dying wretch before him. “Now it is the time for man and Daemon to rule, not elf. Anar is false; the elves are weak compared to the might that can be assembled from the Realm of Chaos. All elves will be destroyed. Starting-” he leered at this, “-with you pathetic Dark Elves.”
Kicking Naradriel’s corpse as the light faded from her eyes, an expression of shock and horror frozen upon her face, Kaas Daemonsoul turned to the assembled legions of Daemons that had formed around him. Lifting his staff into the air, his amplified voice filled the air all around the city, a voice that caused Druchii, humans, half-elves and Dwarfs alike to cry out in fear.
“Kill all elves.”
*************************
High in the mountains, a small group of horsemen were riding hard to the east along a tiny trail, hoping desperately to find a Dwarf caravan or something that could protect them. Here was all that remained of Tor Ylanthar, around sixty survivors on only forty-two horses. Humans and half elves mostly, but amongst them were seven Dwarfs and four elves including Arcanus himself, wounded but still defiant. He was the last of the fighting elves left, he assumed, for the others were in no fit state to fight - one of them was now crippled, one a youth and the other a female, likewise unable to fight due to the fear that she now carried. As he raised his hand, the small battered caravan came to a halt.
“We stop for an hour. After that we head for Karak Norn, for hopefully some more survivors will have arrived there.”
Dismounting, he walked over to where Furgil had just struggled out of Uther’s saddle. As disgruntled as the Dwarf Thane was, he had seen the benefit of being carried to safety on a swift steed rather than a grudge pony. Hefting Grimmaz in one hand, he pulled out a map with the other and indicated where they were upon it. Uther, complete with a fresh cut across his forehead, looked over the Dwarf Thane’s shoulder at the map, a look of concern on his features.
“We are some fifty miles from Karak Norn as the raven flies,” the Dwarf pointed out. “On this particular
268 trail, we are more than one hundred and sixty miles away. It is going to take us at least a week to get there, although with luck we should encounter some defense points along the silver road in a day or two.”
“Aye, Thane Hindour, that’s my assessment too. However…”
Arcanus was cut short as a crossbow dart embedded itself in the map that had been laid out on the ground. Yelling out a war cry, Furgil drew his pistol and the dozen odd warriors that could still fight drew their weapons. Arcanus looked up around the mountain valley to see dozens of Druchii Shades positioned upon the cliff faces, their crossbows all pointed towards his pitiful group. If they opened fire there would be no one left, he could instantly tell. Behind them by some distance was a group of horse- mounted elves, and in the distance the smoke of Tor Ylanthar could be seen spiraling into the sky. Arcanus frowned as one of the horsemen began to ride forward. For some reason, he had an urge to meet him, and so walked forward as well.
“What are ye doing, Firestorm,” the Dwarf hissed at him. “Get back here!”
“I’ll be fine, Thane Hindour. Just protect the others.”
Arcanus continued his walk towards the figure as the horse finally stopped in the middle ground between the dozen odd cavalry and his group. The elf dismounted and walked towards Arcanus - it was now that he recognised him. The eyes and the sword hilt most certainly, but the armour too looked familiar, as if he had seen it in a painting somewhere.
“Dark Elf.” It was not a pleasant greeting. “Why did you help me? And why don’t you just get on and kill us already?”
“How many elves in your group, Caledorian? Tell me, and I shall answer your questions.”
Arcanus scowled for a moment and then answered. He was in no position to make demands anyway - they were surrounded and war weary.
“Four. One female and one youth, and two adults. I am the only one able to fight.”
“That will have to do. Very well; I helped you because I can Caledorian. I have no intentions of killing you. I have bigger enemies by far to take care of. Look behind me. Tor Ylanthar burns, and not by our people’s hands, but by the hands of Chaos. They have turned upon the Druchii as was predicted long ago now by my mother. The Beast’s hand is being forced sooner than it likes, and so movements have begun to stop it. You and the other elves will come with us and the others will go free.”
Arcanus was stunned. It didn’t seem possible that their allies would begin infighting as soon as they had won a great victory. But yet, with everything else that had happened it was possible. Rumours had been spread that not all followed Malekith exclusively long ago, after all. The cult of Asuryan was one – a rumour, but perhaps one containing a degree of truth. Swallowing a lump in his throat, he spoke up.
“And if I refuse?”
“You all die.”
269
“Very well, then. I accept.” Not that it had been much of a choice anyway. “What should I tell the others about where we are going?”
“You know where you will be going. Look into your heart, ‘Sarthailorian’. All of your people know where we are going.”
Arcanus’ heart lifted, and all sorrow began to fade. This was something that his mother had told him of in stories, something that he never thought would happen. He looked into the eyes of the figure before him as he began to turn around and walk back to the others. He now knew the figure as well. The armour from the nightmares.
“Thank you, Vraneth,” he said softly.
He stopped as Furgil Hindour and Uther di Asturien approached him, both noticing a slight change in his attitude. Pulling out a small bag, he handed it to Uther, who was now looking utterly stunned that he was given such a treasure. The others of the party chose that moment to walk forwards as well, confusion etched upon their faces as Arcanus spoke up.
“The pure-blood elves and myself are going to go with the Druchii. The rest of you are to continue onwards to Karak Norn. I am doing this to safe guard you all. There is no argument here, I am afraid to say. It is four for the price of sixty. Lord Asturien is your leader now - look to him in these dark times for strength.”
“Where are they taking you, Arcanus?”
Arcanus Firestorm looked at his old friend. Uther di Asturien held the circlet of Sethalis in his shaking hands, a worried look on his face as the look of peace that was on Arcanus’ own slowly became evident. As Arcanaus turned to the other three elves in the party, they too began to understand what was happening.
“They are taking us home.”
270 Et tu, Nagash? By TimmyMWD Hour of the Wolf
Rötger led the two armored dwarfs down the rock-hewn hallway. Although dwarfs had always been a common sight in the city, it was the first time they had ever visited the home in which he worked. “I appreciate you humoring him, noble allies. His condition is rapidly deteriorating, but I am sure if he were still of sound mind he would thank you for honoring him.”
The elder dwarf nodded slightly, “He fought with honor alongside my kin. If there were any way to cure him of his taint, we would scour the world for it. This request bears no burden on us.”
Smiling, Rötger clasped his robed hands together and bowed low. “We men of the Reik are forever grateful for your kindness, dawi.” He turned and opened a massive wooden door, revealing a dimly lit room. “The Ar-Ulric will see you now.”
Stepping into the massive stone room, the two dwarfs could now see that various sized pieces of paper were hanging from every square inch of the room. Words in the tongue of the Reik, the dwarfs, and the Sarthailor elves appeared in every direction. At various points, large maps of the entire world covered smaller pieces of paper. The two dwarfs were quick to notice; however, that the commonality of all the artifacts was the continued display of the eight pointed star. The younger dwarf grabbed his elder by the shoulder and pointed to a large piece of paper where dwarf runes were intermixed with symbols of the ruinous powers. “Thane Alrikson, this man defiles the runes of our people!”
Sighing, the Thane replied. “Beardling, if it were any other man I would cut him down for what he has written. But you must understand, this one has given everything to help the dawi. Hey may be alive, but his mind has long left this world.” Alrikson scanned the room and saw a curled up man in the far back corner. “Come,” he grumbled, “Let us hear his gibberish and leave quickly.”
As the two mail clad dwarfs approached the man, the Thane gave his greeting. “Ar-Ulric! I have come far at your request to hear your wise and powerful words.”
At once, the man turned to look at them. Dementia radiated out of his eyes, which were almost entirely covered by wiry, thin, white hair. He had stopped shaving long ago, and a mighty beard now flowed from his face that rivaled a dwarfs. For a moment he just stared at the dwarfs while he clutched his knees. Then, he looked down into his chest and muttered to himself, “He is not the King. I requested the King of Zhufbar. Any less and my words will have no weight.”
The younger dwarf took a step back in caution. No explanation could have prepared him for the insanity that stood before him. Alrikson; however, was more prepared for their encounter. The Thane bowed low, lower than he would to any save a King, “Ar-Ulric, the King is away at battle. I have been dispatched in his stead, he sent me because we have met before. Do you remember me? Thane Alrikson. We fought side by side.”
271 The demented fury in the human’s eyes lifted slightly, and Ar-Ulric sat upright. “A Thane? Yes Alrikson, I remember you. Killed many that day, good warrior. Smart, too. Intelligent – you will make a good courier for my message.” He stood up – revealing the clawed tears and rips in his ceremonial robes. A quick glance at the human’s overly long fingernails showed that he made his own robe into tatters. The Ar-Ulric now began walking up and down the east wall of the room, his hands clasped on the small of his back.
He stammered as he spoke, but his delivery made the Thane think that he had been preparing this speech. “Our existence, Thane, is like a grain of sand floating through a river delta. There are many branches, paths, flows, that the grain can float down to reach the ocean and continue its journey.
“However, the grain of sand may never reach its destination. It may become trapped on a sandbar, or stuck in the root of a water plant. Do you follow me?” He waited eagerly for a response; his eyes lit up like a child on his birthday. His hands balled up into fists; however, when he saw the vacant and confused expression that was displayed on Thane Alrikson’s face.
Just as the Ar-Ulric was about to erupt in rage, the younger dwarf spoke up. “You’re talking about destiny. You’re saying there are –”
He was interrupted as the human shot up from his crouched, frustrated position and pointed in a broad smile at the young dwarf. “Yes, Beardling!” he cried. He ran over to a table and pulled out a scroll. He scanned it quickly, pointing to some strange illustration and then looking back up at the dwarfs. “Each route presents dangers that may stop the grain from reaching the ocean. Slight changes, slight deviations almost always cause vast changes upon the whole.”
****
His eyelids lifted, and the surrounding landscape poured into his field of vision. It was if he was seeing the world for the first time, and he loved the sensation. He looked down at his own body – not as muscular as the last, but leaner and in better shape. Nagash assumed the boy was a long distance runner in his adolescent years. He clenched his fists and tilted his head back to take in a deep breath of desert air. The physical sensations were unappreciated by mortals, he thought, yet they were the sensations he valued above all others.
All others; save one.
He closed his eyes and meditated. As if loosing his grip while standing in a rapidly moving river, he gave in to the winds of magic that surrounded him. The rush of energy was so strong his eyes opened in shock. In all his years of life, he had never felt the winds come to him so strongly. Was this host body special? A conduit of the winds? No. The explination was not that simple. Something had changed in the world to allow the winds to flow so much stronger. No body - not even his body - could be so strongly resonnant within the winds to produce such a powerful change. Searching for answers, he let his sensations leave his body and scan out to the lands in the north. Passing over the lands, he sensed something was different. Barriers, funnels, chambers that gathered and controlled the winds were now gone. Stretching his senses further, Nagash could no longer feel the prohibitive power of the waystones. He smiled a deep smile as he continued to scan the northlands.
A particular pang of energy caught his interests, and he found himself observing a battle at the city
272 known as Reikdorf. With a bit of surprise, he saw Alith Anar retreating from the field of battle. Behind the Everchosen, he saw a berserk human crying out into the heavens. “Unberogen!”
Startled, Nagash found himself looking at the desert again, his body now lying in the sand after he fell back in surprise. It was not the primitive warcry that startled him, rather that he heard it not just with his ears but also in the deepest thoughts of his own mind. The young man’s cry had carried through the winds to be heard through the rest of the world. Anger filled the very core of Nagash’s being. Who was this human that could resonate through the winds? Nagash was the lord of all of men, not this upstart.
Or was he? Doubt crept into Nagash’s stomach. His forces had suffered greatly in the war, and despite his limitless power the armies of Nehekhara had barely moved into the lands of the north. Worse still, his holy capital had been defiled by the wretched, pointy eared creatures from the north. Although they were ultimately defeated, Nagash now had to suppress his urge to vomit every time he stepped foot in Khemri. “Men are flawed,” he found himself saying outloud. “They flee, they cower, they hide. They are not the creatures that I need to conquer this world.”
Once again, Nagash opened his host body up to the ever-growing winds of magic that flowed through him. Nagash knew there was one force in the world that would break all other armies, and that force bowed only to him.
*****
“No!” Ar-Ulric shouted. “You will not leave yet.” The dwarfs did not listen; they continued their march to the open doorway at the other end of the room.
Flailing wildly, the human tossed paper after crumpled paper into the air – frantically looking for something. Finally, from underneath a pile of refuse he drew up a long, gnarled wooden staff. “I am NOT done dawi!” Closing his eyes, he slammed the end of the staff into the floor. At the other end of the room, the large door shut itself with a great force.
The Thane and his escort turned once more to the Ar-Ulric. Their attention immediately became focused on the staff and the brightly glowing rune of Tzeentch. Quickly drawing their axes, they now began running towards the demented human.
The Ar-Ulric lifted his eyelids once more, but now a soft blue aura emanated from where his eyes once where. With a firm, “No” the dwarfs were now floating in the air, their axes tossed to the far side of the room. “I am not done delivering my message yet, master Thane.”
Thane Alrikson could only gulp, as the binding forces prevented him from looking to his frightened beardling escort. “Continue human, so I may leave your presence.”
Nodding in what appeared to be a spasm, Ar-Ulric hobbled over to a map on the wall and pointed frantically. “We live on the edge of chaos dwarf. Too much and the world is lost. Too little, and we cannot adapt and we die.”
The beardling spat at the ground, “There is no such thing as too little of the four powers, human.”
“Really?” Ar-Ulric replied. “Your runes harness the eight winds, master dwarf. Or have you forgotten?
273 Sarthailor’s mages weave their spells from the eight winds too. We all use the winds of chaos in some way to fight the very forces that pledge their banners to the eight pointed star. Without those elements, we would not win the war.
“But too much and this world is lost. This perpetual balance is not guaranteed – it is offered. What appears to you as luck, chance, coincidence – these are but effects of the larger equation. When a current pulls us too close to chaos, a counter current forms.”
*****
In the center of the room, the large pit erupted in flame as the large logs finally succumbed to the fire fueled by the smaller pieces. Around the orange light stood many men, ornately decorated as would be expected of the nobles of Nehekhara. One of them stood nearest to the flame, holding out a weapon in both of his hands. All along the blade, arcs of energy leapt from point to point, dancing between and around the dark runes of the skaven race. “It was delivered this morning. The desert rats assure me it will not falter.”
Another noble scolded the remark, “Those rat creatures cannot begin to comprehend the power that is Nagash.”
A white clad third noble stepped forward to speak. “It matters not. Nagash loves only himself now, and has forgotten the glory of our nation. He will die by that blade because it is a fate he deserves.”
The nobles nodded in unison, their shadows bobbing as one before the flame.
The first noble spoke again, “Now all we need is a moment of opportunity.” Once again, the other princes and kings nodded as one. In their hearts, they were certain the days of Nagash were drawing to a close.
****
“When you marry, dwarfs, do you want your wife to lose all of her identity? To become completely obedient as if she were a drone?”
The beardling answered almost immediately, “Yes.”
Were it not for the magic that bound him into place, Thane Alrikson would have slapped his young companion. “No, Ar-Ulric. That is not love.”
Pointing wildly at the Thane, Ar-Ulric nodded in approval. “Right you are! If this world fell completely to the realm of chaos, it would not be a victory. That sense of a victory is left for the dim witted and the weak minded. No, if the grain of sand were to become trapped on a sand bar it would be failure. It would not be true chaos if there were not order within the madness.
“Just as the current is a force of chaos, so is the counter current. When an unwanted nail rises up, it is knocked back down.”
*****
274
Unless trained, no one could see the creeping expansion of energies. From Talienence to Warpfire Peak, the energies slowly expanded out and took shape. Nagash reached with his outstretched fingers to push the spell even further. Men may not satisfy his goals, but this army surely would. Slowly, he struggled to bring his arms together. A casual observer would have thought Nagash was attempting to crush an invisible melon, but one with the sight of the winds would see that he was wrestling with an immense source of power and energy. Finally, with a loud scream of joy his hands pressed together. Throughout most of the known world, a torrent of dark energy rushed over the land, knocking over small trees and shacks as it passed.
For a few moments, it appeared as if the spell was nothing more than a show of potential. Minutes passed and yet there were still no results. Nagash collapsed to the ground, almost all energy drained from him. For a long period of time, he was so weak he was unable to open his eyes. The weakness; however, was drowned out by the searing pain he felt throughout his host body. When he was finally able to open his eyes again, he saw that the fingers of his body were almost entirely burnt away by the spell. His clothes were singed and gone, and burn marks scorched his entire body. Nagash howled out in agony - he had not felt physical pain in a milennia. He coughed violently, attempting to focus his mind enough to leave this scarred body. He was unable, his mind too focused on getting his diaphragm to work properly. I will not die in this stupid body.
Slowly, he got his body under control. HIs thoughts became more focused, and his connection to the winds was slowly returning. Still too weak to leave this body, he opted to reach out to the nearby land and see what his spell had done. Throughout the area of the spell, once dead bodies began to stir. From graveyards, battlefields, sites of murder, once dead creatures rose once more. Their flesh gone, all that remained was their skeleton. Grabbing what weapons they used in their mortal life, they marched silently towards Nagash. Millions of bone feet drew closer to the sand dune on which Nagash stood.
A weak smile formed on Nagash’s lips. No one could stop him now, he thought. This new army would only grow with each passing battle. Soon, his banner would be raised from Khemri to Fauschlag and beyond.
His smile quickly disappeared as he felt a blade pierce his back. Assassin! Quickly, his mind again tried to leave his young host-body and return to the decrepit husk that resided in his Black Pyramid. He found himself still too weak to detach from the physical form. The wound ate at his very soul. He instantly knew it to be warpstone – the corrupting energies destroying what little magical defenses he had attempted to put up.
He turned and saw a young prince of Lahmia starring back at him. Nagash was unable to comprehend the site of this former servant smiling wickedly at him. “I am …. your master …. ruler of all that is man …,” he wheezed.
“You send our people to die in your name, not for Nehekhara. What have we gained from this war? Every gain was countered by your arrogance. No longer. The nobles of Nehekhara will see our nation to victory now, not you.”
Spitting up blood, Nagash now rolled on the ground in agony. He looked up at the prince, hate seething from his eyes. “I will curse you and your land some day. Mark my words.”
275 “Where you are going, Nagash, there will be no return.”
On the peak of the next sand dune over, three skaven chattered in delight. They watched with glee as Nagash’s body was carved into dozens of pieces. They watched as the prince took the hand of Nagash and walked away, leaving the rest of him to scatter to the wind. “Man-thing Nagash is dead, yes-yes,” one squealed in joy.
“Dead now, he is. Our plan worked it did. The mighty man-thing is dead, now WE shall inherit.”
“Yes-yes. We shall!”
*******
Pointing now to the lands of Nehekhara, Ar-Ulric flailed wildly. “The counter current has flowed through! Send word to Barak Varr that their troops can aid us in the north. Nagash troubles the southlands no longer.”
Thane Alrikson looked at the crazed human, confused. “Nagash is dead?”
In an instant, the Ar-Ulric’s appearance changed. He stood up straight, and the crazed look in his eyes left. “The chaotic edge is where we must make our lives, Thane. The counter current has corrected one deviation in the equation. One small shift has a massive effect. Nagash is dead. The counter current corrected one deviation in the equation. That is my message. Deliver it to the King.”
The two dwarfs were thrown to the floor; the magical forces that suspended them in the air had ceased. Looking up, they saw blood rush from the eyes and nose of the Ar-Ulric as he crumbled to the ground. Rushing over to his body, Thane Alrikson looked him over and shut his eyes in sadness. “Ar-Ulric is dead. I feel; however, that his news rings true.”
******
The rangers pulled their heads back as far as they would go. No matter how high they looked, the wall appeared to be ever higher. Word of Nagahs’s death came from the Reikland of all places, but its news was coincided by reports of untold numbers of undead marching through the countryside towards Nehekhara. When a force from Barak Varr was dispatched to investigate, their journey was stopped here, at this point.
The wall was made out of bone. Millions … billions of bones. Scouts found two massive bone gateways along the length of the wall that stretched from the coast near Barak Varr to the World’s Edge Mountains. Humans on Pegasi had flown up to report that thousands of skeletons patrolled the top of the wall, vigilant of any who would attempt to cross it.
Ships sent out to the coasts reported a similar sight. Eternal guardians patrolled the coastline for any threat. Some scout ships reported the skeletons fighting forces of skaven, but this had yet to be confirmed by any credible source.
“What do you make of it?” one ranger inquired.
276 Another leaned out from their formation to look at the dwarf. Between puffs from his pipe, he growled his answer. “It means they don’t want visitors lad, and I’m quite content to leave them be. Some say millions of undead were raised by those humans. If they wasted all them skeletons on a bloody wall, I doubt they’re going to be attacking us any time soon.”
“What scares me is we have no way of knowing. Some day, they may pour through this wall.”
“Stuff it beardling. Nagash is dead and that’s all I care about. We’ve got enough trouble to the north to worry about. Only a gutless human would want to stand at this wall and worry all day. I’d rather drink a pint up in the Reik in between killing some daemons personally.” He paused and looked around at the other rangers, “Anyone coming?” The other dawi raised their axes in agreement, and they turned north towards Barak Varr.
On the other side of the wall, the people of Nehekhara were in celebration. Nagash was dead, and their lands would be forever defended by an innumerable legion of undead. Clearly, the gods had blessed them all with this turn of events. Every citizen of Nehekhara knew that some day, when they were ready, the legions of their nation would march forth and would spread their banner to the far corners of the world.
277 Conclave of Twilight By VictorK Hour of the Wolf
It was winter in Nagarythe and despite the clothing that adorned him the Shadow King’s body was so cold that if felt numb. But there was a smile on his face. The air was clear and the weak sun shone gently on the snow covered pines. The storm had passed and left the world more beautiful than it found it. As he crested a low rise the Shadow King could see for miles as the valley opened up beneath him, the snow covered road that spread out below his steed leading back to the spires of his home. A light smile graced his lips, and then he started down with a gentle kick. He cut a new path on the snow covered road, the hoof prints left by his passing the only mark in the fresh powder. Though the journey across the valley to his home must have taken many hours shadows had not yet begun to advance across the lands.
The gates were open as a sign of friendship to all who passed through this court. A pair of elves bearing spears, each draped with the dark livery of his house, stood watch over the gate and inclined their head as their lord passed between them. The doors to the main hall were flung open as he entered the courtyard, and down its steps elves of all ages rushed out to meet their lord. The eldest waited on the steps while the children rushed to take the reigns of his horse while looking up at him. The Shadow King’s smile grew larger as it was set in a face that was not yet hardened against such expressions. He still felt numb, but a warmth within him allowed him to dismount his horse with practiced ease. He then started forward on his own power, towards the steps and the familiar faces who waited for and admired him.
A harsh bump in the unpaved roads of the northern Old World jarred Alith Anar from his sleep, or what passed for it now that his mind was filled with the chatter of a thousand possible worlds. The Everchosen sat up in his carriage, his eyes darting around the open space before focusing on the back of the elf who guided the team of horses. There was a storm brewing between the tall pines. Flecks of white cast about on capricious currents drifted past the Everchosen’s face in increasing thickness. The open top of the carriage did not provide much protection from the elements, but the numbness in his dream persisted in the real world. He was in no danger. Absently his fingers groped beneath him to find the coarse fur of the familiar wolf. The armored tips of Alith Anar’s fingers worked between his ears, rousing him from whatever dreams he enjoyed.
“You should be more careful when you dream, Alith Anar.” The wolf commented before spreading its jaws wide in a yawn. “You never know else might be looking in.”
“There is nothing that you could possibly learn about me.” Alith Anar replied, his gaze off in the distance, in the space between the pines. Every few moments he could catch a glimpse of a shadow warrior moving to keep pace with the caravan. “At least, nothing that would grant you any advantage.”
The wolf craned his neck and eventually stood, shaking the snow out of its fur. “Patience is my greatest advantage, old friend.” It replied before walking forward and then sitting on its haunches. “I have it in greater supply than any being alive, and that includes you. But, it’s not me that you should worry about.”
278
Alith Anar nodded, his attention latching on the wolf’s and his eyes finding the same point in the distance. “I know.” He replied.
“Your position is tenuous now that you have failed to kill.” The wolf licked its lips. “It has been an age since you were crowned and still I am forced to provide the basics. It is not enough that an Everchosen win every battle, which you have done, it is not enough that he command the loyalty of a vast host, which you have also accomplished…An Everchosen must first and foremost be able to defeat any challenger. You were beaten, Alith Anar.”
“I was hit once or twice, and then chose to leave.” The Everchosen replied with a shrug. “Let the humans have their slice of this forsaken soil. Our victory is complete without taking every mud hut or petty bunch of sticks that these humans call a fortress. We have shattered Karaz Ankor and Morathi’s minions finished off the Sarthailorim for me. One human prince with a destiny cannot reverse the tide of Chaos.”
“Perhaps not.” The wolf allowed. “But remember what I told you when you had just arrived. There is no such thing as a chosen. The gods may have granted you gifts, Alith Anar, but they are by no means invested in you personally. They care only about the results that you can give them, and they are never interested in peace or stability. No hierarchy survives in the service of the gods.”
The Everchosen stood and walked to his companion, placing his hand on the wolf’s head. “Then we must continue to deliver results.” He mused. The caravan crested a ridge, and the forest abruptly died. The ruins of Praag, a sea of twisted, scorched rock and rotted wood dotted with the campfires of the assembled Chaos host was laid out below him.
***
“Your lord is late, Iaketh. Perhaps he has decided that he would rather reminisce with his elven kin than give us the honor of his illustrious presence.” Kaas’ words were met with murmurs throughout the hall deep within the ruins of Praag. The chamber, carved from the enchanted ice that supported the old city, was filled with the most favored lords of Chaos. Generals had returned from battlefields all across the Olde World at the behest of their Everchosen, who so far had failed to appear. Every elf, man, beast and daemonkin was standing. The only chair in the room stood empty in anticipation of Alith Anar’s arrival.
“Bite your tongue, serpent.” Iaketh, the Everchosen’s herald seethed. “Alith Anar has summoned you from the vast corners of Chaos’ reach and as you have come you will wait until he deigns to appear.” This proclamation was met with even more murmurs from the assembled lords, a disturbance that was brought to a head when a great beast with the Mark of Khorne on its brow stepped forward and slammed the tip of its great axe into the floor.
“Let him appear!” The beast bellowed. “He shall taste my axe when he does! This is what happens when we allow an elf to take up the mantle of the Lord Khorne, he backs away from battle. He must account to us for his failure!”
“If you believe you can collect Alith Anar’s skull for your mindless lord you are mistaken.” A member of the coven of Mordkessel spoke from the shadows, quelling the return to disorder that had followed the beast’s speech. “None of you can perceive the greater machinations in play. Alith Anar will guide us or he will fall, but it will not be any of you who brings him down.”
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“Bold talk for a group who allowed the humans to root them out of a city that bore their name!” Laughter rang through the ice hall as the anonymous lord called out the coven. Energy crackled through the chamber as the sorcerers drew power from the icy halls.
“Perhaps we should begin our campaign to retake New Mordkessel in this very room?” The spokesman for the coven intoned, a blue aura forming around the trio. The room fell silent save for the whisper of dozens of hands going for their weapons and words of power forming up on the lips of powerful sorcerers. The silence endured as the various lords sized one another up, preparing for the moment when one among their number would break the stand off and begin the battle that would tear the horde apart.
“By the authority of the gods I decide where this host is brought to bear!” Alith Anar’s voice rang clear through the hall, cutting through the tension with practiced ease. He descended from the city above with the wolf at his feet and a train of elves behind him. As soon as the Everchosen was in view the assembled lords shrank back, all eyes drawn to the delicate circlet on his brow. “I see that it is too much to expect that in a time of war my lords will refrain from tearing one another apart.” He remarked sourly, his gaze never leaving the seat of his throne. “Do what you will outside of this host but while I am at its head you will heed my will. I decide who is punished for failure and who is allowed to reclaim the god’s favor another day.” The elves behind Alith Anar carried half a dozen chests between them. Upon reaching his throne the Everchosen turned and sat, immediately slouching as if bored. “We have warred for countless seasons. What do we have to show for it?” The elves arrayed the chests around his throne.
“I have the blood of Dwarf kings on my blade, Everchosen!” The lane that Alith Anar had cut through the crowd on his arrival remained open, and from the countless ranks of the Chaos faithful a rain of skulls, their parched skin still bristling with ruined beards that had once been immaculately kept by the lords of Karaz Ankor. Now they were nothing but a tangled heap, jaws slack open with the silent screams of their final moments. Alith Anar leaned forward and then gestured to the herald at his right hand. One of the chests was thrown open, and a line of crowned heads with wispy white beards was drawn out, chains looped through the Dwarf lord’s ears.
“I will match you head for head, soul for soul.” The Everchosen announced. “But surely the woe of Karaz Ankor is not all that we have accomplished? I refuse to believe that my host stretched from the great seas to the spine of the world and has only captured these few beardlings.”
“Everchosen!” A mighty beast stepped forward, his skin bursting with pustules and a great spear in one mighty paw. “I have slain the mightiest warlords and chieftains of men!” He planted the spear into the ice, cracking it with his strength. The twisted faces of men formed a totem along its shaft.
“The banners of a dozen slaughtered tribes!”
“Relics of their primitive gods, marked for the glory of Chaos!”
“Pah! It is one thing to meet a man on the battlefield and take his life! I have faced them when their world collapses around them…the heads of their wives!”
All these treasures and more were laid at the Everchosen’s feet. His expression remained unchanged, save for the slow tap of his finger against his pallid cheek. “A fair pile.” He said appreciatively. “But it
280 lacks a theme…Typical of these barbarian men, that they would provide the same baseless complications in their spoils as in their miserable lives!” His declaration was met with a roar of approval, even among the mortal champions. Alith Anar gestured to the herald at his left. Another chest was opened, and from it Mathi Alfblut’s banner was unfurled and draped over the remains of the human tribes. “The standard of their greatest champion. I slew him on the fields before their pitiful citadel...and as all others who had come before him he did not walk away.” A stillness, pregnant with unasked questions and hidden doubts settled over the horde. A hammer was drawn from the chest, golden runes decorating its sides. “And this is a promise that the business which was left unfinished following his demise will be completed.” The weapon was tossed onto the pile, capping it.
Alith Anar was quick to move off this point, his cold gaze and the third eye on his brow piercing the assembled lords as it swept over them. “For too long in this war we allowed the forces of the dead Witch King and his hag mother to constrain our actions. The elf kingdom on this continent, if one could call such a hive of cross breeding and decadence either elven or a kingdom, is no more. It is certain that in the citadels of Ulthuan parades are held as the weak scions of Malekith proclaim the final end to their war…but I know that it was the sons of Chaos who ground down the last vestiges of a bygone age beneath their boot!” Another roar erupted from the crowd. “Show them that this war has only begun! Show me all that remains of Sarthailor!”
The shadowy fiends of the Mordkessel coven stepped forward before anyone else could answer the Everchosen’s call. “The secrets of a thousand lifetimes of men, Everchosen.” They hissed, their hidden voices carrying just far enough for Alith Anar. One of their number opened a chest, and poured from within a tide of black soot. “The ashes of their wisdom, the judgment of the folly of their magic. A hundred spellbooks we place before you, their knowledge consumed by our fire.”
Not to be outdone a ratman, one of the few that held council with the forces of Chaos, whose eyes were milky white with blindness and his fur lost to a disease that ravaged his skin removed a long cord from around his tattered robes. “For the Everchosen-Elf, the toll of our silent war against his kin kin…the sharp ears cut from the younglings who died during the sieges of their cities. Younglings who gasped out their last before any blow was struck, such was the potency of the plague that coursed through them.”
“Sorcery and trickery!” A red faced norseman shoved the rat aside once he had deposited his gruesome trophy on the truly impressive pile before the Everchosen. “These are not gifts for the Everchosen! We grant you bushels of rings taken from their knights, the half-breeds who had the courage to face us! Let their blood crown your glory!”
When the ringing in the hall subsided from the cascade of jewelry upon its icy floor no one moved to replace it. Silence reigned in the cold dark until Alith Anar turned his head towards those warriors who represented Slaanesh. “I did not suspect that my call for Sarthailor’s remains would spark such competition…Was Slaanesh asleep during our wars there? Or do you merely have Druchii scraps to show for your efforts?”
An immaculately armored knight stepped forward at his Everchosen’s challenged, and knelt humbly before him. “Would that I could offer you a trophy to prove our valor, my lord…” One dangerous brow arched over Alith Anar’s cold eye. “…But what can I lay before you to signify the maidenheads taken from the most beautiful and fair denizens of Sarthailor?” The hall erupted into laughter from all corners, and even the Everchosen smiled as the Slaaneshi retreated back among his comrades. Alith Anar waited for the assembled warriors to have their fill of the joke at Sarthailor’s expense, until he raised his left
281 hand. A hush fell over them as the burning sigil of Chaos appeared.
“Iaketh.” Alith Anar turned to his herald, “Bring it to me.” The largest chest of all was brought forth and laid at his feet. “I was delayed in reaching you today because of urgent matters in the South that required my immediate attention.” The latch was lifted and the lid thrown open so that the chest’s contents were hidden from everyone except the Everchosen. “I commend my host on its excellent campaign. You have put fear into the hearts of all the peoples of this world, your works before me testify to that. I have one final trophy to lay before you…” He reached into the chest and gripped the object inside, and then with elven quickness he pulled it out and slammed its considerable bulk atop the trophy pile. His face was contorted into a mask of rage.
The dead eyes of the once great Doomspeaker of Khorne, the daemon who had denounced the Everchosen in the ruins of Nuln, stared out at the assembled lords with Alith Anar’s armored hand wrapped around his one complete horn. “This pathetic beast believed that he knew the will of Chaos better than I!” The Everchosen roared, cold eyes roaming over the very silent and very still host. “He believed that as an elf I am not fit to lead this host. Some of you might believe as he did. Some fools among you might continue to believe this, even with the evidence of our victory piled before you. The treasure is immaterial. Look away from it. All that you and your traitor’s hearts need look upon is the face of this poor excuse for a daemon and see what his beliefs brought to him!” He cast the severed head to the ice where it slide and then came to a pitiful stop. “The fate of the Doomspeaker is the fate of all who oppose my leadership. It is the fate of all cowards who cannot confront the power of Chaos that now courses over this land. Victory is within our grasp. Those who oppose me are those who would fail to seize it.” The Everchosen didn’t allow any response. He rose from his throne and began to stride out the way he had come. The wolf rose with him.
Now. A familiar voice echoed inside Kaas’ skull, at first freezing the blood in his veins and causing his heart to seize. He thinks it finished. His vision is clouded by his own confidence. Break him. No Everchosen should speak with such confidence, such heresy…Chaos directs him, he does not direct us! The mortal champion of Tzeentch’s grip tightened on his blade, but he could not move his feet. The voice in his head seethed. You are a worthless maggot, Kaas! You would let this elf walk from this chamber after he insulted you so? He treats you like children! Destroy him, Kaas! Destroy him now! His face flinched at the daemon’s power, and he could feel the power building in his sword. The spite on his tongue was being channeled through the rest of his being, infusing every sinew and fiber with an irresistible call to action. Kill him, Kaas. The Everchosen’s gaze was focused on the far end of the chamber as he passed by Kaas, ebon hair twisting with the speed of his stride. Soon the Tzeentch lord would be behind him. Kill him. He will never let you this close again. This is his mistake. No Everchosen can make such a mistake. Kill him. Kill the elf. Kaas took a single step forward, and from there his path was committed. The tip of his blade began to rise.
Kaas took another step, his eyes focusing on the Everchosen’s back as it presented itself. The daemon in his sword that hungered for the death of the elven usurper and the restoration of its own power worked its will, and for the second time in as many crucial confrontations the Eye of Sheerian was made blind. There was barely a rattle in Kaas’ armor to betray his movement, and his was quick enough that even though a dozen Shadow Warriors saw him step away from the other lords and guessed immediately at his murderous intentions the cries of warning to their lord were just barely forming in their throats. Dozens of other eyes watched, but would have done nothing anyway. This was the way of Chaos, Kaas sword as the hammer of judgment upon their leader. To them he was the will of the gods in action. The outcome was in their hands, and whatever it was, it would be followed. There would be no tears of
282 mourning for Alith Anar when Kaas ran him through. His followers would have to die, but their blood was but a drop in the vast sea that coursed through the champions of Chaos. If the Everchosen’s crusade was to end here then so be it. This was not a hall of honor. If Alith Anar died without ever looking upon the face of his assassin then that was his fault and his fault alone. He should have been more careful.
The assassin did not make a sound as he tightened his grip and lunged forward. Even the Everchosen’s mighty armor could not turn aside the daemon blade. It was a killing blow. Once the steel penetrated his frame the power of the daemon within would be unleashed, scorching away the elf within. Kaas completed his lunge, his eyes never leaving the Everchosen’s back. It was the victory he had always dreamed of, made more sweet by the rush of power through his body as he tensed, his entire frame behind the killing blow. He hadn’t even encountered any resistance, but he hadn’t expected any. His blade had earned its reputation. A broad smile formed on his features, and he felt something akin to euphoria. You fool! The daemon screeched in his head. The smile fell and his eyes refocused on his blade. It was clean as it hovered in the air. He could even see its reflection in the ice below, and it was there that he saw the dark form reaching for him, eyes ablaze.
Kaas was pulled off balance as Alith Anar gripped his sword arm. The Everchosen’s cloak was still floating in the air from his quick move, the gift of Slaanesh draining from him as he settled himself once again in the material world. Once grounded on the ice again he wasted no time, overwhelming any contingency Kaas might have formed with his own speed. Having pulled the would be assassin off balance the Everchosen drew a dagger at his hip and drove it into his assailant’s shoulder before twisting it brutally. Kaas cried out, his sword falling from his grip. The daemon’s voice left his mind forever as the blade that contained it clattered to the ice. Alith Anar appeared to merely shrug his shoulder as he pushed on Kaas, but the gesture sent him sprawling onto his back. He reached for another weapon, but before he could reach it the tip of U’zuhl was at his throat, and he was still.
Silence returned to the hall after the quick flurry of the battle which has lasted no more than the blink of an eye. It was broken only by Kaas’ labored breath and the almost silent drip of his blood onto the cold floor. “I did not need prophecy to know that you would betray me, Kaas.” Alith Anar said, his voice even and calm. “But you are weak. Continue to fight, and you will die. Surrender, reveal to me the location of Lord Immortalis’ camp and you may live with your shame.” The Tzeentch lord’s eyes widened, hatred replacing the moment of fear that had gripped him. “Oh? Did you think I might have overlooked him and his rebel band as I would overlook you? You sorely underestimate me, Kaas. You and your traitorous kind always have. Now. Your choice. Care to test your daemon against mine?”
“In Immortalis’ name!” A minotaur lord of considerable size and with the mark of Khorne branded between his horns broke from the ranks of the Everchosen’s followers and charged Alith Anar. He brandished a massive hammer but the outcome of the confrontation was never in doubt. The Everchosen lifted his blade away from Kaas and called out the daemon’s name. The minotaur was cut down where he stood, shredded by the hungry ethereal talons. While the assembled lords could tolerate the swift battle with Kaas the appearance of another traitor sent them into an uproar. The Shadow Warriors leapt forward, bows singing as they cut down anyone they deemed to be a threat to their lord. The air hummed with magic as dozens of mages summoned their power, and still more warriors rushed Alith Anar. Kaas, rather than striking out at the occupied Everchosen and risk humiliation once again rolled away from him and retrieved his blade. But the voice of he daemon was silenced, and already rust was beginning to cover its surface.
Alith Anar cut down the few who rushed him with contemptuous ease. Things had gotten quickly out of
283 hand, but it was no matter. Kaas was no matter. Immortalis was no matter. He merely waited for the various traitors to either die or flee while the wolf looked on with an approving smile on his muzzle. When it seemed that the revolt was about to turn into a sectarian battle between the followers of the various gods Alith Anar drove his sword into the ice. The resulting crack echoed like thunder throughout the ruins of Praag, both above and below.
“Chaos does not build empires!” He declared. “You are to go to the surface. Purge from the host here any who are disloyal to the true Everchosen of Chaos, and then prepare to depart.” Alith Anar removed his sword, but the cracks in the ice floor continued to spread. “We move south. The blight of Malekith is still thick in these lands. Immortalis is of no concern to me.” He turned, and with the Shadow Warriors forming up as his bodyguard, began to depart. His next words were casual, cast over his shoulder and then forgotten. “Leave the traitors to their tomb. Hurry out, lest you be buried yourselves.”
***
Alith Anar watched Praag collapse from his tent high on a ridge overlooking the city. Shadow Warriors had staked out a perimeter, no one was to approach him this night. He sat in silence, running his fingers through the wolf’s tangled mane as he observed his host. The thick blanket of clouds overhead were red with the reflected carnage below. It seemed that the whole vast host was ablaze, but in truth only a small number would perish. Every few moments some Khornate warrior, exulting in the slaughter, would let out a howl of ecstasy or a beast would bray as it was cut down. The valley was alive with the noise of death, the purifying slaughter that would purge any traitors from his midst.
“You handled this well, Alith Anar.” The wolf spoke, as if waking from a dream. “They will forever remember this night. We should give it a name.”
“Names will soon have no meaning.” Alith Anar replied, his voice distant.
The wolf’s ears perked. “Oh? Is that why you spared Kaas? What are you convinced of, elf?”
“I spared Kaas because he is worthless…I have a feeling that he will survive what’s happening below. It would be mercifully if he were to die.” The Everchosen replied.
“You did not answer my question.” The wolf settled again, his head between his paws.
“This whole campaign…It was just twilight.” Alith Anar said, looking to the west. “A long, bloody setting of the sun…But a sliver of light remains.”
The wolf seemed to hmm, though it was a feral sound rumbling in his chest as he closed his eyes, content to allow Alith Anar to continue to stroke him. “What will you do, Alith Anar?” He asked sleepily, as if he already knew the answer and was even bored by it.
“I will usher in an eternal night.”
284 The Black Dawn By Voodoomaster Hour of the Wolf
The city was ruined. Buildings shattered and towers broken. This once proud city of men, half elves and elves was utterly ruined, and Tor Ylanthar would never rise again. Flames could be seen flickering in the night for weeks after the city was sacked, and every so often a low rumble would echo through the air as yet another tower collapsed. Bodies littered the ruins, slowly disappearing amidst the rubble and flames. The sun was setting in the west, casting a blood-red pall over the fallen symbol of civilisation. The waystones were cast down, and the watcher could feel the broken links in the great and complex network.
***
Delketh stood upon the parapet of Kithanan, looking out at the wild hordes that were massing for another assault. The former warrior of the Hand of Khaine gripped his spear tightly as yet another ship braved the rocks and grappling hooks were hurled against the wall once again. Reassuring himself with the thought that they had held out as long as they had, he found it to be less than comforting. From all across Elthin Arvan his people had been forced back, starting from the captured port of Talienence and Marienburg, all the way through to where he was now. It was only due to the masterful leadership of the Lady Gieselle – and ultimately her sacrifice, with the destruction of the Reapers of Sorrow – that had even allowed them to retain this much of their holdings. How the Lady-Commander had known that the forces of the beast would betray them there at the Siege of Tor Ylanthar he knew not, though in the privacy of his own thoughts he would have guessed that it was a result of her masterful command of the Winds of Magic.
“Spears and shields! Spears and shields!”
Delketh snapped to attention as the commander of the wall raced past his position, an axe in his hands as he swung at a rope that had hooked itself over a nearby parapet. He himself swung his spear down with as much force as he could, severing the one that had landed just next to him. All across the length of the wall, he could see his peers doing the same as the tired elves mustered to repel yet another assault. As always, some of the more terrified warriors had failed to cut the ropes in time, permitting the barbarians to reach the top of the walls and lay about them with their crude iron weapons. Screams echoed in the air along with the wet, meaty sound of severed limbs striking the stone, and the stench of blood was all about Delketh. He snarled as he raised his shield, flinching involuntarily as the shield vibrated, deflecting the weapon that had been aimed for his head. Casting aside the ruined shield – such had been the force of the blow that it was almost split entirely in two – the elven warrior thrust forward with his spear, almost howling with glee as he was rewarded with a bellow of pain from the barbarian.
He could faintly see through the red mist that seemed to be obscuring his sight, and noted the human lying prone upon the parapet, a large gash in its side and a spreading pool of blood as it rolled around in pain. Perhaps he had struck one of the vital organs. It glared up at him for a moment, spitting at him before shuddering one last time and going limp, the steaming hot blood pooling around the elf's boots,
285 slowly beginning to soak them. He shrugged and looked out over the sea, specifically towards the ship that had managed to get so close to the walls of the citadel. Already it was sinking to the bottom of the bay, a strange black fire blazing across its wooden structure, as it did so. Delketh could almost see the flows of mighty magic in the air, ripping and tearing at the boards, yet sluggish, like black tar. While one part of him, deep down inside, shied away from that destructive potential, he felt himself being almost irresistibly drawn towards it, drawn to the potential for destruction that it offered. Shaking his head to dispel the feeling, he could see an Eagleship beginning to head back out to sea, ready to engage more of the ships that were attempting to cross the bay and attack the last citadel of the Druchii people in Elthin Arvan. This assault had been repelled... just.
The commander seemed to sense his mood as he walked up behind him, wiping blood off his axe as he did so. The two of them looked out across the bay to where the numberless hordes of humans and daemons waited, flames flickering around from various fires. Delketh knew that in a quieter time, he would be able to hear the sounds of chanting in the air as they sacrificed and prayed to their gods for assistance in the coming battles. In the midst of the bay, longboats battled against the Eagleships and Falconships that held their position, but as always, there were fewer elves than the Druchii really had.
“We have held out for this long,” the commander said softly. “We can hold out until the very end, and then we shall be free. Free to return to our home.”
Delketh merely shrugged as he watched the lone Dragonship Ancalagon cut several raiders into driftwood while moving about the bay, the starblade ram slicing through hulls like butter.
“Still, sir, it would be nice if the sorceresses in the tower...” Delketh scowled for a moment, but then carefully assumed a blank face. “...would move more quickly with the evacuation. All of the other cities have fallen. We are the last.”
“True.”
Delketh and the captain looked up towards the tall tower of Kithanan, wherein sat the four remaining sorceresses of the council that were responsible for the well-being of the city. Nothing had been heard from them in days, and and some were beginning to question whether help would ever come at all.
***
Roars filled the air in equal measure with screams of terror, joined by the whipping of branches and crashing noise of falling trees. The forest seemed to have gone insane. All evidence of control was gone; a reek filled the air, the reek of burning trees. Athel Loren was in what seemed to be its death throes, as far as the elves living within its borders could tell. Of course, the forest itself could not 'die', but those that inhabited it could, and the out of control mind lashed out blindly at anything within reach. Trees lay where they fell, as did the bodies, as the forest began to consume anything and everything within reach, straining against the sorely taxed border stones.
As it suffered, it tried to reach for more, and he watched from afar, troubled by what his eyes were revealing to him. The threads of destiny were slowly unraveling, and everything was falling apart. The forest could sense it, he knew. It might not understand it – who could? – but it could sense it.
***
286
The hordes camped about the coast surrounding the city were growing restless. They had been camped there for nigh on three months now, and they had not even penetrated the massive outer defences of Kithanan. Food was scarce, and while the mighty Chaos Warriors were sustained by their gods-gifted armour, the Beastmen tribes had suffered greatly. The Norse amongst their numbers had tried to gain a foothold from the sea, but thus far had failed miserably – his former people were the masters of the sea. The Druchii were escaping by their hundreds every day, and so far nothing had stopped them. Now the horde was parting before the advance of the Everchosen of Chaos, all of them well aware of his exalted position among the hierarchy of Chaos.
Alith Anar gazed out across the bay towards the island city, his armoured hand idly scratching behind the ears of the wolf that lay beside him. On either side of the open carriage the Shadow Warriors had assembled, nearly all their number bar a few that remained in the south. They too followed the gaze of their lord out into bay. In many ways, they were almost like extensions of his will, he mused to himself.
“Iaketh.” The Shadow King addressed his herald with a cool and emotionless tone, and no feeling was displayed when the herald appeared, his arrival signified by little more than the sound of his cloak rippling in the wind. “Order the hordes to pull back. There is little need for them to continue this stalemate.”
Iaketh bowed his head. “Yes, my Lord,” he responded. Turning, the herald vanished to spread the word about the army.
“Do you have a plan then, Alith Anar?” The wolf looked up at the Everchosen’s face as he continued his scratching, a faintly mocking look entering into those eyes.
“Yes.” Alith Anar continued to stare out towards the island city, as though hypnotised by it, “Before we can achieve our goal, we will need a method to travel there. This city might just be that method.”
“It is possible,” the wolf yawned, “But the magic required to accomplish it is far more than you have at your disposal here, Alith Anar.” Settling down again, it continued to allow the Everchosen to scratch it, and seemed almost to enjoy it in some strange sense. Anar however, slowly rose up, and the wolf looked back up to him, disturbed slightly by what it saw.
“It might be beyond my magic right now,” the Everchosen said softly, “But I doubt it is beyond yours.” Alith Anar gazed down at the wolf, who watched him without expression for a moment before laughing. The laugh, however, echoed throughout the bay, resounding from the walls of Kithanan, and seemed to grow in force, magnified, continually building upon itself until it was merely a roar of sound that could be heard for leagues around.
Thunder boomed overhead, grey clouds beginning to darken as a storm began to form over the Everchosen and the wolf. As lightning crackled through the sky, the wolf continued to laugh.
***
The mountains were silent. A slow trickle of water could be heard as it moved across the rock, deep within the bowels of the caves under the World's Edge. The landscape was scarred, and the once great waterfall was now but a faint drip, the once mighty torrent blocked by the mountain it used to power.
287 Zhufbar, home of the Engineers, was shattered. The mountains were dead, and the mines abandoned. Karaz Ankor had all but fallen to the beasts that now lurked within the depths. While the people of the Ancestor Gods continued their battle, as they always did, there was now a faint hint of despair to their struggle. None of them would ever admit it, but it persisted. And yet they still fought on.
***
Delketh looked out with growing concern as the storm to the north east continued to grow in size and strength. Already it was blocking out what little could be seen of the cold and weak sun, and it showed no signs of abating. Delketh had never seen anything like this in over three hundred years of warfare. Even during his two long years in Elthin Arvan, and in that time, he had seen things that still haunted his sleep. This land was truly an accursed one. Delketh and his commander glanced at each other once again, before looking back out towards the shoreline. Both of them were transfixed by what was happening – as were hundreds of other warriors, ignoring everything to just observe in a strange mixture of fear and awe.
“This is not normal,” Delketh finally managed, well aware of how obvious he sounded. He tried not to let his voice waver as he said it, but to his own ears, he didn’t succeed. The commander, however, said nothing as he stepped back from the wall, causing Delketh to look towards him questioningly.
“What in Khaine’s name is that?” The elf's voice clearly held the overtones of sheer terror now, and his eyes had widened as he looked back outward.
Delketh turned back... and fell to his knees in terror. The clouds had continued to darken, until they were utterly devoid of anything resembling light, and yet it moved and grew as if it were a living thing. That blackness was now advancing towards them, along the ground and in the sky. Gripped by a terror that reached deep into their hearts and minds, elves along the wall were already running, away from the darkness, away from the wall, away from death. As they fled, they cast aside weapons and armour, wanting nothing more than to flee this darkness that seemed to suck all light and life from the world. Delketh struggled to his feet again and looked outwards. Though his knees had turned to water and his stomach roiled, he watched as the vague form of a wolf suddenly appeared at the front of the darkness. It howled.
Delketh was flung backwards by some unknown force that struck the parapet, blasting away great segments of the wall. Powerful magical enchantments were brushed aside as if they were the gossamer webs of a spider by the horrific force, the walls coming apart brick by brick in a whirlwind of death and destruction. The commander remained upon one of the few sections that still stood after that initial blast, struggling to his feet with blood dripping from his side. But before he could fall back to safety, the wolf was upon him, ripping at his throat. While the captain struggled in his death throes, blood pooling about what would soon be just another corpse, Delketh groaned in agony from where he was partially covered by rubble. He would have tried to rise, but his legs had been shattered, and a black fog was beginning to creep around the edges of his vision.
The wolf howled again as the darkness crashed over the wall, hundreds of shapes akin to it moving on two legs, four legs, and some in even more bizarre configurations, shapes that Delketh struggled to comprehend. Others soared through the skies and over the walls, while the wolf itself began to take on a new shape. The darkness now seemed to be coming from the wolf itself – it towered above the other shapes, part of the darkness, and yet not part of it.
288
“So this is the way the world ends,” Delketh murmured to himself as he closed his eyes for the last time, surrendering himself to oblivion. A pair of the winged shapes descended upon him and began to attack the broken body that lay there, but he was no longer capable of feeling pain. At least, not in this world. Delketh felt a brief tearing, followed by the sensation of endlessly falling, dragged from side to side as if many arms were tugging on him, and then there was nothing.
***
A second darkness. That was the only way to describe it. It was all that could be seen and felt across the land, but nowhere was it more prevalent than here. The black towers were broken. Tor Cynath was no more. The former slaving capital was dead – the capital of Malekith’s empire in Elthin Arvan had fallen. And with it the last hope for the Druchii.
***
The wolf howled with newly returned power, leaping into the air it turned and watched as its followers ripped apart the fleeing Druchii. Growing in size and strength, taking on a vaguely humanlike form, it grinned maniacally as it continued its ascent towards the tall tower, the last to remain standing in the face of his onslaught. It could sense a great power there, and that power needed to be gone in order for its aims to be fulfilled. Smashing through the roof, the wolf rose up to its full height the shadowy horns on its head almost reaching the top of the room – even though the ceiling had been well over fifteen feet above the floor. The four sorceresses sat upon their stone chairs and did not move. They merely looked at the wolf’s true form with a simple look of sadness upon their faces, gazing unafraid at the sparks of reddish-black flame that server as the eyes of the beast.
“Greetings, spirit. We have been waiting for you.” All four spoke at once, as if trying to unnerve the wolf. It, however, did not care, for it was far too powerful to be harmed by such as these. Yet there was something... here. Like a faint touch, a passing scent, but one that disturbed the wolf, for the power it sensed was like and unlike its own. Of the realm, yet apart from it, and strong. So very strong. It dismissed the feeling, however, for whatever it indicated, the cause was gone.
“You know me, mortals” the wolf growled as it returned its attention to the elves surrounding it. The four nodded solemnly, and the one closest to the wolf rose from its chair, striding unafraid towards the darkness.
“We know what you are, harbinger, and we know what you will do. Your master is already growing impatient, so do what you must with us.” The sorceress remained still and silent, even as the wolf began to summon its power.
A bolt of pure darkness tore first at the standing sorceress, hurling her back into her seat. It then leapt to the other three like a traveling spark, and slowly, inch by inch, their bodies became as stone, their minds and souls forever bound to the purpose he had envisioned for them. Outside, lightning began to flash down from the darkness. The sea boiled with released energy and the screams of the fleeing mortals, cut down by the beasts of the darkness. The wolf laughed as he felt the earth tremble. The sorceress who had spoke to the wolf earlier looked up at him again, and her eyes seemed to smile even as her face began its inexorable transformation to granite.
289 “The Hour of the Wolf is over. The sun is rising in the east, and when the rays strike the hidden land, hope shall return to the hearts and minds of mortals.” The words crackled in the air, seeming to echo and resound all through the room, their source unknown but the voice that of the four sorceresses. Was it carried by magic, these words of power? The wolf did not know. But nor did it care, as it turned to look at the one who observed it.
“It was you,” the wolf hissed, observing the shadowy figure. “You that I felt.”
“Yes.”
“You cannot interfere.” It was not a question, but a simple affirmation of the truth that was known to both of them.
“No.”
“Leave, then,” the words came, and along with them an almost overwhelming pressure, an utter blackness that descended upon the figure bearing with it all the force behind the mind of the wolf. No great destruction, no bright displays of light and gathered power that would be visible to mortal eyes, just the feeling of an incredible, otherworldly force being directed at a single target.
There was a brief moment when the blackness seemed to push down upon the figure, and then it responded. A like pressure flowed back against the wolf, a vastness that seemed to be at once lesser and yet far greater than that which pressed against it. It did not attempt to meet it, but rather stood unmoved, a rock against a raging ocean. It held for but an instant, and then faded away as the wolf withdrew from the confrontation. There was nothing to be gained, the wolf knew, and much to be lost.
“Are you done here?” it asked.
“Yes,” the figure responded. And then it was gone.
***
Lightning continued to strike at Kithanan. The earth trembled as the darkness entered the towers of the elven city. The boiling sea rose and fell, drawing Kithanan with it out to the open waters. And then the darkness seemed to fade. The sea began the – perhaps inevitable, perhaps not – cooling, and now the island city was something else. It was an ark, an ark for the Everchosen.
Alith Anar smiled to himself as he strode up the ruined stairs of the tallest tower. The wolf had outdone itself this time. Emerging from the staircase to the destroyed apex of the tower, he found the wolf perched upon one of the ruined walls, looking out to the east where a weak sun was rising. Anar walked up behind it and ran one gauntleted hand across its back. The wolf growled, appreciative of the gesture.
“You have done well, wolf. You have done better than imagined.” Alith Anar was smiling as he continued to scratch the wolf’s back. “The blight of Malekith has been purged from these lands, and all that remains of it now is in the west.”
“You intend to go on, then?” The wolf spoke in a low tone, but its voice still carried a great weight and veiled power. The blackness may have been gone, but a fire seemed to shine from its eyes. “You intend
290 to succeed where so many have failed?”
“Yes. I shall keep my word and usher in the eternal night.”
***
The wild sea ravaged the coastline of Cothique as the skies above resounded to the sound of another shattering thunderclap, the pelting rain almost like a sheet of water that descended from above. High upon the cliffs, a figure stood motionless, allowing the rain to strike him as he looked to the east. He had changed, he knew. His eyes perceived the raging storm clouds over distant Elthin Arvan, the black, sluggish tar rolling through the Winds of Magic. He turned his head slightly, seeing his teacher step up beside him, appearing as if from the air itself by some unimaginable means. As always, the other was clad in a grey robe, tied at the waist with a simple rope belt. Despite the wind and rain, his cowl continued to conceal his face from sight, preventing any observer from knowing more than he chose to reveal. Yet it was not the appearance that so awed the student, but what he could now see, a complex tapestry of interwoven energy, as if the skin of the teacher were just a shell for what was held within. And even that, he knew, was just another part of the mystery. Finally, he spoke.
“War is coming, teacher. There is nothing we can do to prevent it.”
“This war was never meant to be,” the cloaked figure responded, his voice betraying his sorrow. “This war was never meant to go on, and this war was never meant to come to Ulthuan.” He abruptly paused, and then turned to his pupil. “The Hour of the Wolf is over,” he said.
“The sun is rising in the east,” the student replied, the words seeming to spill from his lips. He didn't know how he knew what to say, but he did know that the words were the right ones. “And when the rays strike the hidden land, hope shall return to the hearts and minds of mortals.”
“Come,” his teacher said, walking with unhurried movements down the slippery path away from the cliffs, towards the mighty dragons that waited to bear them away and to their destination. “It is time.”
291
Concerning Ulthuan in Flames
Again, this phrase is of no reference to actual historical events. However, based on the writings from Finubar, this occurs very soon after the time period he dubbed the Hour of the Wolf. It is also apparent that this is the last series of events to occur before he was found in Marienburg. What attempts we have made to converse with him indicate that these are the events he was fleeing.
292 Oriour By Eldacar Ulthuan in Flames
Saarin reined in his black steed, eyes narrowing as he looked over the fields on his father’s estate. Times were becoming harder, he knew, with what had once been a bounteous land enchanted by magic now slowly degrading, dying before the eyes of the true elves. His father spent much of his time travelling, conferring with the other members of the Council of Princes as to the nature of the change. As patriarch of the Vraneth family, High Princes of Saphery, Drukh Vraneth was required by the Witch King himself to attend gatherings of the Council in Anlec, the heart of Malekith’s dark empire.
His great-grandsire, Saarin knew, had fought during the epic conflict known as the War of the Beard, as had Khalir Vraneth’s daughter, Idril Vraneth. And from there, the line descended to his father, Drukh, and then Saarin and his brother Kurl.
Saarin didn’t like Kurl. He never had. Perhaps it was the attempts on his life that his brother had continually made, though in retrospect, he had never really blamed Kurl for those. After all, Saarin had attempted to have his brother slain as well. If he became firstborn, then he would become High Prince of Saphery upon the death of their father. And to be High Prince was the highest honour that one could attain in the Empire. None could eclipse the Witch King or his mother, High Priestess of the Cult, but even to stand in the shadow of greatness was better than death.
And so they played their little games, dancing around each other, not always drawing blood, but continually fighting for the upper hand. Their father knew this. He approved of it, even, for he had done the same when he was young. Still, Saarin would need to end it for good before long. Kurl would be planning the same thing, of course, and so Saarin would need to not only be faster than his elder brother, but he would need to be better prepared. But then again, that was the thrill of it, move and countermove. Sometimes, he wondered if he preferred the game to the reward.
“Young lord?”
Saarin turned at the sound to look at the sorceress (and sometime paramour, if one put stock in rumours) who advised his father, Illiria. She was fairly typical today. Long black hair, descending almost to her knees, shrouding her like a veil of night. It was certainly concealing more than her clothes were, that much he could – quite clearly – see for himself.
“Yes, sorceress?” Saarin tried to keep his voice mild, but some element of his annoyance at being drawn from his train of thought must have seeped into his voice, for her eyes darkened slightly.
“I would merely wish to inform you that we are near a group of slaves,” she said pointedly. “I doubt you wish to mix with their kind, do you?”
“Perhaps not,” Saarin said in a thoughtful tone of voice, which brought the beginnings of a satisfied smile to Illiria’s face. He continued, then. “Yet I have a question,” he said, rather pointedly.
293
Her face was confused as she bowed her head. “Then ask, young lord.” He chose to ignore the mockery in her tone. Concealed, but it was there.
“Two questions, truth be told,” he said pleasantly. “First, what answers do you have as to why this land continues to degrade itself around us? I have heard the stories of Ulthuan being a bounteous land, rich with life, yet I am not blinded, Illiria. I know of the tales that come to Ulthuan from Elthin Arvan and that wretched kingdom of half-breeds and fools. Tales that would seem to imply that Ulthuan – no, that the true elven people – receive less blessing than traitors!” His voice had risen slightly, though it was perhaps due to his frustration more than anything else. All the elders seemed to do was talk, these days. Talk, and talk again. “Use your magic,” he said, and indicated a nearby sapling. It was wilting, dying. “Make it grow.”
Illiria looked at him with a face completely devoid of expression, then turned and flicked a finger in the direction of the tree. Saarin felt the roar of surging power, flowing over him like a wet sludge, and watched as before his eyes, the tree began growing, the natural life cycle accelerated by the force of Illiria’s magic. Yet while it grew, it did not do so well. It began to curl, stunting itself, and the bark slowly blackened. The transformation was quick, and Saarin brought his horse up alongside the now-changed tree. Scraping his hand along the trunk, he rubbed at the black gunk on his fingers, then flicked it off.
“This happens every single time,” he said sharply. “Why? Why does our magic not invigorate the land?”
“Such things,” Illiria said coldly, her voice an indication that this line of conversation had ended, “are not for those who do not wield the magical arts. Your second question?”
“I already have my answer,” Saarin said, his lips parting in what was almost a feral grin. “My question would have been why those slaves do not work, but it matters not. Kill them, and have their bodies staked out in front of the slave quarters. Perhaps it will serve as an example, so that other servants will work harder. If magic cannot solve this problem, then blood and sweat must take pride of place.”
Turning his horse, he began the trek back towards his father’s mansion.
***
Saarin reined in his black steed, eyes narrowing as he looked over the fields on his father’s est-
“Stop.”
***
“Where am I?”
Saarin stood within a small clearing, in woods that he didn’t know. A rock was before him, and seated on it was something… different. It was an elf, of that he was sure. Clad in a grey robe, his face was obscured by a cowl. He carried a simple wooden staff, and sat cross-legged while the sun blazed down on him, surrounding the elf in a halo of light. There was something strange about this one. It was as if he were a spellcaster, but the trace of energies in the air around him was different.
294 Saarin had grown up around magic. Like many, he possessed the faint traces of a connection to the Winds, and could almost ‘see’ the threads of magic as they twined about in the world. He had always been able to see the black, sluggish tar that was the powerful energies wielded by the Witch King, by the Queen of Avelorn, and by the sorceresses in his father’s own household. Saarin even knew of the incredible force of will that mastering such magic required, and it was partly for this reason that he (and so many others) respected the incredible power that came with such strength commanded. But this… this was like… it was clean. He had no other explanation. It was so bright that it almost burned his eyes, filling him with a sense of calm and peace that he had never felt before. As if it scoured away everything within him, and though it left him raw, he felt himself almost palpably lighten.
“Hello, Saarin,” the elf said pleasantly, prompting the Dark Elf to draw his sword, the black steel feeling comfortable in his hands. Drawing back the cowl of his hood, the figure revealed the classical features of an elf – angular face, lobeless ears. His hair was white, though it did not seem to be the result of any great age on the part of the elf. Indeed, this figure seemed to be ageless. As he looked, he found himself constantly re-evaluating each impression as to just how old this elf was, before giving up. And the eyes. Oh, the eyes. One was entirely black, and the other was entirely white. They were like bottomless voids, descending forever. Yet as Saarin watched, they faded back to a silver-blue colour, and, though it may have just been his imagination, the elf imperceptibly shook his head, warning him off. Then the moment was past.
The mysterious elf nodded to the sword in his hand. “You will not need that,” he informed Saarin. And just like that, the sword vanished, gone as if it had never been.
“Where am I?” the Dark Elf demanded again, clutching at the hilt of a dagger. Though he doubted that it would be of much use, any weapon was better than none in this strange place.
“Where you are isn’t important,” the other noted. “It’s where you must go that is.”
“Who are you?”
“Tathel,” the grey-robed elf informed him, still in that pleasant tone. “You don’t want to leave, I know,” he continued. “You will understand why, in time.”
The scion of Vraneth found himself relaxing, and he removed his hand from the dagger. Yet then his will hardened, and, though it forced him to grit his teeth as his body seemed to almost fight against him, he slowly drew the dagger and held it out before him, advancing towards the elf. When they stood almost nose to nose, Saarin slowly reached out, feeling the strain as his muscles fought against him. In some dim recess of his mind, he knew that he was the one fighting to stop the advance of the dagger, but that made no sense, for how could he fight against himself?
With a gentle smile, the elf reached up and touched his hand, moving the weapon away.
“Even if you wished to hurt me,” Tathel said, “you would not find yourself capable of it. Here, it is your strength of will that defines what is possible. Here, regardless of one’s physical body, a person can, if they know how, be stronger than the mightiest of warriors.”
“And you are one of them? A weakling?” It came out in a sneering tone, and strangely, he instantly regretted the words. He would not have done so with any other save his father, the Queen of Avelorn or
295 the Witch King Malekith himself. This ‘Tathel’, he realised, could quite possibly obliterate him between the spaces of an instant.
“No. I am merely a guide,” the other explained. “A teacher, if you will. And you are the student.”
Saarin looked at him for a long time before venturing the question. His mind was whirling with thoughts, but he finally managed to work them down to just seven words.
“What are you here to teach me?”
***
There was nothing but white. Saarin stood upon that white, feeling out of place in his black armour. Tathel stood beside him, his staff gone, his hands somewhere within the billowing sleeves of that plain grey robe. Surrounding the two of them were ten figures, arrayed in a circle. Shadowy in nature despite the light, they sat in throne-like chairs, each looking different. Saarin could recognise the faces of some – he had seen them working in the fields of his father’s estate, or in the halls of the mansion. Despite the palpable distance he could feel between who he was and what they were, he did recognise them. But he still knew not who they were, for all his recognition. They were slaves, but here, there was something more, just as his self-appointed teacher held something more about him.
“Who are they?” he asked, mindful of the confusion evident in his voice. It was in no way feigned – he very much wanted answers as to the nature of this place.
“That is something we are here to determine,” Tathel replied, motioning to the only two Saarin could not readily identify. “What do you see?”
“One chair is… unoccupied,” he said finally. “There is nobody there. The other…” he looked closely, then felt confusion welling up within him anew. “The other is me!”
“No,” Tathel replied, “but your answer is not entirely unexpected.” He drew Saarin back from the two thrones and the occupant on one of them, and motioned to the circle again. “What do you see?”
“Ten figures and an empty chair.”
“No. What do you see?”
“Ten figures and an empty chair.”
“What do you see?”
“Ten figures and an empty chair!”
“What do you feel?”
“Ten- no,” Saarin said. He drew in his breath sharply. He did not see, but he could feel.
“How many?”
296
“Eleven.”
“Good.”
297 Cadaith By Eldacar Ulthuan in Flames
The elf stepped carefully as he approached the rise. It was strange, as if he were dreaming. Here, during what the servants and slaves told him had only been a single day ago, he had found himself drawn into what could only have been a hallucination. Yet it was real. Or was it? He didn’t know.
“Check,” he said brusquely to Illiria, who had looked more than annoyed at his brusque manner when he had approached her at the dawn – an hour earlier – and told her to accompany him. From what he had seen of her chambers, he assumed that she had spent the night ‘entertaining’ somebody, though Saarin could not have cared less. Her nocturnal habits were her own affairs, and until she explicitly attempted to involve him, he would stay out of it.
“And what, young prince, do you wish for me to examine?” she asked coldly. “If you wished for me to probe this area yesterday, when you had this hallucination you insist was magically created, you should have said so then. Instead, you chose to act with little more character than that of those magical constructs your father employs as guards within your family mansion. You said not a word.”
“I have no memory of that,” Saarin said irritably, waving her off and fighting the urge to draw his sword – Illiria was favoured by his father, after all, so anything he did would be an empty threat. And they both knew it. “Now check.”
She scowled, evidently believing nothing that he had told her, then turned and concentrated on the area. Saarin, meanwhile, occupied himself by quietly observing the tree. It was as dead as it had been in the aftermath of Illiria’s magic the day before, giving no sign that it would recover. He had given some thought to this, but an answer eluded him. He knew – in vague terms, for he was no spellcaster – of the supposed ‘waystone network’ that could be found in Ulthuan, and of the Vortex at the center of the island continent. After the Witch King had triumphed over the pretender, Caledor, he had decreed that none should attempt to tamper with it. Saarin didn’t understand why – Lord Malekith had used the Chaos Gods to his own ends before, so reducing their power in this world when he could control them was odd.
Not that he questioned it, of course. The Witch King was far superior to Saarin, and perhaps he had a purpose for the decree that Saarin couldn’t comprehend. Everything had happened long before he was born, after all.
Illiria frowned. “Prince Saarin,” she said shortly, I sense-”
***
“You aren’t necessarily inferior to him,” Tathel’s voice informed Saarin pleasantly from somewhere nearby. The Dark Elf dropped into a fighting crouch and his hand snapped to his sword, a string of sulfurous curses bursting forth. Normally, he considered himself far too cultured to use such words – he
298 had even degraded himself by using the human language in his utter shock – but this mage unnerved him. Especially with how he came and went.
“What do you mean?” Saarin managed to compose himself, despite keeping one hand on his sword. Not that it would do any good… wait. He scowled. “Why is there a sense that this has happened before?” he asked.
“One question at a time,” the other said. “To the first, you are not necessarily inferior to Malekith. To the second, this hasn’t happened before. You’re merely experiencing the same problems that many do when brought to this place.”
“I thought this was an illusion,” Saarin said angrily.
“You’re not ready for that particular answer yet, I think,” Tathel said. He cut off Saarin’s opened mouth with a flick of his wrist. No sound emerged. “One at a time. Now, draw your sword.”
“Fine,” Saarin said, cursing to himself as he realised that he could speak again. With a single smooth motion, his blade cleared the scabbard. The weapon was forged of black steel, limned by a faint red glow. The gold and black crossguard and hilt were topped by a single ruby that served as the pommel stone. It was Saarin’s most favoured weapon, and he found himself wanting to beat his ‘teacher’ into submission. He was tired of being led around by the nose.
“You might not find it to be that easy,” Tathel said calmly, hefting his own weapon, a slender sword with a mirror-bright blade. It had appeared from nowhere, but then, many things in this place did. He almost looked surprised at Saarin’s startled glance. “You’re like an open book, Saarin. Something else that you’ll need to control, given time – you’re too emotional. Now,” his voice became pleasant once more, “strike me. If you can.”
Saarin leaped, his sword moving like a striking serpent as he lashed out, a lunge. Tathel merely seemed to twist and step aside, and he was gone, over to Saarin’s right. He reached out with his own blade and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Too slow,” he informed the astonished Dark Elf. Resisting the attempt to begin cursing once more, Saarin unleashed a volley of cuts and slashes, yet Tathel simply stepped aside from each one, eternally quick on his feet as though he were dancing.
“I did tell you it wouldn’t be easy,” he noted as Saarin stopped his wild frenzy of blows, panting slightly to catch his breath.
“Why won’t you attack me?” he asked in response.
“There was no need,” Tathel said with an almost imperceptible shrug. “I am teaching you, not trying to defeat you. Why do you think I can so easily avoid you?”
“You’re faster than I am,” Saarin said, almost as an accusation. “Or you’re able to do it because you created this place.”
“I did create this place,” he agreed, “and I am faster than you, yes. But why am I faster than you?” Tathel smiled. “You think too much,” he explained. “Before you make each move, you think about what you want to do. Even if it is only for a split second, it is enough time for an opponent to read your action and
299 respond accordingly, if they are not burdened by a need to think.”
“I don’t understand.” Saarin was confused.
“Swordplay is a dance,” Tathel said then. “Let it flow from you, through you. You won’t need to think then, and you will be the better for it. But understand that combat is not the only dance. Almost everything can be, in one way or another.”
“So you want me to move, talk, speak, all without thinking, no matter what it is,” Saarin said sarcastically. “In Dark Elven society, to do such is foolish. It would destroy me.”
“No,” the other disagreed, shaking his head. “When you understand, then you will know.” He flicked his wrist, and the sword vanished. “Perhaps we will continue this another time,” he said, in a tone that indicated their ‘lesson’ was over.
“One question,” Saarin said, a suspicious tone in his voice. Tathel motioned for him to continue, indicating assent, and he went on. “I think you removed any memories I gained after our last encounter. Did you? Would you do it more than once?”
“That was two questions,” Tathel said. “To answer one of the two: yes.”
“Which question was that?”
“That makes three questions.”
***
“-something.”
Saarin blinked, and Illiria’s expression darkened. “I told you,” she said, “that I did indeed sense something just now.”
“It is… of no moment,” Saarin replied, slightly hesitant. Gaining in confidence, he waved her off. “No moment,” he repeated.
“What I sensed was a magic unlike that which we make use of, young prince,” she said pointedly. “Our magic is that of dhar. What I sensed is that used in the construction of the waystone network, qhaysh. Harmony of magic and self.”
“Stronger magic than your own?” Saarin made an effort to sound mildly interested, but it largely failed.
“Different,” she said in a dismissive tone, “and probably weaker. A user must be serene and tranquil. To use my magic is to have a mastery of the will.”
‘Serene and tranquil’ certainly suited Tathel, Saarin thought to himself. “It is of no moment,” he said again, turning to begin the walk back to the mansion. “Perhaps just a fragment of whatever magic exists within the waystones.”
300 He didn’t notice Illiria’s glance at his departing back. Angered, to be sure, but there was also curiosity. And suspicion.
***
“The problem with revels like these,” Kurl informed his younger brother, “is that one can never tell who sides with you, and who sides against you.” The tone was patronizing, but Saarin didn’t rise to the bait.
They were in Anlec, at the palace of the Witch King himself. Though Malekith wasn’t present right now, having left for the colonies, the Queen Mother had decided to hold a celebration, and all the High Princes of Ulthuan had been obliged to attend. Many, such as their father, Drukh, had brought their direct heirs with them. And, Saarin noted, of all the High Princes, only Drukh of Saphery and Arakh of Cothique had more than one heir to their position. Which meant, of course, that Saarin (and Kurl) were stepping very carefully around one another. Yet they were still united by family, and so they chose for tonight to present a united front, indicating that the house of Vraneth remained strong.
While his brother continued to speak – something about the strength of Vraneth, though he wasn’t paying attention – Saarin allowed his eyes to rove the length of the chamber. It was one of the greater halls of the palace, though not the largest. Floors of dark stone were covered by muted colours in varying shades, while black marble columns stretched up to the distant ceiling. All around, the Dark Elf could see the banners of various families, though the reason for displaying all together so prominently was unknown to him. Above all, though, towered the banner of the Witch King, depicting a blackened, scorched phoenix upon a purple background. The rune of Khaine was seared into the breast of the dead firebird, and even from here, Saarin could sense the magic within the cloth. He knew the stories, that the Witch King’s armies had marched under that banner when the pretender had been cast out of Ulthuan, and now it remained here in Anlec, an everlasting reminder of the victories that had granted the Druchii Ulthuan.
“For all that it was worth,” he murmured to himself, his thoughts coming back – as they so often did, in these days – to Illiria’s attempt at rejuvenating the land, even on such a small scale.
“You said something, brother?” Saarin shook his head at Kurl’s question, and the other elf merely shrugged and turned away, eyes roving across the crowd in a futile attempt to discern ally and enemy. It would never work, the younger of the two decided, moving away from his brother’s side. He was almost absent-minded as he did so, his mind occupied by what seemed to be wrong with Ulthuan, and so it was that he almost missed it.
It was not much. A flash of grey, a brief flicker of silver-blue, and the figure was gone from his peripheral vision. But Saarin still saw it, and his head snapped around, drawn fully into the moment as time seemed to slow around him. There, again, vanishing through a door in the side of the hall. He hurried after it, sliding past and through the milling elves like water, quick and flowing in his movements, thinking of nothing but the frantic search for another flash of grey. Alliances didn’t matter, enemies didn’t matter. Everything he could see was in shades of black and white, all but that elusive flash of silvery-blue. His gait smooth and steady, he cleared the milling press of the crowd and strode over towards the door that he was sure Tathel had vanished through.
Stepping through the door, he found himself in a side chamber – a private lounge, perhaps – rather than in one of the many corridors of the palace. And there, before him, with his back turned, was a grey-
301 robed figure, hood up presumably to conceal his features. Saarin rushed to confront him… and stopped, confused, when the elf turned to reveal himself as Saarin’s own father.
“Yes?” the High Prince of Saphery inquired, a slight trace of curiosity evident on his face. “Was there something?”
“I… no, father,” the embarrassed Dark Elf said with a bow, retreating from the room. “I do apologise.”
“Then go,” Drukh instructed him. “And do not apologise, Saarin. Some will take it to be a sign of weakness, and react accordingly. Your brother, for one. Or Illiria, should you allow her to gain a hold over you.”
Saarin nodded quickly, turned, and departed.
***
Drukh watched his son leave impassively, but once the door had closed, he turned to his right, where another elf moved up alongside him. The High Prince shook his head.
“He almost reached you,” Drukh said. “He is learning.”
“Yes,” the other agreed. “When he moved after me out in the hall, for a brief moment, he understood the dance, was a part of the song. It was only a flash, but that is all that is necessary for him to comprehend. Now that his mind has been opened to it, he will naturally follow along the course whether he wishes to or not.”
“You never told me why you chose him,” Drukh noted quietly. “Or what you will do to him, either.”
The other elf shrugged. “I chose him,” he said after a moment of reflection, “because of all your people, he is the most open to the old ways. Perhaps in no small part due to his position as your own son. I have no doubt that you did much to place his feet on this path.”
“I only attempted to set him there,” the High Prince responded, “leaving you to guide him on this journey. And,” he said then, a trace of humour creeping into his voice, “do you not mean the true ways?”
“Truth is a matter of perspective, High Prince.”
“Perhaps.”
“Ready your followers for what is to come, High Prince of Saphery,” Tathel said as his image began to grow insubstantial. “Malekith died two hours ago in Elthin Arvan.”
“What?!” Drukh reeled back from the words even as he heard them. “Impossible. How can you possibly know? How can it even be?!”
“I was there, watching. Alith Anar slew him. Even now, Morathi is receiving word, and soon she will move to openly ally with the Cult of Pleasure. Malekith’s edict forbidding Chaos worship may not hold
302 for much longer, now that Morathi moves to take control.”
“There will be war,” Drukh said softly. “Malekith dead… there can be no mistake?”
“None. Morathi will cast blame upon Sarthailor and the other kingdoms of Elthin Arvan, so expect a campaign soon. Ensure that the Cult of Asuryan remains safe. It cannot be allowed to fail now, for too many of us have invested too much time – and too many lives – to let it all come undone.”
“Who are you?” Drukh demanded, desperately reaching for something, anything, that he could hold on to. In mere moments, his entire world had fallen apart around him, and shock was racing through his bones. Malekith was the Witch King, the anchor of the entire Dark Elven society. He couldn’t die. Could he?
Tathel was gone, and as he vanished, Drukh could hear the sounds of the revel fade away, to be replaced with a deathly silence broken only by the quiet voice of the Queen Mother Morathi as she told them what he had just learned – that Malekith had been slain, cut down by the blade of one who was an enemy to Ulthuan. It appeared that the mysterious elf had been correct, and with a heavy heart, he strode out into the hall.
***
Far across the seas to the west, a lone monk watched the white-hot flame before him as it blazed steadily. The monk was not surprised when the grey-robed elf stepped past him to observe the one who seemed to float within the fire, held aloft by some otherworldly force. He came once a year. It was always on the same day, and always at the exact same time.
Tathel was silent as he observed the flame, and the occupant – one who had slept within the fire for ages now. Turning, he moved out of the room, feeling magic swirl through the air about him once more. It beckoned him away in what was not so much a language as it was a communicated need for… ‘something to happen’ was the only term he had ever found to describe it. Concentrating upon that need, he willed himself elsewhere with but a thought, disappearing through a fold in the air and carried away upon the winds of magic.
The fire continued to burn.
303 The Wilderness By VictorK Ulthuan in Flames
It was a single burst of consciousness, alive with impossible images and a world on fire that led him to believe that he was dreaming. It was not that the vision of a world inverted and stripped bare of its waking vitality was too fantastic and therefore must be the product a dream; it was the vision’s brevity. Almost as soon as his lucid mind began to perceive the creeping horror of this world the image collapsed and his nerves went dead. He confronted the new numbness for only a few moments, the span of a deep breath that he could not taste or a couple heart beats that were silent in his chest, before his mind followed his body and switched off the lights. He was not able to question whether or not the cessation of the dream meant that he was returning to awakefulness or if he had simply fallen back into the gap between the dream world and its interruption.
He awoke gently, drawn out of sleep by coaxing voices in the distance. The world was not on fire, but it was not settled, either. He felt at ease, no longer afraid to open his eyes and discover the horror that had been creeping up on him. He looked at the world, and it was cold. The colors were drained away, retreating into the shadows where they could be annihilated. Something moved past his skin and he flinched, a lump of fear rising in his throat before he remembered what a breeze felt like. So the world was not dead after all; it continued to breathe. And there was light form somewhere, faint and gray, but he reasoned that it must be there or else he would not have known that the colors were drained as they were. Light was the mother of all images, and even distant and weak it was here. There was a landscape, something supported his back. He could feel, he could see, he could reason…he was alive.
The world was born on that revelation. The whispers of reality that had tease his senses and roused him fro his sleep rose to a full-throated declaration. Someone spoke and on the strength of that word a world which had previously been formless was brought into spectacular clarity. He could not help but think that it was all for him. The words that had been spoken flooded his mind and enabled him to conceive and organize the images that graced his eyes. The world was complete upon its naming, though the catalogue he possessed was incomplete he was confident that his benefactor had equipped him with all the tools necessary to decipher the mysteries that awaited him, and in doing so had given him the sum total of all knowledge. He felt for a moment that he knew I all already, that all he had to do was remember and the words to describe anything past, present or future would come to him. But he could not, and having come close but fallen short he was left with only a glimpse of the godhood that had almost been his, and having for a moment glimpsed its enormity the confines of his present awareness and its pitiful locality left him feeling like a child. He was stuck with the world as it was; he had lost his chance to confidently confront it. For in knowing all things he would know all potential things, and from them he could simply choose and it would be so. But now he was cold, and his back hurt, and the world waited impatiently for its imperfect captive to take notice of it.
The tall trees, animated by the wind’s slow steady stream and given voice by the rapes of needles against one another, menaced the child-like mind that was struggling to come to grips with their shimmering contours. It was nighttime, but hat was not why the light was weak and the colors cold. He would have given in to despair right there and then if not for the shy glimpse of the heavens on the
304 other side of the canopy. Stars, blazing whit hot in the firmament, beckoned to him. They were a promise that the world was not dead, that his waking was not in vain. And as he saw them he remembered the faint voices that had first called to him, now grown stronger. His fingers flinched around the dry earth, crisp and discarded needles pricking at hi palms. He disturbed the earthen scents of decay and from that sensation the whole scent of the living but dormant forest was revealed. He was a mind, a body, and senses. It was time to pt them together, to put life into motion.
He could barely stand. The weakness in his legs almost sent him to the ground, the harsh trunk of a tree saving him at the last instant. The ground and its needle bed hurt his feet, and for a few moments he was afraid to walk. His first trembling steps did not even carry him away from his support, and when his arm went tense from being stretched to its limit he stopped. It didn’t take long to decide that he shelter f the tree was too small to accommodate him. He let his arm fall, kept his balance, and began to walk in halting baby steps. He was aware that he was not tough, he was weak. He was soft, fleshy, at the mercy of the cold world. He was utterly helpless against it, but he was not afraid. His still chest felt lighter than air and the mechanical precision of his gait and bearing belied the childlike giddiness that was swelling inside of him. He was completely free. Powerless, but with no needs. Without power of strength he could have no obligations. He was truly alone in this wilderness, and so long s the backdrop remained silent trees ad a mild wind it could not harm him.
Although he was free he was not aimless. The wind carried voices, inarticulate but understood as a call. Someone was reaching out to him, and without calculation or apprehension he followed. The wilderness seemed to go on forever. Night was eternal; time had no voice to guide it back into the lives of the things here. The world’s emptiness was not limited to vague perceptions and mortal constructs. He was treading virgin ground; his feet were the first to gently depress the forest floor. Despite the lack of trails or any other sign the voices still called to him. Something else existed here, even if it occupied a distant section of the wilderness. Nor was the terrain monotonous. He paused at a gentle crest, its peak shrouded in the dense forest growth. Although he was sure that it was possible to go around it he was not interested in sparing his already aching muscles the climb. He started up the rise the same way that he had started his journey, with a single step.
The top of the hill was the first clearing that he had encountered. It stopped him cold, the open expanse of sky arresting him long enough to demand consideration. This was not the gentle sky that had convinced him to strike out in the first place. The stars were still there but the calm order they had promised was not. The dark firmament was fractured by veins of power that hurt his eyes to look upon. They alone possessed a vibrant color, an energetic green that cast no illumination. It seemed more real than the ground under his feet. The veins traced back to their source, a massive green disc that dominated the sky. He knew that his thing was alive, and that it touched the world, but he did not know if it could think and command the awesome power that radiated from it. How he had missed this monster before was a mystery, but he felt that having stood in front of it and invited into himself the green tendrils of its power it would never leave him. Lost for only a moment that voices son recovered him and he disappeared under the canopy, the slop of the rise guiding him downward. The trees did their best to obscure the rude disorder o the sky but failed. He did his best not to look up, to trust what he felt ad heard more than what he saw.
The wilderness proceeded ahead of him, the same empty woods that had been at his back. Yet it had changed. The emptiness was alive with the electric power written on the sky and the air was no humming with incoherent voices. He wanted to run, to finis off what remained of the forest so that he could his destination. Gradually he picked up speed, ignoring the needles that sought the soles of his
305 feet. He could run forever, his chest was light and clear even as his pace picked up. The end was nearing, the anticipation of that moment drawing a smile on his features. He wanted to laugh, but had no breath for it.
Finally the endless curtain of trees was starting to break. Light, pure and intense, was lancing through the space between the needles. It was a clearing like before, but this time the wilderness itself would have to bow to whatever force commanded that it end. The light marked the barrier between the wilderness and whatever lay beyond; it obscured the voices that had called him back from his slumber. With a final effort he passed into the light, awaiting his glorious welcome.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The light was still there but it began to shrink, collapsing in on itself so that what had been a wall became merely something that could be understood. His feet felt dirt. The medium of pine needles was gone. Trees came back into view, but though they were only a few meters away it seemed that an insurmountable gulf lay between him and the resumption of the dead wilderness. A road had been cut through it, and he was not meant to cross it. It was already occupied. The light had formed into a procession of figures, starkly illuminated against the dark backdrop of the trees. As he finally saw them his legs gave out right at the road’s edge and he fell to his knees. The endless line of figures, beings of white light who sang as they moved down the road, demolished in him the seed of confidence tat had followed his awakening. What was sight, touch, even reason to the immaculate figures that paraded so serenely in front of him? Their shape taught him that he was like them, the same in limb and feature. Their glory reminded him that he was naked.
He touched is face, now that he knew what a fair face should look like. His fingers told the story. Where their eyes seemed fixed on the heavens and the pure light there his were sunken, and dark. Their flesh was raised on high cheek bones an as soft as the light that made them. His was stretched taught over bones that rudely interrupted the smooth flow his face. Despair welled up in him and he tore his hands from his face and sank them into the dirt. His body craved a release for the maddening sense of failure and loss that seemed to pull down on every inch of him, but his eyes were dry. His muscles tensed but they would not ache. Even in pan and grief he was not as perfect a these creatures. Where they could sing the song that rescued him from slumber he could not make a sound. So he tried to shut the world out. He closed his eyes and lowered his head, for the first time aware of the coarse hair that fell around his ears and onto the black earth it so resembled. He tried to sleep again, to forget this world and its names and in doing so erase It forever. He would forget that he was a lowly creature birthed in the wilderness.
But the voices would not let him. As he pounded his own ears they became louder. As he tried to remain still they seemed to speak directly to the muscles in his limbs, bidding them to rise. But he could resist these temptations. He was hollow, he lacked the light that illuminated them, and he could retreat within himself to wallow in his own torment. If he could not forget he could at least suffer in darkness, find comfort in his own slow destruction. He visualized that space, turning his eyes inward to reject what was just hidden from them. He built a barrier between what remained of his broken self and the voices that called it out to bear witness to what it might have been. He could not drown them out but he could create a chamber to contain their echoes and finally drown within the loathing that they generated.
He had almost achieved his self destructive end when the barrier shattered. The light flooded in, energizing the voices perverted by his self-loathing. The surge through him was incredible, he almost felt his heart beat before his eyes were torn open by the unspoken demand that they see. Trailing away from him like the cool caress of the wind were the long, perfectly formed fingers of a delicate hand that
306 belonged to one of the immaculate figures in the procession. He gasped, for the first time drinking deep of the wilderness air. As soon as he had it it was gone, and he was left clutching at his chest, where he felt nothing but hard skin over insistent bone. He traced the hand to a pair of eyes that briefly looked back at him, eyes that mirrored the stars above in their promise that the world was not dead, and neither was he. But they turned away, back towards the front of the endless procession. At last he rose upon their command, and though h could not join them chose to follow them down the road that scarred the wilderness.
The city seemed all too familiar. Whereas the wilderness was cold and the heavens thrummed with a distant power the city burned with horrific intensity. It seemed to grow from the road it terminated, the grand apotheosis of artificiality run amok. This city had not been built; its white stone gats and towers had sprung whole from the fertile cobblestones. Though it was artificial it had to be alive, because it was in pain. The immaculate procession passed underneath its main gate. Not a single head turned upwards to ponder its impossible arch except his. The close space was reverberating with faint echoes, the remnants of a sound long since gone. They unsettled him because these echoes seemed to emanate from the stones themselves, stones that refused to reflect the soothing voices of the procession that passed through them. He was relieved to be through the gate, but the city itself offered little comfort.
The horizon was rimmed with a deep red color that oozed from the city walls. He feared that color and knew that he was in it. The city was saturated by it, an echo as real as the faint voices in the gate. He wanted to eave, even to stop, but the procession called him forward. The city was as empty as the wilderness. As he moved along the main street he peered into dark doorways and down silent alleyways. Truly this was a city of echoes; it had moved on and now stood, waiting to become another feature in the vast wilderness. But for now it was rejected. There was too much pain here, too much noise. It was still alive, and until it forgot the wound that had been inflicted upon it the city would always stand apart. It was a lesson that was not lost on him as he looked skyward, the moon and its offending entrails weaving between the tall towers.
The procession was slowing. The road was ending, feeding into the large square that stood at the city’s center. For a while he kept his place among the perfect beings, until he realized that since he was not with them, he could go forward as he pleased. It was stepping back that was impossible. He walked slowly, carefully, as if they might noticed that he had broken the order of their line. They were all still, voices flowing from them in clear, harmonious song. At last he entered the square, and saw the end of a procession that he truly had hoped might be endless. And he realized that they were not alone in the city. They had been brought here, to this place that he now understood to be his refuge.
She stood at the center of the square. She did not glow like they did, but she was more luminous than he was. She faced the procession, receiving each individual being one at a time. But he hardly noticed the mechanics of the arrangement. He was fixed on her. She was more beautiful than his companions, because she was more real than they were. Her flesh was pale and soft, absorbing the light from her followers and holding it so that it became even more entrancing. Her figure was perfect, curved alluringly but not lewdly. She was draped in white, a perfect compliment to her flaxen hair. It was only her eyes that were not clear, but the perfect lines of her face made their clarity unnecessary. He stopped and watched her, because motion lent grace to her beauty. She gestured delicately, welcoming another member of the procession forward. This one, a male clothed in long flowing robes that enhanced his dignity, stepped forward willingly and knelt before her. She bent at the waist and cupped his glowing cheeks, a serene smile crossing her features. She planted a single kiss on his forehead, savoring it for a long moment before her lips reluctantly left him skin. Then he began to fade, waves of
307 calm that silenced the city’s foreboding emanating from him as he was released from the cruel wilderness into the embrace of the waiting beyond. It was what the observer had been waiting for, a true awakening from the dream world that held him prisoner. Once she had beckoned to a new subject he began to move forward. He walked in a dream, his cares evaporating on the promise of an end to uncertainty, that he might shed his wretched form and claim his luminous mantle along with the others. He had almost stepped past the line behind which the next being waited when those delicate fingers that had with a single touch saved him from his own loathing closed around his wrist like iron. He tried to gas but could make no sound. He was rooted to the spot.
For the first time, he saw as the members of the immaculate procession did. His sight was replaced, discarded forever. This happened in time for a wave to hit him, a feeling hat turned his stomach and made him want to collapse onto the stones and wretch up its contents. He was saved from this by the hand around his wrist, but he was soon released as the woman at the center of the square beckoned to his captor. When she stepped forward he could see the angel that had twice delivered him, a maiden with hair that flowed down to her legs in an endless volume. He would never see her face as she knelt in front of the woman. The hands that closed around her cheeks were no longer gentle. They were still perfectly formed and pale, but they roughly seized their prey, action erasing beauty. The entire woman had changed. Her curves were no longer serene but vulgar, barely contained by the purple wrap that now adorned her. Her hair was jet black and wild, twisting in an impossible wind. Worst was her smile, a toothy expression created by a depthless greed and arrogance. At last her eyes were revealed, an alluring mismatch of blue and purple. But perhaps most unsettling of all he finally heard the voices of the procession behind him. They were not singing, they never had been. Behind him for miles the wilderness reverberated wit the tortured moans of the condemned.
He could not tear his eyes from the two women as the horrifying harlot descended towards his immaculate savior. She kissed her hard and firm, forcing her up to receive it. He heard muffled screams and saw a shockwave ear through her form before the light that composed her began to fracture, and at last collapsed. The echoes from her utter annihilation inspired the same revulsion he had felt a few moments before, but now he could stand it. The echoes buried themselves into the city walls, multiplying the atrocities that had first inspired their horror. The harlot straightened slowly, luxuriating in the ecstasy that saturated every fiber of her monstrous being. The light that had once been an immaculate maiden, the most gentle and merciful thing that he had ever encountered or ever would encounter in the wilderness or elsewhere, filtered upwards. His eyes tracked it, eventually clearing the horizon and the city. The body of the moon was gone, covered by four dark holes, massive and depthless. They were all ringed by fragments of light, remnants awaiting their final consumption. The horror of what was occurring here overwhelmed any sensation he had felt since waking. For the first time he feared for his total annihilation, an existential uncertainty that could do nothing but inspire terror. His one hope was that as he was apart from the morsels those horrible things sought to devour that he might be invisible. When at last he looked backed down at the harlot and saw her mismatched eyes gleaming with deadly mirth he knew that he was wrong.
“You!” She declared, a mixture of surprise and joy in her tone as she stepped forward. “I thought that we had lost you…a long, long time ago.” That greedy, wicked smile crossed her face.
He couldn’t back up. He couldn’t turn away. She had him in the same sell that had annihilated countless others. All he could do was wait his turn, wallowing in terror. She started to reach out to him, to beckon with the hand that would seal his fate. He couldn’t even close his eyes to avoid the moment. She was stopped by a screeching from above. A thousand dark shapes descended on the square. They focused on
308 the harlot, circling so that their beating wings drew a curtain between her and her prey. The ravens cawed and shrieked their outrage at their captive, but they failed to draw in close and employ their beaks and talons.
From behind her prison the harlot laughed, addressing her words to the wretched observer but intending hem to other ears. “Old Crone!” Her tone was mocking. “You are late, and you are weak. These belong to me, you can no longer protect them.” She had only to snap her fingers and a ring of purple flame engulfed the birds, extinguishing every last one and reducing them to faintly glowing cinders that were soon scattered on the wind. “You are weak.” She repeated. “That is all the justification we need.” She licked her lips. “Now. Where were we?” She sauntered closer, almost daring to touch his face. “Oh I have missed you.” She cooed. “How long has it been since we embraced? You always fit with us best. You could never reject us, after all. All the years have brought you back to us a last…Brother.” At the last word four voices instead of one issued from her mouth and she leaned in for that final, fatal kiss. He would face oblivion without ever knowing why.
The square was filled with a roar fit to shatter the heavens. The harlot reared back, startled. She was not fast enough to stop the blur of pure white that descended upon her. She shrieked as she was born to the pavement, striking it with a wet thump. He was relieved and horrified, unable to tell the difference in his shocked state. A white beast was hunched over the screaming harlot. It crushed her breast underneath its claws, and it silenced her scream with a savage bite to here neck. She gagged, thrashing about until the beast whipped around its powerful neck, stilling her. The beast was quick to leap away from the harlot’s corpse, careful not to touch the black fluid that oozed from her gaping wounds. It waited, growling as its amber eyes watching its victim intently.
Purple threads descended from the void above, drifting lazily towards the ruined harlot. The beast growled in what he thought was dismay. The threads caressed the broken body, infusing it with their power until it drew breath again, its words wounds closing. Only moments after she had fallen the harlot was back on her feet, a cool expression on her features as she rubbed her neck. “Oh, you bite hard.” She cooed, gesturing towards the beast with the intent of destroying it as easily as she had the ravens. Nothing happened, except that the beast stopped growling. The harlot frowned. “You could not be so foolish…” And then she began to smile again, an expression of near giddiness on her features as the beast sat on its haunches.
“You will not devour another soul today.” The lioness commanded in a serene, wise tone that belied her youthfulness. As she sat a change came over the lion. She seemed to shimmer, the tufts of fur that stuck out from her snow white coat around her limbs starting to waft in the same imaginary wind that tormented the harlot’s hair. The tips of these waves of fur darkened to red, and then began to shift color. Graceful swirls of red appeared on her flanks as if the gentle wind had left is mark on her. What had been a fearsome beast assumed a mantle of divinity. It was not quite real, shifting between a higher existence and the lowly wilderness though it had o reside firmly in both. It always seemed to be in motion, shimmering with an inner pale light that could not be contained. Finally red streaks appeared below its amber eyes before a crimson crescent moon, pointed upwards, was carved into the lioness’ brow. In that moment she was invincible, emitting a calming power that quieted the wretched observer’s nerves for the first time since the martyred angel had taken his hand.
The harlot was not impressed. She was gleeful. “I did not imagine that we would see one of you so soon! I would have preferred another, but…”
309 “She weeps endlessly now.” The lioness replied, calm and confident. “I can bear it no more. You will be brought to account for what you have done here.”
“She will weep even more as we extinguish every at on of her children.” The harlot cooed, walking towards the lioness. “She will only stop when she lies before us, broken. She will be devoured after we hunt her down. But you have presented yourself so…conveniently.” She twisted her perfect wrist, a whip’s cord falling to the pavement. “You will be the most succulent of all.” She licked her lips.
The lioness rose from her haunches, but the aura of power and the changes that had come over her remained in place. “No more.” She growled, and then leapt at the harlot. As she moved she illuminated the square, her long shimmering tufts trailing gracefully behind her, sketching a record of each deadly move. The harlot laughed and her whip flashed towards the lioness, enraptured in the dirty rush of battle. The wretched observer could only look on while they battled for his soul and those that waited behind.
But the fight was impossible to follow. Every blow that was struck had to be multiplied a thousand times to properly capture the scope of the confrontation which spanned not just the wilderness but countless planes beyond. The lioness and the harlot never seemed to separate, they were always at each other. They moved rapidly around the square, each combatant executing moves that they had planned out ten moves earlier. It all seemed to be orchestrated; a titanic clash that shook the very foundations of the city but that seemed stale. Recounting each blow meant nothing as it seemed that the harlot reconstituted her wounds after every blow. The lioness remained immaculate. They were dancing more than fighting, jockeying for a position that would overwhelm the other or prove their worthiness to a higher power. It was impossible to judge how long the battle lasted, in a sense the outcome was ordained before they even crossed arms but it could take forever to play out. It was will, more than claw or whip that would determine the outcome. Abruptly, the battle ended. The lioness broke contact, leaping away from the harlot to where it could stand its ground out of the reach of her whip. The harlot watched coolly, waiting. The lioness’ ribs throbbed with strained breaths. At last, a long sliver appeared along her flank. What poured out fell to the cobblestones where it pooled, shimmering like quicksilver. Other cuts opened along her nose, legs, and back. She had been beaten.
The harlot laughed, low and threatening. “I have not had such fun in ages. I had no idea that the immaculate maiden, always hidden away, had such fire!” She started to walk towards her opponent. “Now your fire is mine, to burn within me for eternity…There is no one left to sustain you, no one to resurrect your memory. This is oblivion, final, and eternal.” She smiled wickedly. “You will enjoy being a part of me.”
The wretched observer stepped forward. His heart ached for the fallen lioness, not simply because she represented their last hope of salvation. But she had fought, demonstrating that not everything in this forsaken wilderness was enslaved to the harlot. He was frozen no longer, free to move back or forward depending not on the constraints of the world around him but the content of his own spirit. He had no weapons with which to fight the harlot. Even though he was like her and not the spirits that she had devoured he could not resist her, but he owed it to the lioness to try. His fists were not good enough. He scooped up a rock and continued to advance on the harlot who was occupied with her prey. At long last he felt breath quicken within him, exhilaration teasing at his aching limbs. He was ready to strike a blow, any blow, to signal to the wilderness that he was every bit the actor that the harlot was, and he raised a mere rock over the back of her head to prove it.
310 He never got the chance to bring it down. The lioness used her last card, emitting an ear splitting roar that drained the color from her pelt and reeled back in her regal trailings. It was an attack that she could not recover from, but it was an attack that the harlot could not withstand. She screamed as the mighty roar ripped through her, tearing her perfect body to shreds. The fine remains washed over him, the force nearly destroying him as he stumbled back, dropping the weapon that he had thought to use against a god. Once the curtain of the harlot had been blown away he was revealed to the lioness who saw him for the first time. Even through her wounds and exhaustion the surprise on her features could not be mistaken. She echoed the harlot: “You.”
He could not reply, nor could he explain how they recognize him. He felt weak, the boundless energy that he had seemed to have since entering the wilderness finally fading away. He could not afford to be wary, or to exercise caution. He wore his desperation right on his face, his desire to survive and escape. The lioness regarded him as well, and then slowly padded forward. The wounds had not healed by they were closed. Her coloration was pale, but waiting to blossom. They did not need to speak. Those same purple tendrils were descending, promising that the harlot would soon be restored. The lioness turned her side to the wretched observer, letting him fall over it. “Hold tight.” She cooed, though her tone was that of a matron, not a temptress. He nodded, twisting fingers into her fur.
“What… At last he spoke, his words weak and raspy as if his throat had been encased in sand. It was all that he could manage, but his eyes were firmly on the spirits waiting to be saved or consumed. He didn’t have to see the pained expression on the lioness’ face to feel the utter despair that emanated from her.
“We must leave them.” She said sadly. She turned to leave the square before the harlot could return. Despite her heavy burden she bounded gracefully away from the center of the city, back towards the relative safety of the mighty wilderness.
For his part the wretched one was content to ride. He was slipping back towards sleep, which he had thought he had left behind forever. He shifted, moving his hand to a different position. As he lifted his left he noticed that it left behind a wet crimson mark on the lioness’ fur. He looked at the palm of his hand and it was dry and pale. A new word entered his mind: blood. Revulsion went down his spine and he shuddered, not having the will or the strength to confront this latest mystery before he slipped away.
311 Thanan By Eldacar Ulthuan in Flames
“Tell me again,” Saarin said to his father in a disgusted tone, “why it is that you're ordering us to put on such a show for the former Queen Mother?”
“Careful, Saarin,” Drukh replied, his voice carrying the slight overtone of a reprimand. “I may be much more lenient than other noble families are on their heirs, but do not embarrass me. So you are aware, however, Morathi has the backing of eight provinces in Ulthuan. In the absence of Malekith – in the absence of any sort of succession – she controls the council. And, by extension, she can, to an extent, control us.”
Most of the Vraneth forces had been sent to Elthin Arvan under the command of Kurl, ostensibly so that he would gain battle experience. As far as Saarin knew, Drukh agreed with it in principle, though being subservient to Morathi must have rankled. Following her, on the other hand, was better than being removed from your position as High Prince. Removal in Ulthuan still meant death. Still, Drukh had been allowed to retain his household guard, as well as a small contingent with which to protect the larger Vraneth estates. It was these warriors who now lined up in the great courtyard, waiting for the arrival of Morathi, the current ruler of Ulthuan. Even the servants had been assembled, and they stood diffidently behind the warriors in their grey robes, marked with the insignia of House Vraneth. Notably, Illiria was absent, a strange oddity. She had always stood high within the favour of Morathi, and was a powerful sorceress besides. It made little sense that she would be absent.
Saarin idly allowed his eyes to rove over those servants. It was something he had found himself doing more recently, though he hadn't been able to figure out why. Perhaps it was merely a need to have a greater awareness of his surroundings. Knowing who others were was always, after all, a useful advantage. Frowning, he stopped on one particular elf, and then rapidly tamped down on the shock he felt rising. The elf seemed completely unremarkable, wearing a robe of the same colour and cut as all the other servants. What it lacked, however, most crucially, was the Vraneth symbol. The servant turned as if hearing Saarin's thoughts, and though his eyes were obscured by the shadow of his hood, the mouth twitched into a faint smile. Cursing under his breath, Saarin stepped backwards from his place at his father's side.
“Was there something, Saarin?” His father sounded only mildly curious, as if his son interrupted important meetings between high-ranking political figures on a daily basis.
“I need to go,” he said quickly. “I can't explain why, it's just... I need to go.”
“You were ill,” Drukh corrected him mildly. “Caused by too much consumption of Feyeyes over the past two nights, I should think.”
Saarin nodded, then moved away into the crowd. The servant had vanished from his place among the others, though the young noble spotted a figure vanishing into the house proper.
312
*
“Stop!” he called to the servant as he pushed open the doors to the mansion's library. The elf finally turned, the hood still obscuring his face. His mouth, on the other hand, moved up into a strangely satisfied smile.
“Well done,” he replied in that oh-so-familiar voice. “You have followed a shadow to a place of wisdom. Now... show me something.”
Shift.
*
Illiria leaned back from her scrying pool, a dark smile playing across her lips. She could track the mage now. She even knew how to counter him, if what she had seen was any indication. Such power could be quite useful to her in climbing further in the cult. She sat on the highest councils, but Morathi had been ruler for a long time now, and another might soon seek to replace her. Why not Illiria?
“Soon,” she purred, “we will encounter one another face to face. But I doubt you will enjoy the meeting. Change is in the winds, and I intend to be at the forefront.”
Tilting her head back, Illiria laughed maniacally. Change was in the winds.
*
They again stood in the middle of that white nothingness. On the one side was Saarin. The transportation had happened to him enough times now that he didn't even react to the change. On the other was the grey-robed elf, who pulled back his hood to reveal Tathel's silently laughing face.
“I was unaware that I was a source of such amusement,” Saarin said idly.
“You've learned to improve your humour, I see.”
“More likely my intelligence has suffered from too many of these... excursions.”
“Unlikely. Dimensional travel was never proven by the sages of the White Tower to have had any detrimental effect upon the minds of those utilising it, excluding the possible implications of faulty spellcasting and failure of the will when unleashing the necessary magical energies to initiate travel. It can be, after all, exceedingly dangerous when not done by one who has an understanding of the required forces.”
Saarin frowned at that. Not at the explanation particularly, though it was confusing, but at the slips. Tathel had just admitted that they had travelled elsewhere, for the one, and he had mentioned a 'White Tower'. Even as he opened his mouth to speak, though, Tathel cut him off with a wave of a hand. Sitting himself down on the endless white expanse, he motioned that Saarin should sit across from him.
“I would not be wrong to assume,” he said carefully as he settled down, “that this is going to be another
313 of your 'lessons'.”
“Something to that effect,” Tathel agreed. “Now, though, I think you will learn about the pursuit of wisdom. You have questions, many of them by now. Some I still cannot answer, some I may answer, and some you already have the answer to already. So. Ask.”
Saarin blinked. It was becoming even more inexplicable. Over the past months, Tathel had been obfuscating, prone to concealing the truth for no other real reason than his own amusement, and all but outright impossible to get a straight answer from. Now he was just going to answer questions?
“This doesn't make any sense,” he finally said. “Why are you answering my questions now and not before?”
“Because, as I said, this is about the pursuit of wisdom. You will, before we are done, need to know things – things that are vital to your continued survival. At this point, it has become necessary to provide you with certain answers.”
“Where are we?”
“We are not, as you have already worked out for yourself, in the material world. In point of fact, we are currently within the Aethyr.”
“You can't be more specific, I am meant to take it, then,” Saarin commented pointedly.
“If you wish. Distance means little here, so our exact position is mutable, and capable of changing. We are within what you could term a bubble, a thought-dream birthed of a person's hopes, wishes and fears. They can commonly occur within the Aethyr – some can contain an entire universe where history is different to what you know it to be. In one, the change may simply be that you were the firstborn son instead of your brother Kurl. In another, history may have changed so radically that the entire population of exiled elves – the ones who founded Sarthailor – were exterminated at the end of what has come to be known as the 'War of the Beard'.”
“And if I am a product of a bubble universe myself?”
“An astute observation, but ultimately incorrect. I have been watching and moving the playing pieces for some time now, Saarin, and I believe I can safely say that you are from the true material world. The state of that world's existence is something else, but then, it is showing a marked tendency to reel from crisis to crisis like a pleasure cultist reels from partner to partner during their orgies.”
“This is your bubble, then.” Saarin felt sure of his answer this time. “This bubble universe is something created from your mind.”
“Correct.”
“Then why is it so empty? Just a white nothingness.”
“I am quite capable of keeping my emotions firmly in check.”
314 Saarin sat quietly. Time had no meaning here, he knew, so it didn't matter how long it took him to think of a question. He would be released when Tathel decided to release him. He finally decided to ask about something fairly minor. Perhaps the slip had been intentional to push him into asking. “You mentioned a 'White Tower'. What is it?”
Tathel shook his head and smiled. “You're not ready for that particular answer yet, Saarin,” he replied. “It may prove important at a later date, but not yet.”
“Then tell me something about yourself, something I have noticed. I am the son of the High Prince of Saphery – magic is nothing new to me, even though I lack the power myself. But you seem to do things that I can barely even conceive of – that should require such power as to be easily seen – without anybody even being aware of them occurring. How are you strong enough to conceal it?”
“Because I am what I am.” Tathel held up a hand to forestall any further comment, and narrowed his eyes. “I will say this much: I am a... keystone, for lack of a better term. You will know no more on this subject. Nor will you pursue it. I made the necessary choices to arrive at this position, and it will go no further.” His eyes seemed almost to glow with the promise of obliteration, and Saarin flinched involuntarily. Tathel relaxed. “Now, you may continue,” he motioned.
“The first time you brought me here, you removed my memories afterward. You didn't do it after that. Why not?”
“The first time I brought you here was to evaluate you. To see if you were a viable candidate for the purpose I have planned.”
“Then there have been others.”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
Tathel frowned, counting to himself. “There have been eight hundred and forty-four possible candidates that I have examined,” he concluded. “You, Saarin, are the eight hundred and forty-fifth, and you have much to thank your father for. He was somewhat instrumental to your survival thus far, no matter how much he attempts to downplay his part or otherwise deny it. Your next question?”
Saarin frowned, then decided that it couldn't hurt to ask, even if Tathel wouldn't answer. “Magic,” he said. “Illiria – a sorceress – says that the sort of power she uses is stronger than yours. Is it?”
“I know who Illiria is,” Tathel replied, “and no, her magic is not more powerful than mine. It is a common failing, one that has become more and more prevalent in Ulthuan and... elsewhere. Too many are concerned not with the nature of the magic itself, but with what they can do with it as is necessary.”
“Then they are equal.”
“They are different. Hers – and that used by Morathi, other Druchii, and Malekith before his demise – is more destructive. To a novice, that would make it the stronger. But one should never mistake destruction for power. Tell me, Saarin, if you were laying siege to a city with the goal of slaying the king,
315 would you raze the city to the ground and slay him that way, or send a single arrow over the walls to strike him through the eye? The principle is similar. One completes the task with a great deal of collateral damage to the surroundings, and one does not.”
“One is clean, and one is not clean.”
“Very good. Yes, Illiria's magic – and that of many other Dark Elves – could be called unclean. It damages the surrounding area each time it is used, which is why it makes for poor healing. Mine, and the magic used by the Sarthailirim, or other Elves, does not do such damage. Remember, though, that it still doesn't make either of them better than the other.”
“And one is more difficult to master?”
“No,” Tathel said. No hint of exasperation showed in his tone, but Saarin guessed that his teacher was probably feeling it. “They are different when mastering them. One requires serenity, harmony between oneself and one's surroundings. The other requires supreme willpower, and a strength of purpose. Nagash of the humans managed to command dark magic through sheer force of will, but it destroyed his body, and quite probably his mind too. It does the same to all users, given enough time to work, and enough use. Damaging the surrounding area.”
“Then here is my next question. If the waystone network and the Vortex was constructed with high magic, then a lack of that magic is – I think – damaging Ulthuan, no?”
“A theory that bears consideration. Go on. Follow your mind, and see where it leads you.”
“So Ulthuan is dying, then?”
“Yes. And?”
“If Ulthuan is dying because it lacks that harmony, then...” Saarin trailed off. “I'm not sure where to go from there,” he confessed. Tathel nodded sagely, waiting patiently for him to continue. The young noble was by no means sure of his next leap of faith, but he plunged ahead. “Can Ulthuan be saved?”
“You have struck at the core problem,” his teacher said. “I have lived for a long time, and seen many worlds. From what I have seen, yes. Ulthuan could, in theory, be saved. But not by magic alone, per se. It would require something... more.”
“More what?”
“And that, Saarin, is something you are not yet ready to know,” Tathel said calmly. “I am most impressed, though. You are not what I would call wise-” Saarin bristled at the remark “-but you have made significant steps down the path. Well done.” The archmage raised his hand to make a dismissal motion, one that would return Saarin to the world.
“Wait,” the young noble said, half-surprised by his own words. “We are within the Aethyr. Let me see him.”
“See who?”
316
“Malekith. I want to know for sure that he is dead.”
“Why?”
“Closure, perhaps. Knowledge of what can happen.”
Tathel considered the request, then finally nodded. The white nothingness began to darken, giving way to an impenetrable grey mist that swirled around the two of them. Tathel was all but indistinguishable from the mist, his robe matching the colour perfectly. If not for the fact that his hood had been thrown back, Saarin would have had no point of reference.
“To understand death is one of the most difficult lessons to learn,” the archmage explained. “Largely because it takes so long to wrap one's mind around the concept of what happens afterward. Observe.”
The mists parted – or perhaps they moved through them – and Saarin was abruptly aware of presences surrounding him, endlessly falling into a giant... something. It was huge, monstrous, completely and utterly alien... and evil. He had no other word to describe it. Even as his mind attempted to conceptualise the enormity of the being that seemed to extend endlessly in all directions, as well as come to terms with the fact that despite it being endless, he was above and outside it, he felt an acute sense of compartmentalisation. His mind could not perceive the thing, and just stopped trying. It shut down what it could not recognise. It was a disturbing process, and came with a building headache behind his eyes.
“What... is that... thing?” he finally gasped out.
“That?” Tathel's voice was muted as he replied. “That, Saarin, is a god. Or perhaps as close to perceiving a god's true form as your mind can come. Even now, you view it through a lens created by my own magic, to guard your sanity from obliteration.”
“You mean that... it is worse?”
“Oh yes. Far, far worse.” Tathel's voice had seemingly no emotion, but Saarin thought he could even hear an undercurrent of fear. Perhaps it was just his imagination, though. “These... beings... are so far beyond you, so far beyond me, that without some form of conduit – such as what I create now – by which a safe interaction can be concluded, we would be destroyed. Spells that draw in part from such beings, for example, can be 'safe' when compared to the alternative. But you wished to see Malekith? Look.”
One of the falling souls – that was what they had to be, Saarin realised – seemed to be struggling. Others attempted to resist, but this one was more forceful than most, slowing its descent into a crawl. Even as he watched the endless thing below attempt to drag it to itself, there were other forces, also endlessly huge, acting to move the soul elsewhere, to draw it into them. And then there were observers, there were supporters of either side... his head spun. There were others, some like that one, some not.
“That, Saarin, is Malekith. He was slain by Alith Anar, and now falls. He made alliances with more than one god, and now they fight over who will claim him. It is an excruciatingly painful process, having one's very being torn to shreds.”
317
“Will he survive?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I honestly could not tell you, Saarin, because I do not know.”
“And this is what waits for all of us. That... pain.”
“Pain is a function of the mind, from a certain point of view. He may be thinking something entirely different. Even what you see now is a function of perception, as you should know.”
“Then I have but one more request. Your magic shields me from the worst of the suffering that the dead can feel. I want... I need to understand the entirety of it. End your spell.”
“No,” Tathel said, shaking his head. “I've devoted too much time to have your sanity destroyed now by whatever it is your mind might interpret from the truer possibilities before you here. Perhaps in the future-”
“Now, Tathel. I need to know now.”
The other looked at him, not even bothering to hide his disquiet. “You realise,” he said quietly, “that once removed, not I nor any living person has the power to draw you away from what you will see. You will see everything, but everything will also be able to see you. Your survival will depend on your own strength of will, your purpose, and...” he trailed off. “Are you truly sure that you wish to do this?”
“I am.”
“Then so be it.” Tathel's voice was resigned, accepting.
Saarin felt the grey mists begin to part, to recede. He braced himself as the last of the shielding disappeared-
Diediepullpullwhatisthiswhatisthislittlecreaturewellwellwhathaveweherekillitkillit! Nononotakeittothemasterwemusthaveitmusthaveitasoul? PapaNurgleloveshisprettiesyeshedoesloveshisprettieswillloveyoutopapaNurglewon'the? Anewsoulcomeswillinglytous,rendthefleshtearthemeatsuckthemarrow! EatitnownowaitandeatitlateryesyesapartofthewholeSlaaneshTzeentchKhorneNurglekillitkillit! Bloodforthebloodgodskullsfortheskullthronewhatisthislittlethingisitawarriorisitworthy? PleasureforthesakeofpleasurethisoneismineasareallelvensoulsIwantitselfishnowIwanttheelf! Selfishselflesschangestagnationnomineminemineitisminewiththebetrayerhewhobetrayedus! Yeswegavehimpowerabusedthepowergivenbetrayedusdestroytheworldpromisedfreedomdenied! ChangethefutureadjusttheskeinsoffatelordofchangehisservantarrivesAmonChakaiintheworldtodo?
If Saarin had still had a mouth, if he had been able to see anything other than the blazing energies surrounding him in blasts of colour, light, blackness, darkness, anything and everything, he would have screamed at the sights being presented before him, at the tearing and rending of the souls. The rending of his soul. Only his mind screamed, long and loud as he was dragged into the abyss.
*
318
Morathi leaned back on the divan, arching her back and purring slightly while Drukh looked on with carefully constructed disinterest. The Queen Mother had removed the more concealing clothes she donned while traveling around Ulthuan, and was now clad in what looked to be a shift consisting of naught but a collar and a thin (oh, so very thin) strip of sheer, gauzy black silk falling down her front and back. She was also barefoot. As enticing as Morathi was, though, he had no wish to commit political suicide by giving the leader of the Cult of Slaanesh – which was becoming increasingly less a secret and more a common rumour – a hold over him.
“Come now, Prince,” she was saying. “Your estates here are ably defended, are they not? Just think. To have the Vraneth warriors at the forefront of the victorious march into the Sarthailorim city of Talienence would greatly boost your political standing at court. And, of course, I would be... indebted... to you.”
Forefront of the dying, you mean, Drukh thought to himself. “It is not so much the political capital I stand to gain, Queen Mother, so much as it is the doubt that such a small addition would grant a great increase in the overall quality of the forces committed there. Most of my warriors are already in Elthin Arvan, battling under the command of my son Kurl. Would it not be more expedient to slightly lessen his armies and in turn supply those elves to your attack?”
“Your son,” Morathi replied, “has proven himself to be an able tactician. I sent a message to him via magical means, and both he and the sorceress Larinth assured me that he required all of what he has in order to accomplish his goals. I do long to trade words with him personally once more – he has a fine mind – but if he is correct, and I trust that he is, then I would need to draw soldiers from a different source. This is Ulthuan,” she pointed out, “and we are quite safe here. Even a token guard would likely be more than enough to watch over your interests here.”
A token force would also leave me defenseless against you, Morathi. “I,” Drukh said instead, “still believe that the contribution of my family to your war effort to be quite sufficient-”
“You would refuse to fight in a war that was begun by the half-breeds of Sarthailor? They are the ones who murdered my beloved son and your king!” To her credit, Morathi managed to sound outraged for all the correct reasons. Whatever her faults, she was a master politician, though he had expected – and known – it to be so.
“Perhaps, then, a better tactician is needed,” he offered. “One who can do more with less would undoubtedly provide the same advantage that more soldiers would, and requires less of a shifting of force.”
“It is possible,” Morathi moved, stretching again in that maddeningly enticing manner. “But I would need to determine what commander should be sent. One with authority, naturally, and who shows promise besides. Perhaps your second son... Saarin, I believe his name is? I would like very much to meet him.”
“You mean the council would need to determine who to send. And my son is currently recovering,” Drukh noted calmly. “He overindulged himself somewhat last night, and I chose to forgo any magical healing. He may only be a second son, but he needs to learn discipline.” He tried to ignore the way Morathi licked her lips at his use of 'discipline'. “In any case,” Drukh continued, “Saarin has had little
319 field experience when compared with the – I am sure – many able commanders elsewhere in Ulthuan or Elthin Arvan.”
“Yes, the council will of course determine who to send. Naturally, as current head of the council, it falls to me to determine the final choice, and I believe Saarin to be the one.”
“You speak for Nagarythe, Lady Morathi,” Drukh said calmly. “The others vote as they choose to vote.”
“The Everqueen of Avelorn-” Morathi paused momentarily, smiling at that, and Drukh shuddered. He had heard of the corruption visited on the descendants of the Everqueen, and in a way, he pitied them. “She has granted me the ability to cast her vote at my discretion. The High Prince of Chrace is quite... eager... to please me, too. The strongest resistance seems to come from Caledor – their natural arrogance is causing them to resist making the right choices – and you, High Prince Vraneth, you who speak for Saphery. Perhaps you are too close to the child to truly evaluate his worth?”
“I think-” Drukh began, then stopped as a scream echoed throughout the mansion. It was a scream of utter despair, loss, hope, rage, anger, pain... and some emotions that Drukh couldn't even name. He also knew that voice. “Saarin!” he half shouted, leaping up from his chair. Everything around him seemed to haze as he raced through the corridors of his home. What had Tathel done?
Finally emerging into the library, he found his son twitching on the floor, gasping and convulsing, eyes rolled into the back of his head. What was he seeing?
“Is there anything we can do to help him, master?” Drukh turned to see who had spoken. It was one of the slaves, a young girl. Idly, he recalled that Saarin had taken her from Kurl's... attentions... and made her his personal servant. His son had strange notions, but Kurl had become more and more uncontrollable in more recent times. Drukh laughed, a short, harsh bark. His mind was attempting to fixate on something, anything, to divert itself from Saarin's pain.
“Carry him to his rooms,” the High Prince finally ordered. Silently, the servants bent to their task, bearing the twitching elf before him as he followed behind. Upon laying Saarin down in his bedchambers, Drukh dismissed the servants, waiting until they had closed the door before drawing forth a magical talisman from beneath his clothing. It was the symbol of the Vraneth household, enchanted in elder days during the first great incursion of Chaos, and each ruler of the Vraneth family had always carried it. It held the highly useful property of shielding the wearer from all forms of magical scrying, and he employed it now, guarding the room from any attempt to eavesdrop. Illiria was becoming more and more interrogative, and he did not want her to hear this.
“Tathel,” he said coldly. “I know you are here, hiding. Show yourself.”
“You called, High Prince?” Tathel's tone held the slightest rebuke, but Drukh ignored it.
“What did you do to Saarin?” he demanded.
“Saarin wished to understand death – the next step in his learning – and took it further than he was ready to go. He looked on the true face of the Aethyr, or a true face, depending on your perspective, and the result is what you see here.”
320 “His mind is destroyed?” Drukh felt sick to his stomach.
“Not yet, I do not think. But this is perhaps his greatest trial. If he does not overcome the obstacle before him, his mind will indeed be destroyed, yes.”
“Bring him back,” the prince all but begged. “He isn't ready for this. Let him face it when he is.”
“Drukh Vraneth,” Tathel said quietly, “you know as well as I that there is no living force in this world with the power to draw him back into his own mind.”
“Not even...?”
“You know both versions of the history, but no, that is not an option.”
“Then what can we do?”
“Nothing. We watch, and we wait.”
Tathel vanished, the air folding about him to leave Drukh standing at the foot of his son's bed, alone.
*
Morathi sat quietly on the divan, frowning as her farscrying spell rebounded from some form of shield. It was true, then. Drukh did indeed have something that protected him from magical observation when necessary. Interesting, and it would explain why she had never been able to confirm any of the suspicions she had entertained in the past. Idly, her eyes drifted over to one of the paintings decorating the wall of the room. It was an image of a Vraneth ancestor, wielding a flaming sword against the numberless hordes of Chaos. A single warrior, soon to be overwhelmed by that which was facing him.
The High Priestess of the Cult of Slaanesh smiled. Final victory drew closer and closer with each passing day, now, and before long, her triumph would be complete. There was nothing that could stop her. Having assured herself of inevitable victory, she turned her mind to other things. Tonight, there would out of necessity be some form of entertainment. If Drukh and his children were inaccessible, then perhaps one of the servants. It wasn't as though she would need to keep them alive when she was done with them, after all.
*
Pain. Darkness. Pleasure. Horror. Sadness. Anger. Despair. Joy. Rage. Sorrow. Change. Stagnation. Despair. Hope. Nothing. Everything. Light. Dark. He feels everything, sees everything, hears everything, as his mind begins to bend, twisting and warping in response to the incredible strain. Even as he fights to resist, a part of him surrenders, while another part does nothing, merely observing. He was... is... somebody. Who is it? A name. What is his name?
He drifts down, down, deeper into darkness. What is his name?
321 Chronicles of the Dark Empire By Eldacar Ulthuan in Flames
I write this now out of fear. Fear, for my life, that the slim hope of freedom in the face of slavery and death was nothing more than a lie. Even if it not be the case, there should be a true history of the events that have brought us to this point. My name is Vallir, son of Cerith, and this is the story of the Sarthailirim, the true Elves.
I was born a Prince of Sarthailor, the great kingdom of elves and men. But perhaps that is too recent, and so, as a historian and scholar, I will take you back. Back to the start of this long tale of treachery and deceit, blood and death. War, and Chaos.
*
Perhaps the place to begin is where we began. In those times, there was no difference between Elven kindred, no change between Dark and High, Druchii and Sarthailirim. Oh, to be sure, the boundaries of the kingdoms of Ulthuan existed – how could they not? – but we all knew ourselves to be a part of a greater whole. This can be, I think, attributed to the efforts of three individuals.
The first was the Everqueen, Yvraine, daughter of Aenarion the Defender and the former Everqueen, Astarielle. Blessed by Isha, she ruled Ulthuan alongside the Phoenix King Bel-Shanaar. She had a daughter, Nairalindel, who would one day become the next Everqueen. Isha touched Ulthuan with her bounteous hand, and we lived happily and freely. The vicious political struggles that would eventually so come to dominate our thinking were but distant dreams. While we could never truly return to the ancient times before the Incursion – the Waystones and the Great Vortex bore witness to the falsity of such hope – we nonetheless made for ourselves a peaceful lifestyle, and in this, the Everqueen was well suited to watching over Ulthuan.
The second was the Phoenix King. Anointed by Asuryan, chosen by the Council of Princes. Bel-Shanaar was a Tiranocian by birth, and was both far-sighted and wise. Under his guiding hand, Ulthuan reached out to touch the world, maintaining extensive contacts with the other Elder Races, the Dwarfs in their mountain holds and the Slann Mage-Priests in the temple-cities of Lustria.
I wonder what became of the Mage-Priests. Little has been heard of them in millennia now.
As the Everqueen Yvraine and, soon after her, Nairalindel, directed the policy that governed Ulthuan from within, so did the Phoenix King Bel-Shanaar direct policy to govern Ulthuan's contacts with the other races of the world. Though they may have been somewhat short and in a way crude, the genius of the Dwarfs – while not truly comparable to our own, I feel compelled to say – was great in certain areas, and the two races learned much from one another, facilitated by the third great individual. One of the great ones, who was to become the despised and reviled one. I speak, of course, of Malekith.
In those days, history tells us, he was untouched by the corruption that so spread through his mind and body in later years. Called “Malekith the Fair”, he journeyed all about the world as both ambassador and
322 explorer, ascertaining the effects of Chaos on the world in the aftermath of the war. He was not a king, nor was he in line for the throne. When the Council of Princes convened to decide who should be Phoenix King in the wake of Aenarion's great sacrifice, it was Malekith himself who came before them, humbly acceding to their will. Should they have elected him, he would rule as Phoenix King as had his father, but should they not, then he would serve the Phoenix King in whatever fashion was deemed necessary.
The Council of Princes, we are told, debated this extensively. Malekith was everything that a Phoenix King could be. He was intelligent, brave, skillful, inspiring, gifted in the arts of magic, and above all else, a mighty warrior, trained from almost childhood at his father's court in Nagarythe. Yet it was this fact that would count against him, for the Council had seen Ulthuan suffer through many long years of war. In Malekith's hands, they feared that Ulthuan would become the center of an empire through wars of conquest. And so Malekith was not chosen to be the Phoenix King, Bel-Shanaar being elected instead. And Malekith, as he had sworn to do, vowed that he would serve Bel-Shanaar. Indeed, his voice was the first to be raised in acclamation of the new Phoenix King. Perhaps it would have been better to slay Malekith then, before he could visit such destruction on Ulthuan as to tear us in two.
Malekith returned to Nagarythe, and as the years passed, embarked more and more frequently on his expeditions around the world. Perhaps he was seeking something, perhaps not. In his absence, the rulership of Nagarythe was given over to Morathi, the second wife of Aenarion. She had been rescued by him from a Slaaneshi ritual in which, so the stories went, she was to be a sacrifice, and became Aenarion's mistress at his court. Whether they were truly wedded or not is something that the histories no longer tell us. Perhaps there was once a true, unedited and uncorrupted record in Ulthuan, but it was surely destroyed many centuries ago now. If any today know the history, they would have to have been born many eons ago, as old as Malekith and Morathi themselves, if not older. I am certain that such a person does not exist, but I digress from my tale.
Morathi was perhaps tainted from the beginning, for in our idyllic lifestyle, we left ourselves open to the seed of Chaos once more. Before, Chaos had attempted to destroy us by mere brute force. Now, with such a route forever closed to them, we were shown the more insidious side of its corruptive nature.
It began with the 'Cult of Pleasure'. An innocuous enough name, you might suppose, and indeed, it seemed to be little more than an outgrowth of the worship of Liadriel at first, with many well-known and prominent nobles of Ulthuan a part. Morathi acted as leader, we are led to understand, and it was under her guidance that Chaos began to truly infect Ulthuan. By the time that we realised the truth of what was happening, it was too late. The Cult of Pleasure had grown, and took on another name: the Cult of Slaanesh.
At around this time, Malekith returned from his longest yet voyage, and was stunned by what had happened to Ulthuan in his absence. Immediately condemning his mother and the Cult, he was empowered by the Phoenix King to embark on a hunt to tear out the Chaos worship by its roots, and forever cast it from Ulthuan. This he did with great vigour, and we were stunned at how high the corruption seemed to reach. Even the High Princes of Chrace and Cothique had been corrupted, and were executed accordingly. Before long, however, the continual revelations about such high-ranking members of society began to become suspect. We are, for all our faults, well-versed in the political aspects of life, though it had not yet truly come to the fore, and it appeared that many of those who were cultists seemed to also be those who opposed either Malekith or Morathi. Those Elves who could see this taking place consulted Bel-Shanaar, and he consented to call Malekith for an accounting, to
323 present his evidence.
The events that followed are, I am sure, well-known to all true Elves. Malekith used the summons as his time to strike. Perhaps he had been corrupted all along, or perhaps he had truly started his quest with noble intentions. Regardless, though, he slew Bel-Shanaar by means of an undetectable poison, and announced to the Council of Princes that the Phoenix King himself had been a member of the Cult of Slaanesh. After all, he was the son of Aenarion. Why should he not be trusted? Had his father not been the one to cast Chaos back into the storms of the Aethyr?
Unfortunately for Malekith, he had gone too far. The Council realised then that he had – as much as it pains me to admit it – masterfully played them. His only fault was his pride. It had become overconfidence, even arrogance, and worked against him. The Council denied his laughable accusation, and then moved to act, commanding that he be taken for questioning himself, to see what his true motives had been (though, I think, they already suspected them – Malekith sought the Phoenix Crown for himself). It was then that Malekith unsheathed his sword, and behind the closed doors of the council chamber, he slew the Princes. Immediately afterwards, he went to the sacred temple that housed the Flame of Asuryan. Seeking confirmation of his status as Phoenix King, he entered the Flame, even as those Elves loyal to the true Phoenix King rushed to stop him, and end the madness before it could truly begin.
What happened next is, of course, common knowledge. Asuryan was displeased with the actions of Malekith, for in addition to his alliances with the Chaos Gods – a fact revealed to us in the days following the event – he had dared to step into the Flame of the Creator God, dared to challenge Asuryan himself. And so Asuryan acted. Malekith's polluted body was horribly ravaged by the god-fire, cast out and accursed. It would have been more merciful, perhaps, to slay him then and there, as he curled on the floor in agony far greater than any that had been felt by a mortal before. None of us can know what thoughts were running through his head. His scheme, so well-planned, had finally been cast down. He was less than he had ever been. Only the intervention of his mother Morathi was he able to escape, whisked back to Nagarythe on wings of shadow while the rest of Ulthuan began girding itself for war.
*
Here, I must take a break from my narrative to note that Aenarion sired another child by Astarielle – Morelion. What became of this prince is ultimately unknown. All history has told us is that he set out on an expedition, much as Malekith had, taking with him a fleet. Perhaps he sought to establish a new colony, or a kingdom. None know, and I doubt that any ever will.
*
The initial days of that war were quick, with both sides conducting attacks on one another. The kingdoms were split almost evenly, but two beacons were shining above all. When the next Phoenix King was chosen, the elected king, Imrik – later known as Caledor, named for the realm he called home – marshaled the Dragon Host to stand with its allies against the Nagarythi and their forces.
Words cannot describe all that took place in the long war. Brother slew brother, father slew son, and son slew father. Avelorn and the Everqueen Nairalindel – Yvraine had since passed away – provided a beacon of stability, but even it came under attack. Nairalindel remained safe, however, for even Malekith would not harm the chosen representative of Isha on the mortal plane. His wits had not
324 entirely deserted him.
Years and years of war would continue onward. Heroes were born, and heroes were slain, in the conflict. Sethalis, first lord of Sarthailor, was one such, as were Cambragol Sapherior, Korian L'enodel, and perhaps the mightiest hero ever known to the latter day Elves – Anrol. There are many stories about this fabled warrior, master of the sword and one of the keenest minds ever known. It is said that even upon the brink of defeat, his sharp mind was able to perceive the slightest of faults in the strategy of his enemies, and he would take advantage of it to a truly devastating effect. Even in the days of Sarthailor, long after the civil war had ended, he remained the foremost mind of the era, standing tall alongside such figures as Sethalis and Tahl.
The civil war on Ulthuan, however, would eventually reach a climax in the fields surrounding Anlec. Malekith had been reborn. No longer was he Malekith the Fair. That noble Elf was forever dead and gone. In his place stood Malekith the Burned, Malekith the Scorned, Malekith the Dark. Armour forged by a renegade Priest of Vaul, Hotek, enchanted by the magics of Furion and Morathi, encased him from head to foot. Rumour told the loyalist Elves that beneath the armour, he continued to burn, and would burn forever from that point to his death. It lacked the finality that some Elves wished for, but it was small comfort to know that no matter what, he would suffer for what he had brought us to.
As the armies clashed on the plain, Caledor and Malekith clashed in the skies above the battlefield. Caledor battled from dragonback, as did Malekith (albeit using, the stories tell us, a two-headed Chaos Dragon, evidence of his corruption). Although the fight was long and hard, their final battle ended with Malekith's black sword crunching through Caledor's armour to slice across his chest and stomach, sending blood and his insides flying through the air. It was a miracle that Caledor even survived such a horrific wound.
The war was over, and Malekith had won.
*
The subsequent days were trying ones. Beaten back across the continent, even Caledor falling to the Nagarythi, the Phoenix King was recovering from wounds sustained in the battle as the Elves loyal to the true king fled to Yvresse. Though the High Prince had declared for Malekith, some lingering shame compelled him to turn a blind eye to the gathering. There, a council was held to determine what should be done next. It was the noble and wise Anrol who recommended that a small force be sent to rescue Nairalindel from the grip of Malekith, for as long as he held her, he possessed a hold over Isha. The Phoenix King concurred with the assessment of the great Ellyrian Prince, and chose a young Noble, Eldacar Lathaniel, to effect the rescue. Suffice be it to say that it was completed – neither Nairalindel, Eldacar nor any other member of the group gave details on the specifics of their escape from, to use a human turn of phrase, 'under the collective noses' of Malekith, Morathi, his Black Guard, and several powerful sorceresses.
Once Nairalindel had arrived in Yvresse, it was not long before yet another division arose. While many Elves agreed that departing for the colonies would be the wisest course – and, it should be noted, many of the great Elves such as Caledor and Haldir Firestorm concurred with this assessment – others, most notably Alith Anar of Nagarythe, rejected even the very thought of doing so. It would be abandoning Ulthuan, they argued, all but surrendering our ancient homeland to the Dark One. Upon the advice of Nairalindel, however, it became clear that Malekith had sought to avoid his obligations to the Chaos
325 Gods, rejecting them despite the dangers of his course. Caledor's decision was final, however, and so it was that the Elves departed for the colonies. Thus were the seeds of Sarthailor, greatest kingdom of elves and men, born from the ashes of defeat. Alith Anar, bitter and twisted, swore that he would remain on Ulthuan, and do anything and everything in order to bring Malekith the 'Witch-King' down. It was yet something else that we would come to regret millennia later.
Up until this point, we had followed the visions of Nairalindel, seeking guidance from the gods – for she was the last living mouthpiece of those otherworldly beings. If Asuryan spoke to Caledor, he never mentioned it. Though given his legendary closemouthed nature, it wouldn't be surprising if Asuryan (italics)had(end italics) spoken to him at some point and he simply chose not to speak of it. As he had always done, Anrol counseled us to be patient, for our purpose would be revealed to us in the fullness of time.
Once we had landed in Elthin Arvan, we Elves encamped near to the outskirts of the wood known as Athel Loren. Long had we been afeared of that place, for it was an unknown quantity. The Dwarfs were content to allow us to remain, though I suspect that they were largely unaware of the true scope of our conflict with Malekith – such ignorance is not uncommon amongst their people.
It was at this time that Nairalindel began to once more have the visions. She insisted that we should continue to the east, though for what purpose we never realised. Here, cooler minds prevailed, and the decision was made that those who wished to remain, would remain. Nairalindel is said to have warned us that by doing so, we would forsake the protection of the gods, as they had forsaken Malekith, forever turning their faces from Ulthuan, causing its transformation from a beautiful, rich land to being, for lack of any better term, an island in the midst of the sea. The gods had found a new home, the Everqueen argued, and it was our duty to find it. Eventually, the day of the second division came. The Phoenix King Caledor, Everqueen Nairalindel, the young prince Eldacar Lathaniel, the aging Mage-Prince Kerythe of Saphery and diverse others, among them Nairalindel's Handmaidens, the Phoenix Guard and the White Lion bodyguard of Caledor, chose to continue to the east in search of Asuryan and the elven pantheon. They did so, passing out of known memory. To this day, we know not what happened to them, and perhaps never will. We remained within Sarthailor, building a new kingdom for ourselves, based around our initial landing space, which would become known as Tor Taerthelas.
*
Our travails were not over. Malekith, seeking to exterminate us once and for all, traveled to Elthin Arvan, seeking to turn the Dwarfs against us. When it became apparent that they would not aid him, he sought to deceive them – and they were not hard to fool – by slaying their king, Gotrek Starbreaker. All the Dwarfs could have known was that Elves were responsible for the death of their king, and so it was that, with Malekith landing in the north and the Dwarfs advancing from the east, we of Sarthailor prepared to fight for our newfound home. Led by the inspiring Sethalis and with our strategies devised by Prince Anrol, we fought well, hard, and long. In time, we concluded an agreement with varied human tribes nearby, garnering their acceptance of us as their overlords, and their willingness to fight for us.
I should note, here, that some of their customs were decidedly... odd. As Prince Tahl wrote in his own memoirs, one tribe, the Unberogens, actually demanded a blood oath. Mixing the blood of Elves with that of a lesser race is all but unheard of, yet the mage chosen to accompany Tahl on his mission of diplomacy, one Tathel (I would like it to be said, here, that try as I might, I as a scholar utterly failed to find any reference to this mage's existence, and as such have come to the conclusion that his name is
326 perhaps misspelt, a corruption of his true name, or even that he does not exist at all), agreed to the blood oath, tying the human tribesmen to Sarthailor.
As the war progressed, it became obvious that though the Dwarfs may have been slow of wit in the intricate games of politics, they were capable of acquitting themselves well in warfare. They fought a brave conflict, driving the Dark Elves back on several fronts – with the notable exception of a well- planned offensive wherein the Druchii were able to strike deep into their lands, laying waste to Karaz-a- Karak itself at the cost of Furion's life (a worthy trade, in this writer's opinion). Meanwhile, we of Sarthailor forged a close bond with the forest, eventually giving birth to the Asrai, as they called themselves. Wood Elves, bound with the spirit of the forest Athel Loren, a part of it as it was, in a way, a part of them. The war dragged on for centuries, until at the very end, in a conflict to the north of our kingdom, the Dark Elves were beaten back, sent fleeing to Ulthuan by the united Dwarf clans. Our scrying mages were able to tell us of a white-bearded Dwarfs that was somehow more than a Dwarf dueling Malekith in the streets of an Elven city, but more than that, we are unsure. Perhaps the Dwarf histories hold some mention of the fight.
The Dwarfs were not content with the defeat of Malekith, however. Elves had slain Gotrek Starbreaker, and Elves would be held accountable. Sethalis, then, chose to sacrifice himself to their advancing legions. The life of a king, he said to the final council meeting, could only be equaled by the life of a king. He had continually rejected the concept of kingship, instead choosing to govern by council, but acknowledged that as king in all but name, he was the ideal choice to satisfy the vengeful Dwarfs. Alone, he traveled to the north, choosing to give up his life so that we might live.
*
Thus did the war end. Stories and legends, statues and artwork, all honour the memory of the greatest heroes of the war, heroes like Sethalis. And so we grew strong, and remained such for generation upon generation of humans – being that they, as short-lived beings, could have many lives within the space of one Elven span of years.
*
And finally does our story arrive in the present times. This is perhaps the most difficult of times to record, for it involves events that are dear to my heart. Yet I will proceed, and give an entirely unbiased account of proceedings.
*
The Hour of the Wolf. Such I have heard it called by other Elves upon this Dragonship that we travel to the west on. It was the most deadly war that has ever been fought, the most vicious, and certainly the largest. It involved armies of almost every race, creed and alignment, as all fought for that one thing prized above all else: survival. This was truly a war to end all wars, yet... it was a war that we lost.
Sarthailor had grown strong. We knew it to be so. The Dwarfs knew it to be so, and even the Dark Elves knew it to be so. Yet there were many challenges to be faced. To the south, the human Priest-King Nagash had come as close to mastery of Dark Magic as any human could, becoming the ruler of all Nehekhara in secret. Ever so close to us, in the swamps to the south, a race of foul ratmen known as the Skaven were coming to prominence. And in the north, all our fears realised were birthed. Alith Anar, the
327 Shadow King of Nagarythe, who had once sworn to do all that he could to battle against Malekith, had become the Everchosen of Chaos, bound to end all things.
There is perhaps a perverse logic in it. He sought not just to erase Malekith, but to erase anything and everything that Malekith had ever touched or influenced. This leads him to the conclusion that what must be destroyed is the world itself. Alith Anar had, by all reports, become a mighty warrior. Perhaps not as powerful as the Defender himself, but certainly a force to be reckoned with. It was the Chaos Gods, most likely, who gave him the power to do what none yet had been capable of:
He slew Malekith.
It was in the opening days of the war, when the Witch King had chosen to embark on a visit to his newly re-established colonies in Elthin Arvan. North of Sarthailor, to be true, but still a danger to us. We would have long since destroyed them, given the chance, but the opportunity had not yet presented itself. In the wake of his slaying of Malekith, Alith Anar went on to then forge an alliance with Morathi of the Dark Elves, she who had stolen power in the vacuum left by Malekith's passing.
I admit that I know little of Ulthuan's politics, for it is the Dark Elves who rule there, but I have heard rumours of a 'Cult of Asuryan' who stands in opposition to Morathi and her Cult of Pleasure. Whether the stories are true or not, I cannot say, for I lack the requisite knowledge. But I do know this: if Asuryan, if Isha, if all the gods yet live, where have they been in all this time? What have they done? Over the long years, we have, I think, been content to grow apart from what was our pantheon, and perhaps they too chose to leave us be, fading into the mists of time.
Regardless, the war began. How could it not? Once more was the world plunged into destruction, as the Forces of Order (as we grew to call ourselves), championed by we of Sarthailor, fought against Destruction. Strange times make for strange alliance, and we aligned ourselves with our ever more distant Asrai kin, the Dwarf kingdom – which, I am forced to admit, had only grown stronger in the intervening years – and the growing human tribes of the Reik. To list all the storied heroes of Sarthailor alone would take too long to even begin, and so I can but identify such legends as the human known as Gabriel von Friedmann, the Dwarf Runelord Thunderbrow, the Asrai warrior Hyarion Celenar... the list goes on, almost endlessly, it seems. Of such stuff legends are made, to use another of those human phrases that have so influenced Sarthailor in recent times.
However, despite such legends, not all are fated to survive. The Asrai all but expanded their holdings, and even as we were leaving, new forests were emerging all over Elthin Arvan, linked back to Athel Loren, the heart of their strength. The Dwarfs, as perhaps even the mightiest nation of the land, were overrun by the combined force of Chaos, Dark Elves, Nehekhara and Skaven. Try as they might, they were beaten back. Not destroyed – though they may have been since our departure – but certainly weakened. I know not their fate. But it is the Reik that I confess to showing awe at. Or rather, not the Reik, though they acquitted themselves well, but rather, the warrior who reportedly defeated Alith Anar, the Everchosen of Chaos.
I know not how he did it. Only stories carried by word of mouth and communiqués from other battlefronts within the world can reveal what seems to be the story. It was a young warrior of the Unberogen tribe, Sigmar by name. Across the battlefield, he confronted Alith Anar, he who had slain Malekith, and in a show of strength and power – and, dare I say it, god-favour – was capable of handing to the Everchosen of Chaos a defeat. Even our seers could not predict the loss for Alith Anar, for he
328 exists outside our ability to read. There are too many holes, too many discrepancies to account for. But it is clear that something aided the human boy, something beyond mortal ken.
Yet now I must turn to Sarthailor. Perhaps it was our status as such a great kingdom that inspired the assault, or perhaps it was some grudge held towards us for past deeds. I do not know. Suffice be it to say – I cannot elaborate, for the images remain too fresh in my mind – that Sarthailor has been destroyed, our cities cast down, our legions devastated. The future of our nation seems uncertain, which brings me to our current predicament.
We, the pure blood Elves, were taken down to the Dragonships in the harbour, placed on board the ships in readiness to be taken back to Ulthuan in chains, to death (or worse). And yet... they appeared. Elves, clad in ithilmar mail, slaying with such grace and skill that can only be the sign of the glories of the Golden Age. They took us upon the ships, setting sail for the west. We were told that the truth would be revealed to us, that we would see the homeland again in time. I know not where we travel, but all I know is that strangely, I feel a very real fear, a fear that comes from deep within my being. Is it a fear of these strange elves, so like the beings of legend? Or is it a fear of change?
*
“There is no reason to fear us,” he said, entering into the cabin. The Elf prince looked up into the eyes of the gray-robed member of his race, uncertainty warring with a want – a need – for reassurance in his eyes. The stranger's eyes seemed to shine with silvery fire as he glanced across the page, reading what the prince had just finished writing. The Elf smiled, holding out his hand. “Come,” he said. “We are almost at our destination.”
They moved out into the corridor. “Tell me,” the stranger said with a note of curiosity, “are those truly the legends of Anrol?”
“Yes,” he replied, confusion evident in his tone. “Why would they not be?”
“Of course,” the gray-robed Elf murmured, before he stopped. Then, throwing his head back, he roared with laughter. Genuine humour, as strange as it seemed, echoing throughout the corridors of the Dragonship as he laughed, tears running down his cheeks. The prince was confused. What did this mean?
The Elf composed himself, though he still chuckled with laughter. The prince took the opportunity to ask a question. “Do you have a name?”
“Tathel,” came the reply, causing the prince to stop short in shock. The stranger looked back at him, a strangely knowing look in his eyes, before continuing. “Yes?”
“It is nothing,” the prince replied, allowing the odd Elf to lead him up onto the deck. Surrounding them was an impenetrable fog bank, one that kept them from seeing anything more than a few feet from the side of the ship. All around him were the Sarthailirim, the pureblood Elves who had been snatched from the jaws of destruction and brought across the world, to something that had been said to be their destination. Then, almost as if responding to their will, the fog began to shift, the gray curtain of the world rolling back, to reveal the place to which they had been traveling. Sunlight shone down upon them – pure, clean sunlight – as they looked with awe upon what lay before them. The prince felt tears
329 rolling down his cheeks, tears of pure joy as his soul sang in harmony with the chorus that carried across the waves. His tears were echoed by the others, as they almost unconsciously rejoiced. His fear had vanished, to be replaced by contentment.
“Welcome home, Sarthailirim,” Tathel's voice seemed to echo from beside him. There was nothing more that needed to be said.
330 Chronicles of Imperial Ulthuan By Voodoomaster Ulthuan in Flames
Note: Comparison of handwriting and demeanor shows this was not written by Finubar, but by someone else. No investigation by the White Tower could track down the source. Some have speculated that Finubar the Mad has multiple personalities, and that another version of himself wrote this passage.
A series of unfortunate events, that is what some of the lesser beings call the rise of elves. I think otherwise the ignorant do not see the world as we do. We conquered the world not purely out of the desire for conquest, but to protect the vortex. The vortex that holds reality itself together. I was one of many who millennia ago left the blessed shores of my home to journey the world, and study all of its riches, its secrets, its mysteries.
My name is Imrazôr Hlaeitryn, I was born as a Prince of Yvresse, and for years I acted as the High Cartographer and Guardian of History for the Court of King Malekith. Alas no longer, now I am an old fool who simply writes because I have nothing left, but perhaps it is best to start at the beginning.
*
Ulthuan, home of elves since before the Great Kings of Elves, Aenarion and Malekith. A peaceful land, devoted to the pursuit of anything we so desired; archery, hunting, writing, singing and spell weaving. Alas our desire was our weakness, we were not as strong as we are now. We were not prepared for what was to come with the fall of our precursors, the Old Ones. The mage priests of the southern lands, their great gateway across the worlds collapsed they themselves fled and left us behind to fend for ourselves. All of the races of the world alone against, it had no name initially but it soon became known as only one thing. Chaos.
Untold numbers of elves fell in the first assault, the enemy were seemingly immortal, appearing at will like the Old Ones before the fall. Ravaging the coasts initially and then pushing inland slaughtering every living thing, the Mighty Dragons were all initially that stood against them until the rise of the great power of Ulthuan. Aenarion the Defender, Aenarion the Chosen. The First Phoenix King, it was he who first passed through the fire of Asuryan, and was re-born.
Hosts of elves flocked to Aenarion, weapons were wrought, armours forged and the elves threw themselves against the daemons of Chaos, the great Mage Caledor and his friends and kin, the Dragons were at our side and we drove the daemons from our home. The war continued until finally, the Daemons were driven back from the green and pleasant land in the furthest north. The land that Aenarion and his grim warriors would take for their own kingdom, to be a permanent bastion against the forces of the north. Nagarythe.
Strong the Nagarythi grew in the time of peace, as did the kin of Aenarion, who had wed the great Everqueen of Averlorn, and she got him with two children, Morelion and Yvraine. Alas the peace was not to be, and once again Aenarion marched to war, but he could not be everywhere at once, and the
331 Everqueen fell in Averlorn while Aenarion was away, and the elves of Ulthuan mourned for their lost queen, but none more so than Aenarion, who flew away north in spite of Caledor's warnings and drew the Widowmaker.
The Widowmaker, the great sword of Khaine himself, a shard of the weapon of the war god. The grimness of Aenarion transferred to his people, and across the world he travelled at war with Chaos, with him was Caledor in an attempt to restrain his friend and king. It was during this time that the dwarfs were found, and Caledor and Aenarion forged an alliance with them to stand united against the forces of Chaos. But the Ancestor Gods of the dwarfs were hard pressed, as was Ulthuan and no aid came from either side, something the dwarfs never really truly forgave Ulthuan for.
In spite of this, the Kingdom of Nagarythe rejoiced as Aenarion found himself a new queen, a fair maiden he rescued from a warband of Slaanesh, Morathi, and he got another son, Malekith the Fair. however Caledor did not trust Morathi, many did not and Caledor left for his own kingdom, enraging Aenarion who was now beginning to suffer the strain of being the sole defender of Ulthuan. But the war could not be won, and Caledor assembled his fellow mages together with the most ancient dragons to the Isle of the Dead in the heart of the inland sea. Aenarion too went there with the bulk of his forces to aid Caledor in the most desperate ploy, far too late the forces of Chaos realised their peril and assaulted the isle, but Aenarion stood tall and proud and slew everything the daemons threw at him, until the spell of Caledor was complete, and he and his mages were locked onto the island forever. Aenarion himself was killed during that last final battle, and it was as if the world itself was thrown into turmoil at his passing as the earth shook and the skies roared while the gods themselves fought between each other at the weakening of the winds of magic.
*
The world had changed. The war for the time being was over, but Ulthuan was leaderless; Aenarion, Caledor, the Everqueen all gone. The Nagarythi turned to Malekith in the power vacuum as did many of the other kingdoms, and it was such that the first great Council of Princes was convened to choose a successor to Aenarion, many thought that it should go to Malekith as he was already a warrior of renown and had defended his father's capital Tor-Anlec while the battle for the Isle of the Dead was being fought. Others however, shared Caledor's original concern over the birth of Malekith. In the end Malekith gave a passionate speech about his father, and the role he originally played, and that was what won the princes over. Malekith was indeed a future Phoenix king, but he wasn't one designed for peace, he would become king when Ulthuan once again needed a champion. Bel-Shanaar was selected to be the next king, and although Morathi raged about the decision the choice by her son to be amongst the first to kneel forced her into silence.
Ulthuan under Bel-Shanaar grew in strength and wisdom, contacts were made all over the world, and Malekith himself was one of the ones who travelled the world, searching for artefacts and colonies of elves. The Children of Aenarion were found hidden in the Gaen Vale, and protected. Morelion and Malekith for a time travelled together to the far east, leaving their sister the newly crowned Everqueen in the protection of Bel-Shanaar. What became of Morelion I cannot say, Malekith and Morelion parted ways on the journey back to Ulthuan.
However, while the brothers were away a shadow fell upon Ulthuan. It started simple, with the worship of Liadriel but it soon became darker, and several of the high princes those of, Chrace and Cothique for example fell under its sway. Bel-Shanaar had grown old and foolish in his time, and soon it became
332 apparent that it was Chaos worship that was thriving throughout Ulthuan. We had grown inert and decadent, relying on imports from the colonies to sustain and excess our desires. Imrik, the grandson of Caledor had done all he could to combat the chaos and with Malekith's return he headed to Chrace for a hunting trip in order to ease the pressures upon him.
The purge of the Cult began almost immediately, with Malekith at its head, thousands were dragged to the pyres to be burnt, the high princes of Chrace and Cothique disappeared into their palaces to attempt to protect themselves, but even they were not safe Malekith's assassins found them and brought them to trial. Even Imrik was questioned by Malekith due to his frequent stays within Chrace, but for the time being he was found not guilty. However, where Prince Malekith himself led the army there was mercy for all it could be granted to, indeed Malekith's own mother Morathi was spared and imprisoned at Tor Anroc at the order of Bel Shanaar.
In the end however, the trail of blood lead to the Phoenix King himself and the circle of Bel Shanaar's most trusted advisers and rather than let Malekith claim and catch the King in his shame the advisers fought Malekith, but they were no match for him and many a prince fell that day. And when Malekith reached Bel Shanaar’s chambers he found the king dead from poison, but already the seed had been sown and Ulthuan was ready for war, the council of princes was split many wanted Malekith to unite the defenders to defeat the cult, others wanted Imrik to shore up the defences. Many however, remembered the age old promise to Malekith long ago that he would be king in a time of need, and here was one. Malekith and his supporters went to the Temple of Asuryan to watch him pass through the flame.
It was here that the great betrayal took place, several mages who had previously supported Imrik had placed curses upon the flames so that they would burn with greater fury, and the protection offered by the items that Bel Shanaar had worn through the flames would not protect Malekith. Although he passed through the flames he was a shadow of his former self, burnt beyond recognition, and at once some of the princes fled their betrayal obvious, to Imrik in the south west.
Asuryan was it turned out a fickle god, and he allowed Imrik to pass through his flame, and although Malekith's mind was intact if damaged while his body was scarred Imrik passed through without a blemish upon his body but his mind was forever changed, his arrogance and rashness quickly became legendary and he turned into a worse butcher than Malekith was in the days of the purge, and many began to question what was going on. One on one hand there was a cripple who was ruling like a king. And then a warrior ruling like a madman. The Everqueen Nairalindel was the sole part of stability within Ulthuan, for the rest of it brother fought brother. Families were torn asunder and the war raged for twenty five long years, however in the end it was Malekith himself who won the war when Imrik fell at the 14th battle for Tor Anlec. Filled with victory the forces of the true King pushed on, while the Pretender's forces fell back to their strongholds. It would take another eleven years to finally push them from Ulthuan and into exile but, with only Caledor and Yvresse essentially their strongholds, it was only a matter of time.
Malekith's return to battle however was not without a price, his scarred body was not fit for battle, and it was the arrival of the Priest Hotek that allowed Malekith to fight again. Malekith's body was wrought within the armour that was created for him by Hotek, never again able to remove it. But he armour was impervious to physical attacks and granted the King the strength to go on. It was in this mighty armour that he fought and defeated Imrik and grievously wounded him with the Hand of Khaine that had been wrought into the armour. The magic within the hand also burned through Imrik's wounds further
333 weakening his mental state and while he was lying wounded within Caledor itself, his orders were null due to his madness.
Caledor fell, Imrik's capital fell to those whom he had held most dear betrayed from within as thousands of the Caledonian turned to the true king following Imrik's defeat and his desire to abandon Caledor to the King. By now at this late stage of the civil war thousands were turning to the King side as he marched into the former capital of Bel Shanaar, Tor Anroc and had all the pageantry of the Phoenix King transferred to Tor Anlec, the palace was pulled down to repair the new King's own following its near destruction by a dragon falling upon it.
It was during this period of re-building the western most kingdoms of Ulthuan that the great betrayal happened, Imrik is his insanity ordered the kidnapping of the Everqueen, and alas he succeeded. King Malekith flew into a rage and ordered his armies to advance into Saphery and Eataine where previously he had held off awaiting Imrik's surrender, the forces of Imrik fled into Yvresse and held the mountains and fjords closed against King Malekith's forces.
It seemed however, that it was here that some of the Gods had had enough of the war. Within the Temple of Asuryan the flame went out and the great Phoenix Guard reported this with a written scroll to both Imrik and Malekith, having seen the scroll sent to Imrik itself when it was recovered from Tor Yvresse some years later, it seemed that the gods had proven to be themselves fickle, that Malekith and Imrik were to rule together united combining the blood lines of the two mightiest houses of Ulthuan through the Everqueen, at least this is how I view it. Malekith as the mind, and Imrik and the sword. Upon reading this statement from the Phoenix Guard who disbanded shortly after, Malekith denounced Asuryan and the other gods, instead taking up the name of Khaine, the only major god it seemed who was not in on this plot.
Imrik following, realisation of the gods betrayal, fled Ulthuan. His cause he had previously claimed had been in the name of the gods and now that their betrayal was evident his claim to the crown was even weaker, however he did still possess the Phoenix Crown of Aenarion, and with it the great pride of the Elven People. We called ourselves now the Druchii, as we were without the light of Asuryan. Imrik's people however, not all wanted to go and the army, led by Khalir Vraneth pushed into Yrvesse from the north as the fleet finally cut of their escape. Hundreds of thousands had fled with Imrik though by the time the blockade was initiated.
The remnants that Imrik left behind however, were lucky that it was Khalir that defeated them. Instead of killing them as many other generals would have done he instead turned them into his slaves, although following the civil war the restrictions upon them were lifted and rather than slaves they were now more serfs, bound to the land that the lord who spared them lived. This practice spread very rapidly after the war with the largest number of serfs found in Eataine, Saphery and Tiranoc.
It was following the flight of Imrik that the second civil war sprang up within Saphery. It seems that the Cult of Slaanesh within Saphery had not been as wiped out as the king thought and much of the King's under, the command of Lord Mornathar Tuloni'eth army together with elements of Imrik's struck back at King Malekith's forces. The second civil war however only last a few months as a whole, excluding the isolated pockets of resistance all over Ulthuan the army of Khalir Vraneth marched over the mountains from Yvresse and pushed south as Malekith's secret police, the Black Guard held the line at the south. Vraneth, a lesser nobleman from northern Saphery originally, was rewarded for his loyalty and became the High Prince of all of Saphery.
334
With Ulthuan fully under his control the King Malekith began to rebuild his shattered Kingdoms. no longer would he be permitted to be called Phoenix King Malekith, although many of the serfs and lesser people still did so, he decreed that the title of Phoenix King belonged only to his father, and that he and Bel-Shanaar were simply the High Kings of all of Ulthuan, and Emperor of the Colonies of Ulthuan.
*
Imrik's people however, had fled to the Colonies, in Elthin Arvan in order to escape King Malekith. What they found however was disheartening to anyone in their position. They found the eastern colonies mostly apathetic to their cause, and indeed the capital Tor Alessi was heavily in favour of Malekith, as was much of the coastal regions. Instead they took refuge around the great forest of Athel Loren and the city of Tor Taerthelas, and began to rebuild themselves in the faint hope that one day they could take back Ulthuan. Such folly, for only two score of years after they fled King Malekith’s army was once again ready for war.
I should comment at this point about the dwarfs, the stunted folk were once stalwart allies of us during the Great War against Chaos. However, with the war being so large and pressing neither side was able to send aid to the other. Following the creation of the vortex though, we were able to send aid to the dwarfs only in small numbers at first, but King Malekith himself was the leader of the elves that were sent in aid, and with our help their empire was secured and the great colonies of Elthin Arvan were founded, outside the mountain domains of the dwarfs.
The Rebels of Imrik had already approached Lord Gotrek of the Dwarfs, and he had granted them sanctuary within the borders of his realm near Athel Loren, but he had not promised them aid, he had no need to involve his empire in a pointless civil war, despite the fact that his people had already been involved in one once before. King Malekith's arrival some years later did not come as a surprise to Lord Gotrek. When he asked for information about the location of the rebels, Gotrek gave the information freely of the location of the five cities, but at the same time he betrayed King Malekith, and sent warnings to the rebels. Indeed as the western most city of the rebels, Aelias, was taken and the king's armies marched upon their capital Lord Gotrek's son was alerting the rebels of the approaching Kings army. Imrik fled taking his captive the Everqueen with him, and although he fell pierced by arrows from the Knights of Khaine led by Nakarthe it is thought that the Phoenix Crown fell with him off the narrow mountain pass where he was standing, for although Shades of the Mountains searched for it, they found nothing.
Lord Gotrek's son was found amongst the dead of the city as we withdrew to Aelias, decapitated. King Malekith recognised the betrayal immediately, and left with Snorri's head to once again see Lord Gotrek. And upon his audience with the Dwarf Lord, King Malekith was forced to defend himself as he was attacked by Gotrek who was furious, and alas killed the dwarf by severing his throat and his beard in one fell swing, plunging the entire continent into war. Dwarfs fighting anything that the elves had built while we fought them and the rebels.
This was the greatest war that any of us had ever known, and lasted for centuries rather than decades like our previous wars, the battle lines ebbed and flowed like the tide. however one thing was obvious, we had grossly under estimated the strength of the Dwarf empire. And they had under estimated us, both of us foresaw a quick war over in a few years, we were both horrifically wrong.
335 What I consider to be the real reason for the length of the war, was the fact that following the dishonour that had been done to their king, we then took their capital, and in revenge for the destruction that had been wrought upon our lands within Elthin Arvan, Furion cast a great spell, it cost him his life but the power that he unleashed upon the dwarfs capital Karaz-a-Karak was unprecedented, the very mountain itself collapsed around it, and the greatest city of the dwarfs was destroyed in one fell blow. This act of revenge was due to the ravages that the south had been inflicted on our armies.
However, this loss of the south led to a weakness in the form of many colonists, they were tired of the war and began to leave Elthin Arvan. this loss in troops had a negative impact on our campaign, we began to fall back towards the coast and in the end despite ravaging several dwarf and rebel strongholds, we were unable to hold onto the colonies and we withdrew from the Empire for the time being. The great leader of the armies of the east, Khalir Vraneth, whom had come from Ulthuan in the darkest times and oversaw the sacking of Karaz-a-Karak, was killed in the final battle of Tor Alessi.
With us gone, the Dwarfs turned their attention onto the Rebels, who had suffered greatest in the war, they were nothing but mostly half breeds and humans now their numbers are completely useless to fight a war against Ulthuan and as King Malekith said, this was our goal to begin with. The destruction of the Rebels, and although we did not succeed, they were so badly decimated chances of them ever recovering from the war were nigh on zero.
Indeed, seven hundred years later a force from this new kingdom of Sarthailor (it seems that the rebels sacrificed their capital and king in order to survive the dwarf onslaught) was utterly destroyed upon the shores of Yvresse. And it was from this that our great empire, stretching from the east to the west, from north to south and covering nigh on a quarter of the globe. We are the defenders of the world against Chaos, and in the greatest time of need however, we betrayed that trust thanks to events that shattered the lives of all elves.
*
The house of Anar, formerly the most loyal to the Throne of Nagarythe, now known only as the betrayers, for they betrayed King Malekith and went with Imrik instead during the civil war. But there was one survivor, Alith Anar. The Shadow king as he was known; now he is known by a much darker name; the Everchosen; the self proclaimed Lord of the End Times. For unknown years he journeyed the Chaos Wastes, gathering great artefacts of power for his proclamation.
In there years of his rising however, King Malekith in his wisdom had once again set up colonies upon Elthin Arvan, with the aim of both creating a northern bastion against the forces of Chaos, and also to make use of the humans there, to further increase the power of Ulthuan’s Empire; through both mining and logging of the vast continent, but also of slaves for the mines of Naggaroth to the far west. It was not long before the black and silver legions of Ulthuan had several human kingdoms under their control through the trade of weapons and armour, and with their aid, slaves were taken to work in the mines to the north of Elthin Arvan.
The peace, however was not to last. The raids from the northern wastes continued, until King Malekith himself came to the colonies he had once had entirely to himself, to oversee the final preparations for his final assault upon the remnants of the rebels. already we harried the coasts and took prisoners as new serfs back to Ulthuan in their hundreds. But it was here, that the greatest tragedy of elven kind took place, greater than the civil wars and greater than the fall of King Aenarion.
336
King Malekith was killed, murdered by the former of Nagarythe, Alith Anar; now truly the Shadow King, the Everchosen of Chaos. It was he who plunged all of Ulthuan into a second darkness. How Queen Morathi cried out when the body of her son was brought home, but whether that cry was out of joy or despair it cannot be said. But with her at the head of the Council, the line of succession for the Kingdoms of Ulthuan was broken, the High Princes of several kingdoms marshalled their forces ready to march north to defeat Anar. But instead, the five legions that had assembled in Elthin Arvan ready to march north, were joined instead by many of Morathi’s chosen warlords and sent south against Sartholiar and the Kingdoms of Men and Dwarfs.
It was this that caused many warriors of the Druchii to already fall back to Ulthuan, fearful of what was going to happen without a King in control, Ulthuan was already falling apart as a unitary system of states. Caledor had near enough declared itself independent, while Saphery and Nagarythe were silent and fuming. Ulthuan was splitting itself along those who supported Morathi’s decision to ride ahead of the oncoming Chaos Storm to take out Sartholiar while the Chaos Hordes smashed the Men and Dwarfs.
Of the war itself hero’s of renown emerged, such as Narza Scornsong and Lady Gieselle, who not only finally broke the back of Sartholiar as they sallied forth from their kingdom to try and engage us. But also were instrumental in the final withdraw from Elthin Arvan following Anar’s inevitable betrayal of our forces when he finally caught up with the legions.
This shameful defeat is nothing, already our last defences in Elthin Arvan are close to falling, and yet Morathi does nothing. The council is split, between those who want to keep the status quo and leave Morathi in charge on behalf of King Malekith, as they claim he would wish. And those who wish for a new King, one that would unite Ulthuan in its time of need like Aenarion did all those aeons ago, but the question of who is in a position to do that. What must be done though, is reunite Ulthuan soon. before it is too late.
*
Imrazôr looked up at his old friend as he handed the book over, the entire history of Ulthuan that he had spent the last twenty years writing and now it had to be handed over to the High Prince of Saphery like a blasphemous work. Incensed was the best way to describe Imrazôr’s view at this point in time, but he had one last trick up his sleeve to keep hold of his work, and not let it be destroyed by the Black Guard.
“Tell me Prince Vraneth, why do you want this book truthfully?”
Drukh Vraneth, High Prince of Saphery sneered down at Imrazôr as he snatched the book, flicking through a few pages, his eyes cold and hard and the expression on his face one of cold fury than anything else. Imrazôr sipped from a goblet of wine upon the desk and looked up at the High Prince, his eyes dark and foreboding.
“Want to know what I think sire?”
“No.”
Imrazôr cared not for the snapped refute though, he was smiling as the High Prince continued to flick through the document.
337
“I think sire, you know more than you are letting on, you are the one eying the throne.”
Imrazôr smirked as the High Prince froze, looking up and fixing him in the eyes, just as a sharp pain flashed through his chest and his eyes widened as the High Prince looked at him with an emotion he hadn’t seen in millennia, sadness.
“I am sorry old friend, but you will not live to finish your theory, this war may very well kill us all, I did this out of friendship and pity so you might not see this which is to come. Goodbye, and may your soul rest in peace.”
Imrazôr’s collapsed at his desk as the High Prince walked away, his eyes dimming as the poison in his system took hold, but Imrazôr felt no sadness, instead he felt at peace for the first time in his long life, he felt certain of himself and his work, and that it would live on. And that so would his people, for there was some still yet who were ready to fight.
338 Beyond the Wilderness By VictorK Ulthuan in Flames
For the second time, he awoke.
“We are not what we used to be.” The lioness seemed to perceive his waking, even as she looked into the distance. “But even we forget, begin to doubt that such things ever were or could possibly ever be again.” She looked back to him. “And if we forget, as mortals do, should it not be possible to forgive?” He blinked back at her. Most of the outward signs of her struggle with the Harlot had disappeared but it was clear that she was still wounded, the power which had flowed from her so readily now dim and weak. “We should be safe now.” She concluded, looking away from him again.
He sat up, and the calm of the air told him that he was still in the wilderness. He tried to move, to shake off the lethargy that had settled in his bones during his sleep. When he tried to stand, to see what the lioness saw, he cried out and tumbled back to the dirt. The images of what had come previously (it was still twilight in the wilderness, and he sensed that time had little meaning) flooded back to him, the anguished cries of the souls devoured by the unfeeling Harlot echoing in his head until he thought that they would split his soul. He saw the face of the maiden who had guided him to the plaza, only to be consumed and annihilated by that awful vortex. When the visions subsided he was on all fours, sweating and panting into the dirt beneath him.
The lioness watched impassively. She sat on her haunches, tail lazily swishing behind her as she studied the wretched being before her. “Is that all?” She murmured, expectance and perhaps even derision thick in her tone.
“Why…” the wretched one coughed into the sand, bringing his left hand to his parched throat. He looked towards the lioness, pain and confusion evident as his sunken eyes stared towards her regal form. “Why did you save me?” He forced out his first full thought and rubbed his throat while waiting for the reply.
“Because you are different from those we left behind.” The lioness replied. “One way or another, they were doomed…But no one deserves their fate.” She turned, rising up to her full height. “Come. There is much that you have to see. You are the only one, in this vast wilderness, for whom this view will have any meaning.” She began to turn, tail lashing almost angrily at the air in order to beckon the wretched one forward.
“No.” He demanded. He tried to regain his feet, wobbling slightly before he stood before her. At his defiance something flared in the lioness, a spark of the divinity that had stood down the Harlot and managed their escape. The pale light returned to her pelt, glowing against the dim backdrop of the thick wilderness. Her eyes dared him to continue. He rose to the challenge. “How am I different?” He demanded, even daring to take a step forward. “They…she…was beautiful?” He examined his hands and froze. His protest died as he looked up towards the lioness, eyeing her flank and trying to find the bloody mark his hand had left there. It was gone.
339
“She was beautiful because she was my sister.” The lioness replied curtly. “As you are my brother. We have the same mother. The ones who were devoured…They are called elves. They are the most favored of my mother’s children.”
“Am I an elf, or am I like you?” The wretched one asked her. A beat passed, and he continued. “Why am I not…perfect like them? Or you?”
The lioness regarded him for a long moment, but did not reply. She turned away, as she had before, but now her feet carried her back to her original perch and beckoned for the wretched one to follow. When it became apparent that the silence was final he at last acquiesced and walked after the lioness. After the battle she had brought him through the wilderness to the top of a hill. The same trees that seemed to stretch on forever ringed the clearing save for a gap that allowed anyone who cared to look a view of the countryside for miles. When he stepped to the edge, right at the lip of a sheer cliff, the horizon seemed to rush up to him and the ground to plummet away. He gasped, taking a step back. The lioness intervened, placing her body behind his legs so that he could not retreat from the view that was rushing towards him. “Behold, the world beyond this wilderness.”
The endless dark and grey that filling the gaps in the forest seemed to light up as the lioness spoke. It was not a soft light like that which emanated from the immaculate elves before they had been devoured. This was a multicolor of red, yellow, and other strong colors that hurt his eyes to look at. He could hear distant cries that echoed through the shallow valleys up to his lofty peak, cries that carried the unfamiliar emotions of brutal lust and anguish. “What you see,” the lioness began, “is what remains of the home of those beings who you saw devoured. Can you feel the malice in this vision?” He could. It was like he was in the presence of the Harlot again, that overwhelming aura that seemed to race down from his eyes into his very core and hold him captive. It was dim, but it was powerful. “Do you feel anything else?” There was a sense of revulsion in his stomach, but it was giving way to another sensation. He could feel that brutal call, and feel it challenge something inside of him. He was answering it with his own cry, feeling a warmth he had not felt before start to surge through his bones. It gave him strength, and whispered for his will to use it.
“No!” The lioness shouted, her power flaring. The wind that seemed to carry the sensations up to the peak restored the colorful markings that had first been apparent on her pale form. The calm, and the warning that she exuded soon calmed the feeling within him. When it was gone, he noticed that his left hand was aching He dared not look at it. “That has always been your weakness.” The lioness hissed. “To accept what was so readily apparent on the surface before understanding the true nature of what you faced. You have always been afraid to look beneath the easy motives and quick solutions to reckon with the reality of the universe. You are impetuous, when you believe you are careful, you are greedy, when you believe you are gracious, you rush to blood, when doing so unleashes a tide that will wash you away.” He had no reply and allowed the moment to hang between them. “Look again.” He did.
It was difficult to sift through that malice and the anguished cries that demanded justice. They were seductive, to respond to a challenge on the one hand and to succumb to victim hood on the other. It was only the reassuring and steadying presence of the lioness that kept him from lapsing back into the rush that his body was beginning to crave. But, at last, he found the voice that lurked beneath both calls. Pain stung him in his chest. A child was wailing, a soul cried out in woe. Underneath all of it was nothing more than pain. It was silent at the same time that it rang in his ears. It was an absence of anything meaningful, but that in itself carried the weight of the world and inspired the degeneration that
340 propelled the conflicts below him forward. It was all he could do to take a breath when he began to glimpse the reality.
“And this…” He began, his throat dry and choked, “…Is what befell those we left behind?”
As a way of reply the horizon drastically expanded. There was no warning; no words of preparation offered to the wretched one until he beheld what seemed to be the entire world. He fell to his knees. What he had seen before was a microcosm of the despair that choked off life throughout the wilderness. The pain, the utter emptiness of the insistent cries for blood, lust and death left him unable to respond. Save for a few enclaves of golden light where some miracle had stemmed the tide there was no end to the roiling mass of warning light that seemed to send up the entire world into a conflagration. He could not find his feet, and it took him several seconds more to find his words. “How…who….” He almost sobbed, but controlled himself. “What is responsible for this?”
“There is one name that you need to know.” The lioness replied, her voice utterly calm. “Malekith.’
He didn’t know the name. He couldn’t know the name; it was the first that had ever been spoken to him. “Malekith.” He repeated, testing the foreign word.
“There was a time.” The lioness began. “When this darkness was contained in the heart of one being. Malekith was empty in his heart, and this drove him to give birth to a son. This son soon rose up to challenge his father, who had cursed him with the same emptiness. He slew Malekith, and from his corpse the emptiness that he had kept within himself spilled out to devour much of the world.”
“Malekith.” The wretched one replied, his fingers digging into the dirt at his side as he listened to the story. “Is there a way to undo what he has done? I cannot stand this.” He replied. “It eats at me in a way that the death of the maiden did. I can feel it trying to devour me too.”
“Our mother is the same way.” The lioness replied, a note of sadness entering into her voice. “She loves this world so, and to see it in such pain causes her to weep endlessly. They have turned from tears to love to tears of despair, tears that I could no longer stand.” She rose up to her feet. “Take the time that you need, but we cannot linger here or anywhere. Our enemies, the avatars of this fallen world, know that we are in the wilderness and will waste no effort in seeking us out.”
The wretched one nodded, but he could not tear his gaze away from the tapestry of misery that was laid out before him. He would find his legs soon enough, but as the lioness suggested it would take time. “Do I have a name?” He asked.
The lioness stopped. “Yes.” She replied after a moment’s hesitation. Another passed before she gave it. “It is Aikhen.”
***
Slender fingers worked over a violent orb and coaxed out the power that was just awakening within. Morathi, Queen of the Elves, sat in the highest tower of Tor Anlec and faced eastward, her eyes closed. Her lips moved but made no sound as her fingers moved over the forbidden artifact. She was alone in the cold tower. She was not dressed for it, her lithe form covered in a light gown that clung to her sensual curves. She rolled her neck, tongue slipping from behind her teeth to wet the center of her full
341 lips. “I see you…” She whispered at last, opening her eyes. They swirled violet, the power of the stone absorbed into her frame. “You are as handsome as I remember.” She cooed, her back arching as a smile crossed her beautiful features.
A dark form welled up in front of Morathi, absent from the tower but visible to her enchanted eyes. It unfurled like an oncoming storm, filling all available space and then pushing back the walls when the tower dared to constrain it. Soon it loomed over the great elven metropolis, utterly dwarfing the Queen with whom it had come to converse. Three eyes, one golden and set above the others stared down at her. “DO YOU ACKNOWLEDGE ME AS YOUR MASTER?” The voice boomed like thunder.
Ah, Alith Anar. Morathi smiled up at the towering figure. She took a moment in her reply as she considered the visage of the Everchosen manifested before her. He was so young, she thought. All that power, and he could not control it. Surely, he could not be trying to intimidate her. “You are my master.” She replied softly, her smile never wavering. “Until such time as you are not.”
“I AM COMING.” Alith Anar replied.
“I know.” Morathi answered, as if speaking down to a child who had shown her something that all people came to realize in due time. “I am preparing for you homecoming as we speak.”
“I MUST NOT BE HINDERED. MUCH DEPENDS ON THE FIRST DAYS.”
“Of course, my master. I have arranged so that those who can be counted on to…stand aside will be in place at the right moments. And the isles erected by my son and his sorcerers to deter your…flimsy ships will be the first to greet you with open arms. All preparations that you have requested have been made.” Among others, Morathi did not add. Still, the concerns that were hidden from Alith Anar tingled at the back of her mind. “My liege.” She began. “What of the Cult of the Pantheon? Have they figured into your plans?”
“WHO WOULD FOLLOW A COWARD GOD AND HIS CHILDREN?” And with that, the matter was settled. “YOU FAIL ME, MORATHI.” The Everchosen continued, abandoning any title that Morathi laid claim to. “REMOVING BARRIERS AND SENDING FOOLS TO MAN YOUR BORDERS IS ONE THING, DEFEATING A PEOPLE IS ANOTHER!”
“Do not pass judgment on me so quickly.” Morathi barely held back a girlish giggle at the Everchosen’s impetuous nature. “For all of his failings my son always knew how to shake up those beneath him. Soon I will announce that the living shrine to the King of All Elves, where his body was interred after you so artfully defeated him my lord, inspires disloyalty and undermines his kingdom. Malekith shall be given a proper disposal, and all the heads of the great houses of Ulthuan will be obligated to attend.” Morathi grinned, “Naturally, only those sympathetic to our cause shall return home. Ulthuan will be mine, and by extension yours, my Everchosen.”
“SCHEMES AND NOTHING MORE, HAG.” Alith Anar replied, his astral form roiling with barely suppressed rage.
Morathi smiled knowingly. “What other choice do you have, oh mighty chosen of Chaos, than to trust and depend upon me? I am the chosen of Slaanesh, Alith Anar. You may hold the keys to power today, mighty warrior, but when you have accomplished what your *masters* have demanded of you it is I
342 who will be installed on the throne of this world. You are a puppet, Everchosen. Do not ever forget that. When all this is swept away, and our alliance is ended, we will see where power truly lies.”
“NONE ARE CHOSEN.” These were Alith Anar’s final words before his form began to retreat, and the small tower sanctum was returned to Morathi alone. The elf queen gasped as the power retreated from her. Her chest heaved and her skin glistened with sweat from the exertion and her time in the presence of such an unrestrained power, but she wore a smile. She began to laugh. Soon, so soon everything would be clear, and her power would be absolute.
***
Aikhen rode on the lioness’ back through the thick wilderness. His legs were restored but they were still not as swift as the divine beast in full stride. She had taken a high road that he could not even perceive, but he knew that it was like the peak that she had first brought him to. He remembered his first run through the wilderness, when it had seemed dead. Now it was teeming with the same malicious life that he had not long ago discovered. Aikhen felt that if they stopped those lights might destroy them, but the lioness was in full stride and full regalia as she ran. Every light they passed was another scene in the story of the world beyond the wilderness that was unfolding around him. Ruins stuck up from the tree tops, shattered towards and broken mountains that told a tale he could not quite grasp. The scene was the same all around him, pain and emptiness at every leap and every turn. But none of them stuck in his mind as clearly as that first encounter with the Harlot.
Had Malekith been responsible for that as well? The maiden’s eyes continued to pierce him. Every now and then Aikhen caught a glimpse of those horrible vortices that devoured souls by the thousands. How many times had that scene at the ruins of the great city been repeated? How many more had walked, wailing, to the death that awaited them? How many others had been fooled into believing that their calls of anguish had been beautiful songs, and followed them to annihilation? He didn’t dare to think that his experience had been at all unique, or that beautiful face that had looked into his was alone. It was all around him, emptiness retreating into a void where it would be ground down into something that was entirely unrecognizable. He was watching a world die, one face at a time.
Aikhen looked down to where his fingers were twisted in the lion’s coat. Blood soaked the beast’s pale fur, oozing out of the pores of his left hand. There was a dull ache in his palm where the blood flowed slowly but ceaselessly; apparent only if he focused on the bloody act itself. He was beginning to recognize that he was truly different from the others in this wilderness, he was imperfect, but he had survived, he had the capacity to learn, but he was ignorant. A thousand weaknesses held him back from thinking that he was the equal of the lioness, but the spark of something more divine and the miracle of survival and blood would not allow him to concede that he was destined to be devoured like all the others. Eventually, perhaps, but not until he could confront this world around him. As devastating as these glimpses of the wider world were, he felt that they were by no means permanent. The world stood on the threshold, waiting to fall one way or the other.
Things began to slow down. The wilderness was no longer a blur interspersed with lights and ruins but a thing starting to regain some of its lost definition. The lioness was bringing their long run to a close. Aikhen started to awaken as if from a third sleep. He was not aware of how long their journey had actually taken, but he was beginning to suspect that the nagging itch at the back of his mind, time, was meaningless. The color of the sky never changed, except where it was touched by the stars or the horrible green emanations from the moon. The wilderness was stillborn, a place where all the incredible
343 potentials of life had been snuffed out and frozen forever.
The lioness came to an abrupt halt, and forced Aikhen’s vision forward. He almost gasped at what lay stretched out before him. It was empty, a solid reflective surface that stretched out as far as the horizon. It mimicked the sky, but to Aikhen it appeared more like a desert. He couldn’t imagine crossing such a thing. It seemed to be the end of the world. If the wilderness was stillborn then this thing had never been conceived, never had the potential for life at all. “We have come to the end of the wilderness.” The lioness told Aikhen. “This is the sea.” A cold wind rushed off of that flat surface, bringing tiny grains of sand into the faces of the two travelers. The pair was perched on a great sand dune overlooking a pale beach that lay between them and the sea. A pinprick of light caught Aikhen’s eye.
The lioness’ chest rumbled as she began to pad down the soft slope. “He is not usually so careless as to be seen from such a distance.” She murmured to herself, her own gaze fixed on the light that flickered on the beach. “But I suppose that makes our task all the easier. I suppose that he would expect us.”
“He?” Aikhen asked.
“The ferryman.” The lioness replied before taking a leap off of the last portion of the sand dune. Aikhen held tight, squirming and the blood soaked into her fur oozed between his fingers. Their combined weight threw up a plume of dust from the parched beach. The lioness trod carefully over the fine grains of sand and left large tracks behind her with each step.
“Should we cover them?” Aikhen asked as he turned his head to look back over the way they had come.
“It should not matter.” The lioness replied. “Where we’re going no one from the wilderness can follow. If the agents of the demiurgi find us it will be too late.” There was a note of triumph in her voice as she focused on the flame flickering in the distance. It seemed to shimmer, and then lioness gave a surprised yelp. The fine sand shifted away from her broad paws, sinking the beast up to her elbows. She struggled beneath Aikhen, but was held fast. He started to slip off of her back before she barked back at him, “Stay put!” At the command he had no choice but to obey.
“So careless, my lady!” The voice, quivering with barely suppressed glee emanated from the very air around the pair. The distant flickering light detached itself from the landscape and floated on its own, making a lazy circle right in front the lioness’ face before becoming fixed once again. Having been distracted by the show Aikhen had failed to notice the dark man upon whose finger the tiny flame rested. “Nothing more than a candle, sweet maiden.” He cooed. “A will o’wisp for those seeking my camp.” Aikhen finally looked up at the full figure. He was tall, lanky, as if made from sticks given the barest padding. He wore all black in a flamboyant style that was subdued by its monotone color. Most intriguing was his face. Half was lost in shadow while the other half was covered by a thick white mask contorted into an expression of glee, or perhaps gleeful malice. The flame danced on his gloved finger before flickering out. He seemed to hang in midair, his feet divorced from the beach entirely.
The lioness growled, her divine regalia flaring to life as she summoned up her power. She lurched forward in the trap, sending a shockwave through the sand. Had the shadowed figure been standing upon it he surely would have been thrown to his feet, but perhaps anticipating this he had opted to float. At the sight of the fearsome beast his lanky arm gathered up a handful of dust and his hidden mouth casually blew it into her face. The lioness’ nose wrinkled, and then, without much divine grace she sneezed. Her power winked out as surely as the flame had. The force of the sneeze threw Aikhen to
344 the sand, where much to his relief he did not sink into oblivion. He sat up and watched as their assailant leaned into the panting lioness and carefully stroked the side of her face. “You are very gravely injured.” He cooed, real concern in his voice.
“What other choice did I have?” She replied to him, golden eyes looking up to his shrouded face.
“You could have done as you were instructed, and stayed at your mother’s side. It is my duty, not yours, to do what I can for the poor wretches here. You’re going to miss it, if you’re not careful.”
“You know, as well as I, what a farce that is.” She almost spat at him. “I am beginning to think that he has gone mad. And I think you might agree, given that almost heretical form.”
The masked man laughed. “Perhaps. Perhaps I give him tribute for his exceedingly long vision? Imitation, as they say, is the most sincere form of flattery.” He kissed her nose. “Now. Why have you come to see me?”
The lioness looked towards Aikhen. “You would have to see it to believe it, ferryman.”
The ferryman turned towards Aikhen and gestured towards him. He rose off of the sand and was held so that the ferryman could approach him. He was turned about while those hidden eyes examined him. “Oh…” Aikhen could almost feel the incredible grin spreading over the ferryman’s features. “Oh ho ho!” He started to laugh. “What a find, my maiden! I could not have written it better myself! One last trick to play before the curtain is drawn closed, is that what you’re thinking?”
The lioness nodded. “Which is why I must return.”
The ferryman ahhed. “Must you now?” He set the very confused Aikhen down gently. “You really think that this…rough among diamonds is worth breaking our most sacred laws?”
“When have laws ever meant anything to you?”
The ferryman laughed once again before gesturing at the lioness and restoring her footing. “So true! And, because I can never pass up a cruel joke…” His mask seemed to jeer at Aikhen as he looked towards him. “I will oblige.” The mirror flat surface of the sea was broken as the prow of a small ship gently beached itself on the sand. Its sails hung limp over the broad deck. “I think that I can find some wind to carry us across this dreadful calm.” The ferryman said merrily as he hopped aboard the ship. “Well, come on then! What are you waiting for?”
Thunder broke. Or, at least it seemed like thunder. Ripples shot out across the dead sea and wind swirled down from the high cliffs to stir the beach. Both the lioness and the ferryman looked up to where the clouds were thrown into turmoil. A dark shape, the largest thing that Aikhen had seen since he entered the wilderness, broke past the cliffs and clove through the clouds. It reverberated with dark power, drawing all wind to in it a swirling vortex that seemed to swallow what meager light was available to it. Hundreds of smaller shadow figures swirling around the pulsing mass, cackling and shrieking with each pass. The entire procession was crowned by a burning star, a bright yellow light that cast no warmth. It stared across the sea, and by its power alone was the shadow fleet held together.
At the sight of the behemoth the lioness’ power flared once again, but she stopped as the ferryman held
345 out his hand to her. “No.” He commanded softly. “They cannot see us, I have made sure of it…But your power might pierce the veils I have erected, my maiden.”
“What is it?” Aikhen asked, his gaze transfixed on that one point of light.
“Nothing you need concern yourself with.” The ferryman replied, his tone light. “Come then, Aikhen.” Did even he know the wretched one’s name? “We don’t have much time.’
The lioness brushed against Aikhen, urging him towards the boat. “What is it?” He repeated to her, looking over his shoulder as she led him away.
“The light or the shadow?” The lioness replied, hopping effortlessly up to ship’s deck.
“We will be cutting this very close, maiden!” The ferryman called as he pranced from bow to stern.
Aikhen hauled himself up a few moments after, and then he could finally reply. “The light…the light is what’s important.” He panted, somewhat overwhelmed by the intimidating sight.
“The light…” The lioness began as the ship lurched and set out to sea. The ferryman took the helm and with a light breath blew wind into the sails. They were off.
“…is Malekith’s progeny come to destroy us all.”
***
From his throne room atop the tallest tower of what had once been the shining city of Kithanan Alith Anar beheld the vast fleet assembled to carry his host across the sea. At long last, with a favorable wind at their backs, the shadow ark and the hastily assembled long ships would begin the invasion that had long been promised. The Everchosen smiled at the wide open blue expanse in front of him.
The wolf sat up, drawing his attention.
“Is something wrong, my friend?” Alith Anar asked, stroking the beast’s fur.
The wolf soon settled. “Something tickling my nose, nothing more.” He closed his eyes.
“Very well.” Alith Anar replied before he rose from his throne. The Everchosen strode across the room to the balcony that overlooked the remains of Kithanan. Tens of thousands of eyes turned upwards towards that tower, drawn by the Everchosen’s silent call. Alith Anar raised his left hand, the mark of Chaos upon it burning as brightly as ever. Cheers erupted not just the ruins of the shadowed city but from the countless ships that ringed it.
“Let Ulthuan burn!”
346 Asur By Eldacar Ulthuan in Flames
Kurl dropped his sword. “Fire,” he ordered, watching as the Reaper Bolt Thrower batteries released their ammunition. In front of them, before the grassy hillock that he stood on, archers and crossbowmen alike released volley after volley of arrows and bolts towards the onrushing Dwarfs. Not that 'rush' was the appropriate term for it, he reflected. If they were any slower, his father would be dead of old age long before battle was joined.
For all their slow and stately cadence, however, Kurl was forced to admit that they were indeed well- organised. He could see no gap in their line, and their steady advance was marred only by the Reapers – the archers and crossbowmen lacked the strength to send their missiles through the thick Dwarf armour. Soon, he guessed, battle would be joined, but the Dwarfs continued to hold the advantage of numbers. Turning slightly, the scion of Vraneth gestured sharply to the sorceress Larinth.
“Yes, my lord?” she asked, stepping up beside him. “Do you have a request?” She was looking particularly attractive at the present time, he noted, with clothing almost as sheer as what the Queen Mother was known to wear. Kurl, however, had been gifted by his new Lord with the ability to perceive subtle magical energies, and he knew that all about her – very slim – form, she kept enough magical power to reduce this rise in the ground to little more than scorched earth. As it was, he indicated the Dwarf lines.
“My request,” he said, “such as it is, is that you are to break their lines by whatever means necessary. Their Runesmiths will probably attempt to resist you, and so you may wish to have the assistance of the other members of your circle.” He indicated the other members of Larinth's contingent, five in all. “And,” he continued, “as these warriors are loyal to me, you may feel free to employ some of the more... esoteric... forms of magic.”
Larinth bowed deeply – Kurl didn't pay much attention, since he had seen it all before. Quite regularly, even. “Your wish is my command, High Prince Vraneth,” she said softly.
“I am not the High Prince yet,” he reminded her, “not until my father passes on.” Something still needed to be done about Saarin, too, he mused. Perhaps. What little he had seen of his younger brother recently was that he lay in a coma, inflicted by force or forces unknown. Even the Cult denied any knowledge of the act. As long as his brother remained incapacitated, there should be little reason to bother, but it was better to be safe. After this battle – one of the last of the year following the war, the Dwarfs retreating to their mountain strongholds – he would return to Ulthuan and arrange for his elevation to the position of High Prince.
Kurl watched as Larinth joined hands with the rest of her circle, the sorceresses beginning a chant. It almost crackled through the air around him, and he felt the tips of his hair begin to rise up in the air with the force of the building magic. Even to one as unattuned as he – Saarin was by far the more capable of the two when it came to perceiving such things, much as it irked him – it was obvious that the Dwarfs
347 were attempting to block the magic. A Runelord named Thunderbrow led the force – such a ridiculous name – and rumour held that he was at the very least competent. He was no match for the forces arrayed against him, however, for a purple and pink sphere of energy was forming in the air above the sorceresses. At first darts, then bolts, then great writhing tendrils of that energy reached out, striking the line of the stunted ones and tearing a great hole in their ranks. It was as Kurl had predicted. He drew the second of his twin swords. They were curved, single-edge blades, crafted after the fashion of Cathayan broadswords, and they had been enchanted with a killing edge, more than capable of removing appendages or slicing others in half at the slightest touch. He raised one of them above his head again, then dropped it. As the cavalry began their charge towards the now-open lines, Kurl moved forward to stand with the members of the Black Guard. They accepted his presence without objection, and slowly began their movement towards the widening gap.
Just this one more battle, and then he would return to Ulthuan. Though not alone. Now, he would serve as a part of the vanguard for the armies of the Everchosen as they inexorably progressed towards the Vortex. What Alith Anar planned to do there, Kurl didn't know. But he knew that it would, one way or another; decide the course of history once and for all.
*
Drifting, drifting. Darkness, blackness. Voices. He doesn't know who they are, what they are. Greater voices, then presences. Vast and ancient, beyond mortal ken. They seem to be waiting for a distant one, one that even now turns to regard him. It is waiting for something. Acceptance, perhaps. Knowledge. It wants something. Something... a name. He has a name. Who is he?
*
Drukh stood at Saarin's bedside. He did it often these days, quietly observing as his son just... lay there, unmoving. Occasionally, he would twitch – or scream, as if seeing something – but he seemed little more than a corpse. Tathel had not been present in the mansion, or even in contact with the other members of the Cult. It was as if the Archmage had dropped off the face of the planet. Although, from what the High Prince recalled of his time in the interminable whiteness of Tathel's creations, it was quite possible that he had vanished from the world entirely. Of course, he would be back. No matter how many times he seemed to leave, he always returned eventually.
For now, though, he could do naught but watch, and wait.
*
Morathi was astride the black dragon. She had bent it to her will centuries past, now. As it held her aloft, she reached out a hand, working a minor cantrip. Sparks seemed to sizzle across the air, outlining invisible lines of magical force before her.
This was as close as one could come to the Great Vortex at the center of the island. The Vortex kept her lord and master contained, which was why she had spent the last centuries attempting to break through. She had even journeyed to Albion once, seeking answers on that island of the 'Old Ones', but had not stayed long. The Truthsayers wielded great power, and although it had declined slightly, it was nothing like the meagre spells of other humans. With enough of them acting in concert, it had been enough to give her pause, and even – spots of red appeared on her cheeks – caused her to retreat. It still
348 galled her, but what she had learned was perhaps worth the humiliation.
The Vortex, she had discerned, was connected to various powerful waystone circles scattered across the world, many of them also present in Ulthuan itself. Some waystones were stronger than others, serving as a nexus of magical power. One nexus moved through Saphery, she knew, though finding it at any one time could be difficult. They were akin to keys, locks on a door. Destroy enough of the waystone circles, enough of the major ones, and the Vortex would become destabilised. There had been plans, back in the time of Caledor, to bring the great maelstrom down by unravelling the spells itself, but in the millennia that had followed, Morathi had realised that it was something of a foolish gesture. Better by far to allow the network to collapse itself. And if she pulled a few tiles loose, then so be it. She just needed to find the waystones that were the key to everything, and victory would be hers.
*
Illiria waited patiently before the scrying pool, the dark waters stilled. It had been months since there was a surge of high magic, she knew, but that did not mean she would cease observing. Soon, she told herself. Very soon.
*
Tathel stood quietly on the hillside, letting his gray robe whip about his form as the wind whistled through the waystone circle surrounding him. He nodded slowly. All the pieces were in place, and his candidate moved ever closer to full realisation of his purpose. It was time, he decided, for the end game to begin.
*
A name. He has a name. He knows his name. A name... Saarin. Yes, that is his name. The distant presence seems to think, then returns. It asks for his name. He has a new name, he understands. Rebirth requires a new name, perhaps. What is his new name? He seems to stumble as he walks, moving ever closer to the truth. A name. He has a name. What is it?
And then, in a surge of clarity, he understands his name. He knows his name. He has a new name, a new understanding, a new identity. The nothingness twists into a tunnel surrounding him, and he flies towards the light.
*
Saarin sat bolt upright in bed, taking a deep breath, eyes wide and shining a pure white.
“Asur!” he gasped. “The Asur survive!”
*
Now, Tathel thought to himself. Concentrating, he shifted the threads of the world, opening a gateway. The air folded around him, and he vanished, carried towards Saarin upon wings of high magic.
*
349
Illiria immediately sat up as the scrying pool flared to life, showing her the images as magic coalesced in the room where Saarin had been kept. At last.
*
Tathel's appearance didn't surprise Saarin – the Elf had known that he would come.
“We have to go, Saarin,” Tathel said calmly.
“My lessons are over, then.”
“Yes.”
“And so you should leave,” another voice said as Drukh stepped through the door. His eyes were pained, but accepting. “Illiria knows that you have been passing through here, Tathel, and you do not have much time. I can delay her, perhaps, but you have to leave. Saarin, dress.” Drukh tossed the plain white robe he carried to his son. “Wear this,” he instructed. Saarin nodded, and quickly dressed while his father and Tathel conferred. He could only pick up a few words of their conversation, but it appeared that Kurl was returning home, and would be present soon. Not a good sign, since he would be unhappy to learn that Saarin was awake. He would be even more unhappy if he knew what Saarin now knew.
“Come,” Tathel instructed as soon as he and Drukh had finished talking. “We will leave for the rooftop. From there, I can call for our means of transportation.”
“Means of- what?”
“Less talking, more walking,” the archmage said shortly, taking hold of Saarin's arm and propelling him through the doorway. The house was deserted, but the elf could sense a confrontation brewing. It crackled in the very air itself.
“Yes,” Drukh said when he asked, “I sense it too. Don't worry.”
“Tell me something, father,” Saarin said then. “And tell me the truth. Your alleigance is not to Khaine, is it?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“I serve the pantheon,” Drukh replied calmly, “the pantheon that Malekith rejected all those millennia ago. Mathlann, Isha, Torothal, Vaul, Isha, and the rest. But most of all, I serve Asuryan.”
“You're the leader of the Cult of Asuryan,” Saarin realised. Drukh nodded.
“Since before you were born,” he explained. “I always had high hopes for you, Saarin. Kurl was my son by Illiria-” '
350 Saarin stumbled. “What?!” he asked incredulously.
“I doubt that Kurl knows,” Drukh continued. “In any case, you were my son by another of the Cult. She died giving birth to you.” The High Prince of Saphery directed a dark look at Tathel, who was now leading them up the stairs towards the door to the roof. “I was told that she could not be revived,” he said, “though I suspect that was in error. Be careful with that one, Saarin. Trust him, but don't trust him. He does have the best interests of us all at heart, but his methods can be questionable at best.”
“I heard that,” Tathel called back, prompting a smile out of Drukh. It surprised Saarin. His father had always been somewhat cold and distant. Not in a truly cruel sense, but this was a different side of him. He wondered why it had taken so long for it to show. For him to realise that it existed. Or perhaps he was seeing with new eyes.
“Your transportation is here?” the High Prince asked.
“He is coming,” the archmage replied as he reached for the door to the roof, jerked it open and headed out...
...only to be sent staggering back inside by a blast of purple and black energy. It wreathed him in a crackling inferno for a full five seconds, before the mage, pain evident on his features, banished it with a flick of his hand.
“Illiria,” Tathel said coldly. “I wondered where you were. How did you evade my scrying?”
The sorceress came into full view as Saarin and his father stepped out into the overcast sky. Rain poured down around them, pooling at their feet. Illiria smiled, and motioned to a dull grey stone. Understanding flickered across Tathel's features.
“I wasn't sure that there were many of those left in existence,” he noted.
“Some remain,” the sorceress remarked. “But enough small talk. You are mine, keystone.”
Tathel blinked in surprise, then crossed his arms as another bolt of energy burst around him. This time, however, he was prepared, and a golden shield of light rippled around his body, harmlessly deflecting the attack. Drukh dragged Saarin away, over to one side. “Stay out of their way,” he instructed his son.
Tathel may have been at a disadvantage initially, but he was moving into full stride now. Both hands whirling in a circle, he summoned up a pair of glowing white energy balls. Slamming them together, he projected the entire maelstrom at Illiria, who was forced to dive away and hastily erect a shield. The Winds of Magic flowed incredibly strongly around the archmage as he kept up the assault, blasting her first with lightning, then a thunderbolt, then a scorching wave of blue fire.
“Give it up!” he called as Illiria hunkered down behind her diminishing shield. “You can't win, Illiria, no matter how much you try.”
A look of cunning stole over her face then. From her robes she drew a small pendant, one that glittered with inner light. An unknown sense of dread washed over Saarin, and Drukh's hand tightened on his shoulder. Then she threw it, the pendant flying straight and true to bump into Tathel's chest.
351
And the archmage howled. It was a cry of pain that he had rarely heard before, as Tathel staggered backwards, attempting to escape from the small talisman. Illiria stepped closer, drawing a knife as the Winds of Magic twisted and snarled themselves around the two of them.
“You may be stronger than I am, more skilled than I am,” she said in a voice of triumph, “but you forgot to account for everything, keystone. And now you – and all your power – are mine.” As Tathel twisted and writhed in pain, she slashed at him with the dagger. He feebly raised his arm to block, and the weapon laid open a long cut in his arm.
Saarin stared. What was beneath the skin was not blood, tissue, or bone, as it was with all else that he knew. Nothing less than an incredibly complex lattice of magical energy coursed through Tathel's body, where tissue and bone would be otherwise. It was as if the skin was just a shell, a casing for some being of magic that hid inside. The lattice crackled and began to bleed magic, droplets of every colour Wind flying through the air before seeming to evaporate, bleeding out around them. Saarin could sense the level of ambient magic rapidly beginning to rise as Tathel crumpled to the ground, still writhing.
“No,” Drukh said coldly, drawing his sword. “Not like this.” So saying, he stood up and charged, his silver and black clothing drenched by the rain that was beginning to pour down harder. Illiria was reaching out, as if calling to the magic that continued to bleed from Tathel's wound, and it answered, slowly seeping up to her skin before vanishing beneath it. She was draining power from the archmage, Saarin understood. And he could do nothing.
Drukh continued his charge, but the sorceress was having none of it. Turning, she flicked a finger in his direction, and Saarin's father was sent flying backwards as if knocked by an invisible fist. He hit the ground hard, dazed by the impact. Saarin made to go and aid him, but that finger moved over to where he stood.
“You, Saarin, will wait there,” Illiria instructed. “I am sure that the Lady Morathi will have all sorts of questions for you and your father pertaining to the Cult of Asuryan. That is, if she doesn't just have you killed out of hand.”
“He's here,” Tathel gasped from his position at her feet. She looked down irritably, which only prompted a smirk from the archmage, even through his evident pain. “Ashaxei,” he explained. And then the light vanished, the rain stopped.
...No, not vanished. Just the sun, already hidden behind clouds, being blocked by something even greater. A huge shadow. Saarin looked up, and saw him.
He was huge, easily as big as the entire Vraneth mansion. Golden scales formed intricate, interlocking patterns across his skin, armouring him far beyond even the great Star Dragons that slept eternally beneath the mountains of Caledor. His wingspan was mind-boggling; stretching what seemed to be an impossible distance. The teeth alone were three, four, five times his height, and the claws were larger still. Great blue orbs regarded them all, but when they roved over the crumpled form of Tathel, they began to glow, outrage spreading rapidly through them.
“Illiria,” Tathel said with a weak laugh, “this is Ashaxei. One of the last living Emperor Dragons.”
352 Ashaxei drew back his head and roared. Saarin knew, as all present fell to the ground clutching their ears in pain, that he would never be able to describe the sheer magnitude of that roar. It, like so much else about this monstrous being, defied imagination. Sheer terror pulsed through his blood, and all he wanted to do was run and hide. If anything could run from that thing.
Illiria, face pale with fear, hurled one of her black and purple bolts at it, but Ashaxei merely brushed it off, slowly turning that great head towards the Dark Elf. She quailed, steadily moving backward towards the door of the mansion. There was to be no escape for her, though. Tathel was on his feet, clutching at his arm to hold the wound closed, and his eyes vanished behind what looked to be two silver flames that burned in his skull. He raised his hand, and that same silvery fire, a torrent of raw magical energy, flooded outwards, washing over Illiria and burning the flesh from her bones. Then it turned the bones to dust, and then less than dust, until nothing remained of the sorceress. Saarin's eyes seemed to be overwhelmed with light at that final assault. It was as if somebody had exploded a bonfire behind his eyes when he attempted to look at Tathel through the magesight.
*
Kurl felt the gray mists of magical transportation recede, and found himself standing within the mansion. Before he could even summon a servant to punish them for not being present to attend his return, however, the entire building seemed to shudder. What was happening?
He raced through the deserted halls, sword drawn, and up the stairs to the roof. Throwing open the door, he emerged into shadow, seeing his father – and his brother, awake and well – conferring with what had to be the elf Larinth had warned him about. The user of high magic. No more. He charged. At the end of today, the traitors to his Lord Shornaal would be dead, and he himself would be High Prince of Saphery.
*
Tathel groaned as he leaned on Saarin. He wasn't fully recovered yet, the elf could see as he looked at the arm that Illiria had cut open. The wound was beginning to close, but it still leaked magic.
“You once told me not to ask you who you were,” he said quietly. “I assume that request still holds.”
“Of course it does,” Tathel said. “Why would it- Drukh, no!”
It was too late. None of them had even noticed Kurl as he rammed his sword through Drukh's chest. The High Prince of Saphery blinked once, then twice, then collapsed.
“No!” Saarin snarled, snatching up his father's fallen sword. It was light in his hands. Too light, he realised. There was something... but even as he moved towards Kurl, and the brother began to circle around him slowly, Tathel straightened up, abruptly vanished from sight through a folding of air, reappeared behind Kurl, and punched the now-eldest Vraneth in the back of the head, hard. Kurl toppled over, crashing unceremoniously to the ground.
“What did you do that for?!” Saarin shouted. “I wanted to kill him!”
“No, you wanted to fight him with your father's sword, having just been horribly betrayed by your own
353 blood. You would have fought to the death to avenge Drukh's honour as the rain poured down around you, making for the sort of battle that inspires legends.” Tathel was brutally direct and utterly cold. “We have no time for your own personal revenge quests – didn't you learn anything in those lessons? Now, come with me. I need to show you something.” He turned and slowly walked over to where Ashaxei had lowered his head, permitting the archmage to climb on. “Now, Saarin!” Tathel snapped.
Hesitating, Saarin looked at Drukh, and at Kurl. He could kill Kurl, he knew. Avenge his father. But... revenge. It wouldn't be justice to kill Kurl now. It would be revenge. And that was something he knew to be pointless. Turning, he sheathed his father's sword at his side, and walked over to join Tathel.
*
Saarin stood on a hillside, watching as the storm began to approach. Saarin felt the shifting of displaced air as Tathel reappeared beside him, and bowed his head slightly. It had not taken long for Ashaxei to carry the two of them all the way from Saphery to the eastern coastline of Ulthuan. Not that Saarin was surprised, given the power of the ancient dragon. He looked out over the seas.
“This war was never meant to come here. Never meant to come to Ulthuan.” Had he said that, or had Tathel?
Turning as one, both of them walked down away from the storm-lashed cliff, towards where Ashaxei waited. Mounting the mighty dragon, Tathel seemed to concentrate for a moment, and then they took to the skies, flying above the clouds and into the sunlight. It took some time for Saarin to work out what to say, but in the end, the archmage spoke first.
“I am now free,” he said “to answer what remaining questions you have.”
“Those figures, back in our very first meeting. They sat on chairs. I remember that vision now. Who were they?”
“Gods.”
“What?”
“They were gods,” Tathel explained. “Or, rather, they were as close as a mortal mind can ever really come to seeing a true god without having their sanity clawed away, as yours was when you tried. You're lucky, Saarin. Not many survive that.”
“And the one who I could not see, only sense...”
“Asuryan.”
“The god of the elves.”
Tathel gave him an amused look. “Not the god of the High Elves?” he asked. Saarin shook his head.
“No,” he replied. “God of the elves.” Saarin paused, considering his next question. “Asuryan is the god of the elves. The Druchii do not worship him. The Sarthailirim, from what I remember, only paid him token
354 respect at best, and they are gone now at any rate. How does he survive?”
“He survives because the Asur survive.”
“The High Elves.”
“Yes. We are going there now.”
“Where?”
“A long time ago, before even the start of the civil war that ended with Malekith forcing Caledor and his followers off Ulthuan, Morelion, the son of Aenarion and Astarielle, departed Ulthuan. With him, he took a fleet of ships, intending to establish a colony, and make a name for himself that was not based solely on that of the Defender. In time, they came across the Isle of Elithis.”
“The what?”
“The Isle of Elithis. It's a sub-continent south of Nippon, but you never would have seen them on any of your maps, I suspect. It took me a great deal of time and effort to expunge all mention of it from written records. Once it was shielded, nothing could find it anyway, but the maps that existed prior to the shielding were more problematic. It matters little now, though. Morelion and his followers established a new kingdom there on Elithis, and later on, I directed the establishment of wards that shield it from any outside attempt to enter.”
“How?”
“I used the same principles that were applied by the Truthsayers on Albion for creating their own stone circles, but that is somewhat irrelevant at the moment. When Malekith rejected Asuryan and the rest of the pantheon, the Flame of Asuryan went out. A fragment of Isha's power remained in the form of Nairalindel, the Everqueen, but she did not pass it on to her daughter. Instead, she was compelled to seek out the lost Flame.”
“It went to Elithis,” Saarin guessed. Tathel nodded.
“Quite so. It sprang up one day without any warning in the Temple of Asuryan, and has burned there ever since. Nairalindel and her companions eventually, after many trials, were able to make it to the mainland near to Elithis proper. It was there that they were caught by Kasiliath Sapherior.”
“His line contained the High Princes of Saphery before the Vraneths.”
“Yes. Kasiliath moved to destroy what was left of Nairalindel's group – Kerythe, Nairalindel herself, Prince Lathaniel, the remaining contingent of Phoenix Guard, what was left of the White Lions, and her Handmaidens. All in all, perhaps a thousand elves or less. Kasiliath would have destroyed them had it not been for the elves of Elithis arriving. There were no survivors.”
“Which led to the disappearance of the entire army.”
“Yes. Don't interrupt so often, though.” Tathel paused, collecting his thoughts. “Nairalindel was
355 wounded in the battle, and Kerythe was killed,” he continued, “and so when she was brought to Tor Elithis, she was placed in the Flame of Asuryan, along with the Crown of the Phoenix King. To this day, she has slept within the flames, eternally youthful but eternally asleep.”
“Why hasn't she woken up?”
“The Everqueen must be wed to a Phoenix King,” Tathel explained. “Until there is a new Phoenix King, she will sleep.”
*
“Be calm, young lord,” Morathi said with a smile as she caressed Kurl's shoulders. “All will be well. You were right to slay your father, for he was, after all, a traitor to our lord Slaanesh.”
“The others escaped,” Kurl said softly.
“No matter, High Prince,” she murmured into his ear. “They will be hunted down, in time. For now, there are more pressing matters to attend to, are there not?”
Illiria had betrayed her, and paid the price. There was little point in waiting for her own chance to strike out before Alith Anar arrived. Even as Morathi began to fall into the passions that so pleased her lord, her mind continued to calculate new plans, new strategies. She would have to wait for the Everchosen now, before striking. Perhaps he could be turned to her will, though she doubted it. Still, it bore consideration.
*
They had been flying for hours, and little conversation had taken place since Tathel had explained Elithis to him. Saarin was considering the questions he still had, when something else occurred to him.
“You didn't say what happened to Prince Lathaniel,” he inquired of Tathel. “Did he survive?”
“He died,” the archmage answered shortly.
“How?”
“Painfully.”
Pointing downward to the gathering fog bank, Tathel changed the subject. “We have to go lower,” he explained. “There is a certain beacon that we must attend to before we finish our journey to Tor Elithis.”
Saarin nodded, and they began to descend, until they were all but skimming the tips of the waves in the darkening fog. Ahead of them, they could see a small globe of magical light, faintly outlining what looked like a Dragonship and serving as what Saarin assumed was the beacon that promised safe passage. So they would be making the final journey by ship, it appeared.
Ashaxei hovered easily as they dismounted onto the deck of the Dragonship for what would be the final stage of the journey. Saarin thought it best to avoid pondering the implications of how quickly they had
356 travelled across what was effectively the entire world, and what it would mean if many more dragons of Ashaxei's age and power existed to do such.
The elves waiting on the deck knew the archmage, or so it seemed, and they greeted him with respectful bows. Then the ship was under way. Nobody spoke to Saarin. Which was just as well, since he wasn't entirely sure what he would have said to them. As far as they knew, he was the enemy. Or perhaps they merely weren't very talkative. It could be possible.
*
The prow of the ship knifed through the water quickly now, the fog beginning to lighten. the Dragonship itself didn't particularly interested Saarin, since he had been on them before, many times. No, now, he would finally see the Isle of Elithis, home of the Asur. The gray curtain seemed to roll back, and they emerged.
It was, in a word, stunning. The fog seemed to vanish as if it had never been, revealing a land of white beaches and a great harbour. The city seemed to glimmer in the sunlight, marble and gold architecture of a style not seen since before the civil war. Even the stories and images Saarin had seen of Sarthailor didn't even begin to approach this kind of majesty.
“Tor Elithis,” Tathel said from beside him. He had thrown his hood back, basking in the sunlight as they approached. The wound, Saarin noticed, had completely healed – no trace of it remained. “We should move quickly,” Tathel continued. “Your final test is about to begin.”
Saarin felt a distinct sense of nervousness as he walked up the street. At least he was able to blend in moreso than he would have in his usual clothing. Everywhere he looked, he could see elves. Some were merry, laughing as they conversed, but every now and again he would notice one who seemed as awed by the entire spectacle as he himself was. He mentioned it to Tathel, who nodded in understanding.
“They are the Sarthailirim,” he explained. “It has taken some time for them to begin growing accustomed to life here. Some of them, I think, blame us for not coming to their aid.”
“Why didn't you?”
“It wasn't time.”
Saarin nodded, then motioned up ahead. Three buildings seemed to dominate the city before him – one, a giant temple complex that he knew would be the Temple of Asuryan. The second was off to the left, a large building, though somehow not ostentatious. It was, Tathel informed him, the residence of the ruler of Elithis and his government. Off to the right was a tall, white tower, stretching into the sky.
“The White Tower,” he noted, recalling the one mention of it that he had heard before now. Tathel nodded. “Where mages and archmages study magic.” Tathel nodded again. “Where you learned magic?” Tathel shook his head at that last, smiling faintly.
Further conversation was limited, as they had arrived before the temple steps. Awaiting them was a figure, and as soon as Saarin looked at him, he stopped short. For sure, there were vague differences here and there, but this tall, strong, and evidently skilful blond-haired elf could well be the image of
357 Aenarion the Defender.
“Auralion,” Tathel said. “Son of Ancelion, of the line of Aenarion. He is the general of the armies of Elithis.”
Reaching the warrior, the two of them bowed, but Auralion waved them off. “Welcome, Tathel,” he said. “I assume that this is your candidate?”
“Correct.”
“He passed all the tests?”
“All but one, Auralion. He must pass through.”
“Pass through what?” Saarin was becoming confused.
Auralion looked at Tathel. “You didn't tell him?”
“It would have been premature,” the archmage replied with a slight shift of his shoulders.
“Tell me what?”
“Your final test, Saarin Vraneth of Saphery, is to pass through the Flame of Asuryan and be judged by the head of the pantheon,” Auralion told him. “Should you prove worthy, you will become the Phoenix King.”
*
“This is insane,” Saarin said as he paced around the antechamber. Tathel was waiting calmly by the door. “I never thought-”
“I didn't see a need to tell you before you were ready,” Tathel said.
“But there's something I don't understand,” Saarin muttered. “I remember sensing a presence while I was drifting through the Aethyr. I thought that was Asuryan.”
“It may well have been. That was not the test, however. Then, Asuryan perhaps only wanted to see if you were one of the Asur. Now, you will be judged more rigorously.”
“How do you know what a god could think?”
“I don't – it was a guess.”
“Why didn't you say you didn't know for sure?”
“Would you have believed me?”
Saarin had no reply to that. Not that it mattered, because Auralion chose that moment to step through
358 the door, motioning to him as he did so. It was time.
The chamber itself was of plain white marble, in something of a cube shape. At the core of the room was a raised section of floor, with steps leading up to the Flame of Asuryan. It burned steadily and brightly before the assembled elves – Saarin, Tathel, Auralion, an older elf who he assumed was Auralion's father, the current ruler of Elithis, and armed elven maidens who could only be the personal guards of the Everqueen. Their tradition had clearly held, as had that of the Phoenix Guard, standing silent and immobile at the great double doors leading out of the chamber.
Tathel stepped forward, then turned and placed his hand on Saarin's forehead. He murmured a few soft words, the incantation echoing in the ears of the candidate.
“The ceremonial warding spells,” he explained. “Now, go.”
The former dark elf took a deep breath, then ascended the steps to stand before the Flame. It burned steadily, and within its depths – larger inside than outside – he could see a figure floating within the flames. The Everqueen, he realised. She still slept within the Flame of Asuryan. There was no heat. Saarin stepped into the Flame of Asuryan.
*
The creature seeks assurance, knowledge; the right to rule the Children of Asuryan. Is it worthy of the authority?
*
The first thing that Saarin sensed when he entered the Flame was that there was, indeed, no heat, whether within or without the white-hot fire. It was as if he had been telling himself that over and over again, in the – quite rational – fear that he would be burned to ash, as Malekith had almost done in his own attempt to be confirmed as Phoenix King. It was not to be the case, however, as he stood calmly within a great 'room' of fire.
Abruptly, he felt something touch his mind. It was... curious. It wanted something, though he couldn't quite be sure what. Tathel had told him that this would be his final test. It seemed to flicker across the edges of his mind, seeking something. He could see images of Ulthuan, of Malekith, Morathi, of Tathel flash across his mind. More than anything else, though, he could see the ring of sitting figures, only now they were much sharper, more realised than they had been then, such a long time ago now. His face seemed imprinted, somehow, on many of them. Or not his face, but elements that resembled his face. It was an oddity.
And more than that, he couldn't just sense the last figure. Saarin could see him, and words simply... failed. He could no more capture and understand the mighty and in some ways terrible majesty of the being than he could fly by flapping his arms. Some part of him thought to kneel before it, but something else within him – pride, perhaps – compelled Saarin to stand tall. If he was to be judged by Asuryan, he would meet his fate on his feet. He did not cower in fear. There was a sense of... satisfaction? Before Saarin, the flames coalesced into something more solid. He knew even before looking at her face that she was the Everqueen, the Handmaiden of Isha. Nairalindel.
359 It was as Tathel had said – her youth had been retained. Though Saarin only had images seen on the pages of books, or scrolls, she was even more beautiful in person than she had been in art. She floated, suspended on a fountain of flame, clad in a simple white silk robe bordered with golden thread. Shimmering gold hair drifted freely about her face, which bore a peaceful expression. Her hands were crossed at her breast, and she carried the Stave of Avelorn. The Star of Avelorn glittered upon her brow.
Saarin could feel Asuryan's presence around him again, but this time, it was expectant. Above the sleeping Everqueen, a battle helm appeared, formed of flames but becoming steadily more solid as he watched. There was no need to examine it closely, for it was plain to Saarin's eyes what it was. The Crown of the Phoenix King, worn by Aenarion the Defender in his battles against Chaos. Hands trembling, Saarin took the crown from where it floated. The god's mind flickered one final time, the passing of judgment, as it moved in close to him, closer than it had ever been before. There was a touch, a direct one this time, mind to mind, and white fire consumed everything.
*
Tathel watched as the Flame of Asuryan exploded into blinding fire, sheets of flame rising up to burn into the roof. Words appeared on the walls, inscriptions in flame that bespoke of a great war to come, even the war to end all wars. He paid it little mind, though – the archmage had known that it would say something to that effect.
“Now,” he said quietly, “the final judgment.”
He could see a figure outlined in the Flame. Had he a heart, it would have jumped as he realised that it was indeed Saarin. The second son of Drukh Vraneth stepped out of the Flame of Asuryan a changed elf. Before, his hair had been black, but now it was the same golden colour as that of the one he carried in his arms. Blue eyes that seemed to almost burn with knowledge and power met Tathel's own. The archmage inclined his head as all the elves in the chamber bowed before he who had been Saarin, stepping forwards with the feathered cloak in his hands. With a single motion, he settled the mantle about the shoulders of his former student.
“Behold,” Tathel announced to the elves in the chamber. “Bel-Saarin, Phoenix King!”
In the king's arms, the Everqueen stirred, eyes opening for what had been the first time in millennia. Tathel could feel the gentle caress of her spirit as it returned, and she unsteadily stood, leaning against the Phoenix King for support. She seemed confused as her eyes flickered across the people, as if she had been sleeping. Which, in a sense, she had been. When they touched on Tathel, however, the archmage could barely restrain from flinching at the look, different from the others. Confusion, then realisation, and even a touch of horror. He made no move, no sign that he had seen it other than to quietly step down away from Bel-Saarin, avoiding her gaze. She knew.
There was a chime, one that Tathel knew would echo across the city. The Winds of Magic seemed to race around those in the chamber, a pure white light suffusing everything as the new Phoenix King strode out, trailed by the observers. Any residual suffering that he had gone through, any sign of self- doubt had been burned away by the Flame, which burned steadily in the chamber behind them, marking for all eternity the sign of Asuryan's favour to his chosen people.
*
360
Morathi howled, a sudden sharp stab of pain ramming itself into her skull. The High Sorceress of the Cult of Pleasure, Queen Mother of Ulthuan, Leader of the Council of Princes, could do naught against it but curl up into a shaking ball on the floor of her chambers. Something – someone – had awoken, and the very fact of its occurrence filled her with stark terror.
*
There was revelry, to be sure. Bel-Saarin was the first Phoenix King since the long-lost days of Caledor the Protector, and he was feted and paraded around in between the necessary customs – his ritual marriage to Nairalindel, duties of establishing a court, and many more. However, in all the clamour, one thought still rode high in the minds of the Phoenix King, Everqueen, and others: the question of war.
“I think,” Auralion said to the Phoenix King as the three of them – Bel-Saarin, Auralion and the ever- present Tathel – looked down at the harbour from the balcony of Auralion's home, “that the choice has been made for us, my lord. We may dislike Malekith's Druchii, but Ulthuan itself still needs to be kept from harm. It can't fall into the hands of Alith Anar, for he will most probably prove capable of doing what Morathi has failed to accomplish for millennia now.”
“The destruction of the Vortex,” Bel-Saarin agreed with him. “Tathel?”
“I originally chose you as a candidate for the exalted position you now hold because I felt a bridge between the worlds of Ulthuan and Elithis was necessary,” the archmage noted. “For sure, it is unlikely that there will ever truly be a friendship between the two nations, but there needs to be some sort of connection between the two. This war will require the strength of both the Asur and Druchii if it is to be won, Phoenix King.”
“What of the Cult of Pleasure?” The question had come from Auralion. “I must confess that I know little of the current events in Ulthuan beyond what our agents communicate to us.”
“The Cult of Pleasure is powerful,” Bel-Saarin mused, “but is, I think, largely countered by the Cult of Asuryan. We will need a figure strong enough to muster the strength of Ulthuan's less religiously inclined warriors, one whom they will follow into battle.”
“Don't concern yourself with finding one, Phoenix King,” Tathel informed him. “The process is already under way.”
“Are you keeping secrets from me, Tathel?”
“Of course.”
“You are sworn to obey my commands, as a subject of the Phoenix King?”
“Yes.”
“And if I command you to reveal your secrets?”
“I would ignore you.”
361
Bel-Saarin made as if to say something, then sighed. “I should have expected as much,” he muttered. “Auralion, how great is our military force?”
“Perhaps not quite as powerful as that of Ulthuan,” Auralion replied. “We are less... overt... in our displays of strength, however. And our numbers may be fewer, but we train for much longer than the average soldier.”
“I'm not sure that I follow you.”
“We are fewer in number, yes,” Auralion explained, “but are highly trained. Our navy is crewed by the Sea Guard. The Order of the White Lion are some of the finest warriors in Elithis. The Dragon Princes can be called upon, too. Though the dragons of Elithis are fewer in number compared to those sleeping in the caves of Caledor, they are nothing to be sneered at unless you are a fool. The legions of the Phoenix Guard will be ready for your decision, and Tathel would be better suited than I to explain the White Tower.”
“Tathel?”
“I helped create the White Tower,” the archmage explained. “They number among the greatest mages of this generation. The current High Loremaster is Korhadris, I believe. He directs the entire order of mages and archmages, and commands the Swordmasters.”
“Swordmasters?”
“You should know,” Tathel replied. “I taught you some of the movements that they learn. I doubt that you are a match for the Swordmaster Captain, Hallar, or able to face Auralion,” he indicated the descendant of Morelion, who smiled faintly, “but you are at least competent, I would hope.”
Bel-Saarin's mind flicked back to some of the lessons he had been given in the whiteness. “The dance- like moves you taught me,” he guessed.
“Of course. But you are more a leader than a warrior, and so I instructed you as such.”
The Phoenix King was silent for a long moment, watching as a Dragonship pulled out from the docks, leaving to go on patrol. “We're drawing afield from the question,” he finally said. “Do we move to aid Ulthuan?”
“The choice is yours, my lord,” Auralion said. “I and others can advise you, but the final decision is yours alone.”
“Tathel? You agree?”
“I do.”
Bel-Saarin was silent for a time, watching the Dragonship sail into the distance. He looked inward, seeking some sort of answer. He couldn't feel Asuryan observing him, but he knew that he was Phoenix King because he had been judged worthy. A bridge between worlds, Tathel had called him. But in order
362 to be such, worlds needed to exist in the first place. He nodded to himself, his decision made.
“Begin the mobilisation,” he instructed Auralion. “Elithis will go to war.”
363 Out of the Wilderness By VictorK Ulthuan in Flames
Drip, drip, drip. His third and final awakening was punctuated by the sound that reverberated throughout the cabin as if it were an expansive cave. He was warm. Fingers of heat caressed his midsection and chest before pooling at his lower back. He was awake, but kept his eyes closed, adrift in the drunken haze between waking and rising. The warmth around him filtered into the core of his being, and once there began to quicken his breath. What had been peaceful waking was being invaded by darker desires. In the limitless possibilities contained by the space between lucidity and dreaming, a space which even gods dare not regulate, Aikhen attributed to himself an endless slaughter stretching back for eons. The heat that rushed through him was the exhilaration of battle, the satisfaction of annihilation. The feeling turned his stomach and sent sharp pangs of discomfort through his body. The pain dispelled the tantalizing vision, and he finally opened his eyes.
He was covered in blood. He was unable to slow his breathing as panic overwhelming the feelings of rage and murder. Aiken’s left hand rested on his solar plexus where it had oozed blood all through his sleep. The thick crimson liquid traveled in rivulets between his muscles and his ribs before soaking into the hammock that supported him. From there, once it had saturated the cloth, it dripped onto the floor. By now the flow was regular, a steady drip, drip, drip. A cold sweat broke out on Aiken’s brow as he tried to keep his composure. He slowly lifted his hand, drawing a dripping red curtain between his palm and his chest. He deliberately began to turn, keeping his eyes on his red hand as his feet went to the floor. They splashed. Blood pooled up to his ankles, sending warmth that turned ice cold up his legs. Aikhen was shaking now that he stood in the pool, searching for the walls of the cabin that would provide a check on the expansion of the blood pouring from him. They were gone, and he stood alone in the dark cavern that replaced the ferryman’s ship. The blood was no longer dripping; it flowed from his hand in a constant cascade to the floor beneath him.
Out of the darkness figures began to appear. These were not the immaculate elves that had passed by him in the dead city. They were wretched, like him, but less real. He could see through them, but soon the throng that had gathered made each one seem as real as he was. The full range of emotions played out in the crowd, some wore faces of anguish, others of sadistic glee. A few were resigned to their fate; others seemed to plead for another moment. All of them looked at Aikhen, men, women and children all. Their eyes accused him, piercing his chest with the force of their certainty. To them he was guilty, and he didn’t know why. The wretched one fell to his knees, arms hanging limply at his sides. Blood splashed up onto his skin, but he barely felt it. His hand was oozing freely, the fingertips just brushing the surface of the pool. “What is it.” He whispered, face contorted into a tortured look as he was forced to behold the silent faces. “What have I done?” He asked, but knew he would get no reply. “What have I done…” He lowered his head.
“Ah, master Aikhen!” The ferryman’s masked face peered below the deck from the surface. “I trust that you slept well?”
364 Aikhen looked up. The cabin was restored, there was no sign of any blood. He knelt next to his hammock, completely dry.
“Lost in prayer, I see.” The ferryman descended a few steps into the cabin. “An odious habit, prayer. Why offer up any sentiments to the gods above, when they turned a deaf ear, hmm? Surely master Aikhen knows that he is all alone in this world.” Aikhen rose, taking a few breaths to steady himself. He stared at his hand, and found it dry as a bone. “Come, then! The lioness and I are waiting. We have just returned from a very important meeting.” He extended a gloved hand towards Aikhen, who took it. The wretched one was led out of the cabin and onto the full deck, where a light breeze which seemed to catch only the ship’s sail was lazily blowing across the water.
The lioness was sitting at the ship’s bow, her fur twisted by the gentle breeze as she looked to the west. There, on the far horizon, a golden light was just creeping over the surface of the water. Its pale glow reflected off the mirror like surface of the water and was disturbed by the passing ship’s wake. It was the first light in the sky that had not shone with either malice or indifference. It warmed Aikhen to look upon it, and his feet were rooted to the deck as he first beheld its glow.
“It’s beautiful.” He murmured, giving voice to the feeling in his heart. It was meant for no one in particular.
“It is that.” The ferryman replied. “And it is where we are headed, though we shall never reach it. Nor shall it break up the darkness on the coast we have just now left. It is fixed in place, this light, though it shone much brighter in older times.”
“I should liked to have seen it.” Aikhen replied.
The ferryman shook his head. “You would have been blinded, and thus, you would not have seen it at all. To look upon the light’s true face is to invite utter destruction.” He tapped the mask that covered half of his face. “Better, then, to hide ourselves so that even if we are not as bright as we might have been, we can preserve those around us, and share in what they have to offer. When light shines from you, master Aikhen, take care that its purpose is to illuminate, not to blind. All can appreciate a warm light, but a light so impressive as to blind…well, that is a light that no one sees.”
Aikhen just nodded, not quite grasping the ferryman’s words but content to listen to them. The lioness turned and started to pad back towards the two new arrivals. “It is good that you are awake, Aikhen. Our journey is almost at its end.” She looked over her shoulder at the line. “Soon we will have a new shore. And from there…not long to travel.”
“What will I see there?” Aikhen asked. Reflexively he hid his hand behind his back, as if he was ashamed to show it.
“Nothing.” The ferryman picked up for the lioness.
“Everything.” The lioness was speaking before she even knew that the ferryman had stolen her line. At the contradiction the two looked at one another for a long moment, amusement and unease passing between them. “Are we the demiurgi now, speaking in riddles and contradictions?” The lioness asked softly, slowly averting her gaze from the ferryman.
365 “Such a fate is perhaps closer than we would find comfortable.” He replied. “But,” and then he turned to Aikhen, “Sometimes a question can have two contradictory answers. On one level, on the surface, principles can be opposed…But go deeper, and you will find them united, each speaking to a different part of a truth. Remember this, Aikhen.” The ferryman seemed to smile. “No truth worth knowing is easily grasped at first glance. We call that not truth but temptation, and it is the ruin of many.”
“Is that why I am here, then?” Aikhen asked, looking between his guardians. “To hear lectures? I have seen so much, and been lectured throughout, but what have I done?” His fists clenched. “What am I to do with all that you have shown me? What is my purpose? How can I just be your blank slate, to write on as you wish?” He paused. “Or am I something you are trying to rewrite?”
The ferryman looked at him without a hint of emotion. There was sadness in the lioness’ eyes. She padded forward a step, and then sat in front of Aikhen. She did not immediately reply, and the hesitation caused him to shake with barely suppressed rage, and fear.
“I was something before this.” Aikhen murmured. “I see it peeking at me through the cracks in this world…” He held out his left hand, as if using it to accuse the two in front of him. “Why does my hand bleed?” He demanded. “Why does the blood disappear? Why am I given horror one moment and then words of wisdom the next? Why do you speak to me as if I was one of you? What am I? You gave me a name but it means nothing!” He was shouting, his thin frame quivering with the effort. “It means nothing!” He shouted again, the accusation in his tone pointed at his guardians. “Why did they look at me, as if I was that Harlot, who had devoured those souls?” He continued to shake, but the power was drained from his voice as the outburst had worn him out. “I loathe myself, and at last I am loathed. Why should you, two beings of great power and beauty, protect me?”
They responded with silence.
***
Morathi sat at the head of a great caravan, her sensual form hidden by curtains of flimsy silk. Thin enough to tantalize the commoners who lined the road in great throngs, thick enough that she could forget that they existed and retreat into her own thoughts. The pain still stung her. It had lost its sharp insistence of that first night when it appeared, but the dull ache was still there just behind her skull. The entire business with the Vraneths had left her with a sour taste in her mouth. She idly fingered the hoops that held together the strips of fabric she dared to call a gown, listening to them ring against one another. Something had happened in Saphery. The full extent of it was lost to her, and the uncertainty was enough to propel her into action. She leaned forward and carefully parted the front curtain of her palanquin in order to peer into the distance.
The once great complex was now little more than ruins. The training grounds and living quarters of the Black Guard, the most feared soldiers in all of Ulthuan, spread out around her. They engulfed the structure at their center, a structure that once commanded the respect of all elves on Ulthuan. She sneered at it. Its stones were close to collapsing, and its grandeur had been dwarfed centuries ago as Malekith’s architects erected the buildings around it. The vaguely pyramid shaped structure no longer glowed as it did in those early days, days which Morathi would be happy to forget. This was the great Shrine of Asuryan, an empty shell for an empty god. She let the curtains fall back into place. There was nothing else that she needed to see.
366 Her thoughts turned to what lay at her back. The vast procession contained the retainers of every High Prince in Ulthuan. A final gathering to take place before the oncoming war. Few sensed that war was upon them, but Morathi knew. It was only days, perhaps only hours, away. But by far the most important cargo behind her was the bier carried by the elite soldiers of the Black Guard, all hand picked by their Queen. An iron shod corpse was laid on top of it, and as it passed through the gates of the complex she could hear the mourning wails of the common people raised in the air. It was the last (and for many, the first) that they had seen of their beloved Malekith. Originally interred in the Living Shrine of Khaine in Anlec Morathi had decided that it was time for a more proper funeral. She could not permit a symbol of unity, a symbol of Khaine, to rally the people. The kingdom that her son had built from the ashes of Bel Shanaar’s realm ended today. And she had no regrets.
The palanquin bearing the Queen Mother and her host ascended the crumbling steps of the defunct shrine. The High Princes had dismounted at the base of the pyramid, each proceeding on foot up towards its peak. Malekith had been lowered onto the shoulders of the Black Guard who carried him, acting as an intermediary between the hidden queen and the nobles behind her. Few of the elves in the procession felt any trepidation at walking over the hallowed ground; it had been thousands of years since the building had had any meaning, and an oversight that it existed at all. Yet when at last they mounted the platform that terminated the steps and acted as the threshold for the temple itself few could avoid feeling something stir inside of them as they stared into the darkness of its depths. No one took a step further.
The palanquin was lowered to the ancient stones. The curtains parted, and the Queen Mother stepped out. Despite the cold air she was barely clothed; though she wore on her brow a crown that denoted her status and her role as high priestess. “Come, then.” She said in a sing song voice, smiling seductively at the men behind her. “We have a great deed to accomplish.” She turned, her ebony tresses bouncing around her shoulders as she walked into the darkness. Her attendants, slaves who had carried the palanquin, fell in afterwards. Each produced a torch, and lit it. But Morathi seemed to have no need of their light. It was for the benefit of the nobles.
The air inside the temple was stale, even though it had not been sealed. To the princes assembled within it felt more like a tomb than a place of worship. And perhaps something was buried in there, the Prince of Eataine wondered. Perhaps there was something moldering in the endless corridors turned catacombs that had once held the legions of the Phoenix Guard. The procession continued forward with regal purpose, allowing its members only furtive glances at the thick walls that surrounded them. The Prince of Eataine noted that the runes carved into the walls seemed shallow, familiar forms twisted into endless lines of gibberish or brief stanzas of madness.
“Do not try too hard to read what is on the walls.” Morathi cooed, her voice echoing through the structure. “We are passing through the old Chamber of Days, where the king of the gods Asuryan decreed to his slaves what menial tasks they were to perform for him. The traditional route to our destination is above us. I took us on this…detour to show you just what lives in the mind of a tyrannical god. This is what we were before, my princes. Interpreters of runes carved by a madman. Now, we are the ones who write the future and ordain what is to be done in the present. Look upon these runes, and recognize them for the chains they are! Look upon the corpse of the elf in front of you, and recognize him as your liberator.” She allowed the procession to continue in silence, past the seemingly endless lines of Eltharin, now forever extinguished.
The group soon arrived at the heart of the temple, and the largest room they had yet come across.
367 Morathi’s attendants filtered out to the room’s periphery and placed their torches in the sconces prepared for that purpose. It was clear that Morathi had led them on a long way to this chamber, a slight breeze could be felt coming from the outside. The room was circular, and was perhaps once beautiful. Now its marble floor and its colorful fixtures were caked with dust and the residue from smoke. The chamber stank. Ten panels of red marble were still barely visible in the floor, radiating out from the center like a sunburst. There was a spot for each of the ten high princes of Ulthuan, and knowing this each instinctively took their place. The Black Guard filled the gaps between them. Morathi advanced towards the center of the room, where a shallow pit that seemed colder than the rest of the room was bridged by a slab of stone. Morathi knelt down, the body of Malekith hovering behind her in the arms of her soldiers. She touched the cold stone, smudging the dust with her fingers.
“Before my husband, the great Aenarion, no elf had set foot on this stone.” She said, her voice reverberating throughout the room. “Bel Shanaar walked upon it, as did my son. Caledor robbed it of its power.” She was distant, remembering first hand things that were to every other elf in the room merely legend. “Or, perhaps, he showed that this stone had no power to begin with. He showed us, with his weakness and his stupidity, that we were all of us fools to believe that the flames that once caressed this rock held any sway over us.” She rose, and stepped back. The Black Guard entered the concave depression beneath the stone and laid the body of Malekith upon it. “We will give it power, now.”
Morathi looked at the assembled princes, counting off those she could trust and those who must die. “What I shall do today can never be undone.” She declared. “With this sacrifice I transfer into my power and the power of my master the soul of every elf past, present, or yet to come. But in order to realize how this is possible one thing must be understood above all else.”
“Khaine is dead.”
***
They beached the ship on the new shore and set out over land. A deep, clinging mist illuminated by the feeble light emanating from the western horizon covered the landscape. This land, it seemed, was truly empty. The wilderness, now an ocean away, had seemed more alive than the bare rocks and thin grasses that Aikhen encountered. As they moved inland the mists choked out the sky above, sealing the small party within the world that it created. For now Aikhen walked on his own two feet, the lioness beside him and the ferryman leading the way through the rock strewn hillocks that barred their path. The final leg of the journey over the water resembled the first steps on the new shore in that both were filled with a tense silence. The mist deadened all sound, so that the crunching of gravel under a passing foot almost startled the person walking with its rudeness. No more answers had been forthcoming to Aikhen, though he continued to brim with questions.
Time, again, was an illusory thing. The mists swallowed it in the same way the endless twilight of the wilderness had rendered such a thing as the passing of days or hours meaningless to those passing through it. But even if time was gone life had persisted, the wilderness though at times appearing empty served as a lens to view the chaos that swirled around it. But this new place was not like that. “Does anyone live here?” Aikhen wondered, peering through the mists for a sign of the familiar lights that once he was aware of them seemed to dog his every move in the wilderness.
“Not for a very long time.” The lioness replied. “This place is a crypt, Aikhen. We walk over the graves of the greatest of us, now passed. Grass has grown over where they lie, and the stones that marked them
368 and told of their deeds now lie scattered around, indistinguishable from normal rocks.”
Aikhen reached for the lioness and entwined his fingers into her fur. “So why have we come?” He asked. He kept pace with her, or she slowed to accommodate him, but they walked side by side, sharing the same somber look despite the differences in their visage. Both found the contact reassuring.
“We’re here to meet someone!” The ferryman broke the silence, spinning on the ball of one foot and gesturing grandly towards the fog. “Isn’t that what it always is, master Aikhen? A long walk to nowhere, another face that you won’t recognize to tell you things that make no sense?” He laughed, spinning forward again. “My maiden, you do him a disservice with that glower! Why, I remember when you smiled! When we all enjoyed good dreams.” He hopped form rock to rock, leading the way. “Ah, but you buried those dreams, didn’t you? Buried them as you were commanded, or did you simply forget to bring them with you?” The lioness regarded his jeering impassively and simply continued to lead Aikhen up the gradual slope that they soon encountered. “We are not far now, master Aikhen.” The ferryman whispered in his ear as the two passed him by. “I am really going to cherish the look on your face.” His jovial tone almost turned malicious, and then he bounded away.
The walk over land turned into a hike. The rolling hillocks and sparse rocks became a steep slope choked with boulders. They picked their way through, the ferryman light as a feather and the lioness as surefooted as any mountain cat. It was Aikhen who struggled, who always seemed to struggle no matter the terrain. He scrambled over the smaller rocks and leaned against the moss covered boulders for support. The climb was turning vertical, and just when it seemed that the hike up the slope would become impossible the mists parted and revealed the plateau that terminated the sharp incline. Aikhen pulled himself atop it, and lay in the cloying damp for a few moments as he stared into the grey, wispy sky. The lioness appeared over him, her pale face staring into his. “Get up.” She said softly. “We don’t have much time to spare.” She lowered her head, and allowed him to grab it, to use her to pull himself up one last time.
A platform, made from carved stone blocks now cracked and crumbling, stood at the center of the plateau. They all advanced towards it. Perhaps the stones had once been grey but now they were a sickly green. Pieces of the platform littered the area, blocks large and small that once made a greater structure. Of them two small towers remained, each barely taller than Aikhen and held in place more by the vegetation that clung to them than the masonry that had erected them. Together they framed a window looking west. Aikhen ascended the few steps that were needed to reach the modestly elevated stones. The ferryman and the lioness soon followed behind him, and then moved to either side. They stopped at the edge of the platform; he continued to move forward until he was at the center.
“We have defied you!” The ferryman declared. The sudden outburst rooted Aikhen to where he stood, at dead center. “Not only have we returned, against your most *sacred* edicts, but we have brought another, as well!” The ferryman almost sounded triumphant as he egged on whatever presence lurked behind those mists. “Come then, old man, will you not judge us? Is that not your function?”
Silence prevailed. The mists rolled with the passing of a breeze that had not been present before. Aikhen could not help but feel an uneasiness after the provocation. He was reluctant to face whatever it was that the ferryman was calling out. The mists began to swirl in between the two pillars, turning about in a corkscrew until a long cone was carved out of them. The light which lingered o the horizon was now visible at its source for the first time since they had set out. That stillborn dawn cast its rays onto the platform, onto Aikhen. A golden light, distinct from that softness, started to manifest in the turn of the
369 spiral that channeled the dawn. Aikhen tried to step back, but the moment he moved from the central spot the golden light flamed to life and became a roaring flame that burned away the mist in its vicinity. It expanded, pushing back more of the obscuring curtain while keeping the point of the dawn as its focus. Concentric circles of golden fire now loomed over the party, utterly dwarfing them and the platform they stood upon. As the light from this array flowed over the plateau the lioness adopted her old regalia, the streaks of crimson and multicolor flowing from her body on the grace of the gentle wind. The power that she had displayed against the Harlot was restored, and to Aikhen it was a reassuring presence.
“Tell him why you have come here, Aikhen.” The lioness urged, sitting on her haunches as she regarded her charge. “Tell him what I have shown you.”
“Him?” Aikhen asked as he regarded the circles above him, trying in vain to wrap his mind around the concept of such a display as a…being.
“Yes, him.” The ferryman chimed in. “You look upon the greatest of us. I imagine he’s quite furious, you see we have disobeyed him quite egregiously in doing what we have done. Ah, well. Such is life, to dare to cheat the powerful!”
Aikhen nodded slowly. He didn’t quite feel up to cheating this entity. “I am Aikhen.” He told the thing above, even if his confidence in that name was shallow. “I come to you, mighty one, from the wilderness far away. I do not know how I got there, or why. There is much about me that I do not know.” He looked over his shoulder at the lioness. “But I have been educated. I have seen a world in pain, mighty one…though I do not know how to fit into it. Aside from my own I have learned only one name, the name of Malekith.” He was focused now on the light at the heart of the rings. “I have learned much about his evil, of the sorrow he has brought to this world. Most of all I have felt, within me, the emptiness that he has unleashed. I have seen, first hand, those he let in by opening up that void. I have seen the light from his son, the light that I am told will end the world. Mighty one, I do not know why your servants have looked so kindly upon me. I do not know why the lioness, who has been my protector and my only friend, has taken pity on such a wretched one as I. I want to repay her, mighty one, and all others. My only desire is to undo what has been done, so that I need never again feel the emptiness that has inspired so much hatred. Let me confront the legacy of Malekith.”
The great being did not immediately reply. He seemed to consider the wretched one before him. His silence persisted.
Aikhen held up his left hand, noting that blood now oozed from the folds in his palm. “I do not know why my hand bleeds.” He whispered, feeling that the being’s silence invited more from him. “But I know that its blood threatens to drown me. I know also that it is a part of me, that who I am is in this bloody hand. Perhaps I bleed so that others do not have to. I bleed for the same reason that I can see, and hear, so that I can better understand the education given to me by the lioness. Please, mighty one. I have a destiny, I can sense it. Let me use it, let me know who Malekith was, and let me learn from him, so that I may correct the great evil that he has perpetrated.”
The reply from the great being was swift and immediate. “YOU ARE MALEKITH.” His voice threw back the mist in all directions and staggered the wretched one standing before him. The tone of his words was not merely declarative but carried with it a final judgment, as if those three words contained everything that was relevant and portended all that was to be. No other words were necessary.
370
Aikhen was silent. His chest rose and fell as his breathing quickened. The words did not sting him, they were simply incomprehensible. They jarred against his entire experience, everything he knew himself to be. He looked at the lioness, though her head was bowed and her gaze considered the mossy stones.
“Well, didn’t you hear him?” The ferryman’s voice was tinged with glee. “I’m surprised that he even said it. I had a whole speech worked out, you see. It was quite brilliant, and likely would have explained more, but his speech is so rare that all my rhetoric looks pathetic by comparison. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“What can I say?” Aikhen replied softly, his shoulders dropping. “But that I cannot be that person.” He turned back to the great fire being. “What is your test, then? Am I supposed to see the weakness in myself, to see that I too am touched by this evil? If you want me to be humble, then I can assure-“
“No, Aikhen!” The lioness cut him off. She raised her head to regard him. “You are Malekith. I knew it the moment I looked into your face, as did all the others you have come across. You are responsible for the evil I shown you.”
Aikhen’s face fell. There was no trick behind this. The last, greatest question had been answered. All that was left for him was to throw up other questions to disguise the gnawing doom that had filled him. “Why…why did you save me, then?”
“Ah, there it is!” The ferryman laughed with glee. “I have waited sooooo long to see that face on you, betrayer! Usurper! Traitor to your own people and your own blood! Save you? We never *saved* you! You did this yourself! You knew that the bargains you had made throughout that miserable catastrophe you called a life would tear your soul to pieces when you passed on, and so before the blade could steal your last, rasping breath you sent yourself here. I saved you because I wanted to see your face, just when you had found some last bit of hope…and see it squandered! I wanted to see what you looked like the moment you realized who you really were, who you have been for eons! I am glad that you had one last trick up your sleeve, Malekith. While watching you be torn apart by the demiurgi would have been satisfying this…this is more than I could have ever hoped for!”
“Oh lord!” The lioness called to the great god above. “Show us as we truly are!”
There was a second pulse that emanated from the circles, but Aikhen barely felt it. “Look upon us, Aikhen.” The lioness wheezed.
He turned to behold his companions. The lioness was not mighty, nor was she cloaked in divine raiment. She was covered in wounds, some festering, others healed over into scars that twisted through her dirty fur. He could recognize the wounds she had received from the harlot, wounds that still oozed with blood. His handprint was visible on her side. But despite this, her golden eyes burned with determination as they stared into him. Aikhen glanced towards the ferryman, who while not as injured was still ragged. His charm was gone, and his mask was cracked.
“We are dying, Aikhen.” The lioness told him. “For now, we are sustained. But that will not last. Not when the demiurgi find us, not when the light that we saw reaches here. Soon it will all be gone, Aikhen. What you felt will be even worse. What happened in the wilderness…it is nothing…nothing compared to what is going to happen.”
371
“He has chosen one to stop it.” The ferryman remarked to the lioness.
“Do not speak for him!” The lioness shouted. “If our lord wishes to speak he can do so for himself! You know as well as I that it is too little, too late! The power…the sheer power arrayed against his chosen one…He will perish, and so will we.”
“Better to perish, than to trust this traitor again. Do you think that he will give up his pursuit of power, just because you showed him some kindness?”
“I will give up power because she has shown me forgiveness.” Aikhen replied, cutting off the ferryman. “I am Malekith.” He declared. “Whatever rationalizations existed in my old context…They are gone. I am laid bare.”
“Aikhen…” The lioness began, concern in her voice.
“Your hand bleeds because you are a murderer, Malekith.” The ferryman continued. He would let no comfort come between him and the wretched one. “You bear a fragment of our brother, though he is no longer capable of manifesting himself. Do not pretend that there is a core of goodness you can rely upon to save you, Malekith. Do you think that a moment of self reflection acquits a lifetime of the most heinous crimes? It does not. It cannot. Our lord has passed his verdict.”
“But he has not declared his sentence!” Aikhen cried. He turned back to the great being that stood watch over them. “I do not know who you are!” He cried at the rings. “But I now know who I am! I am Malekith!” He declared. “I am the greatest criminal that the world has ever known, the greatest evil that has ever been perpetrated on any people. I have seen that in a way that lays it bare to me. There can be no excuses.” He lowered his head. “But in spite of all that, one of your own, who I have wronged, has forgiven me. There is nothing left, then. It has come full circle.” He fell to his knees. “I can’t believe in my own promises. I want to prevent their destruction, I want to end the emptiness…but how can I craft a promise to do that, now that I know who I was? I am truly wretched.” He balled his hands into fists. “Annihilate me, then!” He finally looked up into the heart of the great deity, staring down into the depths. “If doing so means that you can focus on helping those that might still have use of your aid, then annihilate me!” He was shouted. “If I am just an amusement, destroy me! Leave me to rot in this place. I want nothing from you but that my infamy is laid to rest, that I become nothing. Let me perish. I have cheated death enough.”
There was a blinding light from within the center of the rings, and Aikhen’s pleas were heard.
***
The Prince of Eataine frowned at Morathi’s words. He stepped forward; the charge of ‘blasphemer’ on his lips before the Black Guard next to him grabbed his arm and pulled him back into place. It was then that he realized that he was going to die.
“Khaine is dead.” Morathi said again. “And we have destroyed him. This is the greatest deed that has ever been accomplished by our kind or any other. It alone makes us masters of the world.” She looked around the room and read the discomfort on the faces of a few select princes. “How is that possible, you ask? It is possible because Khaine was always weak. Khaine, the god of murder…Should he not be
372 strong, for all the murder of my son’s regime? For all the death that his machinations caused?” She smiled slyly and began to walk around the central depression, hips swaying with each step. “Ah, but my machinations go deeper. What is Elthin Arvan, but an altar upon which the greatest sacrifice in all of history has been offered? Khaine and his followers rushed to war, but it was I who was waiting in the shadows.” She chuckled darkly. “I have pulled Khaine in so many directions, through so many acts of perverted slaughter…that as he grew in power he grew closer to the Four who always threaten to engulf the weaker gods. And it was upon recognizing that this barrier was weakened, that his doom was near, that I drove a god to *madness*.”
A look of horror crossed over the faces of the princes who were slated to die. The ultimate heresy unfolding before them shocked even Druchii ears. “We razed communities. Slaughtered entire peoples. Merged with the forces of the Everchosen to contribute to his murderous rampage. How could a god of the elves remain independent, remain a god of the elves, if the elves engaged in such a project? He could not. It is impossible. The locus for his worship lies before you, dead before that final war even began. It is impossible, now, that the elves maintain their own gods. We have walked down a different path. I call for a universal pantheon, but we shall not be slaves!” Her declaration rang through the chamber. “We shall be kingmakers, the gods of the gods. My son has held us back from the support of one of the great powers, and now, flush with the power that only we can deliver, we will transform Four into One, and reign supreme over all that is and ever shall be.”
“To all of you who say that this is impossible, that the people will never abandon Khaine, or that the Vortex so coddled by my son will never fall so long as the elves guard it, I tell you that we are in the eleventh hour. In a few days, or perhaps in a few hours, Alith Anar, the Everchosen, will arrive on these shores with an army that has not been seen since the time of Aenarion.” The loyalist princes, who now understood that Ulthuan no longer belonged to them, recoiled in shock. Even those who had sworn fealty to Morathi and her Cult of Pleasure looked uneasy. “And when he arrives the body of his greatest foe will have been reduced to ashes. The last locus of Khaine, the last center for his continued worship independent from the Ruinous Powers will be gone. Today I do not just bury my son, I bury a god. I do not care if he lingers, waiting like the other weaklings for the final stroke to snuff out his existence. Khaine is dead. We have killed him. I tell you this because soon we will be gods ourselves, we will shape the world from the ashes of Alith Anar. He is a tool, nothing more. Ours are the hands that shall guide him; we are the ones who shall crown a new king of the gods.”
Morathi’s attendants stepped forward and replaced the Black Guard around Malekith’s body. They laid around him fuel for the fire that Morathi was summoning as she called upon the winds of magic. “Oh, my son.” She said, returning to her position before Malekith. She knelt before him. “I truly did love you, but I could never teach you that true power lay beyond an earthly crown.” She leaned over his body and kissed the metal plate that covered his face. The flames, dark and purple, issued forth where once the pure flames of the emperor of the gods reigned supreme. Morathi was not touched by their heat, even as smoke began to issue from the cracks in the Armor of Midnight. “I love you, son of Aenarion. Go, now. And complete the greatest task before you.” She sat back and knelt, praying over the burning corpse of her son.
The princes unlucky enough to stand outside of the Cult of Pleasure watched with horror as mother burned son. They all wanted to cry out, but all still feared the blades being leveled at their backs.
“From fire, to fire…” Morathi murmured, “Scorched so that not even rot would take hold of you, let fire free you, my son.” The runes on the armor, carved by Hotek thousands of years ago, flared once and
373 then died, undone by the magical heat conjured by the Queen Mother. Bits of orange began to lick at the purple flames as the flesh beneath the armor caught fire and burned. Smoke, acrid and thick, curled up towards the ceiling of the shrine. “Sleep, and rest eternal.”
The Shrine of Asuryan shook as if its foundation had been seized from below. A cry filled the room, a bird’s call filled with pain and rage. The purple flames conjured by the high priestess of the Cult of Slaanesh were chased away by a surge of white fire that engulfed the body of Malekith. The heat burned away the diaphanous material that covered Morathi’s body. The rings that had held it place glowed white hot and burned circles into her hips that could never be removed. The fire seemed to seek out the body inside the armor, and once it found that scorched flesh it burned all the brighter and more furiously. It was a mad flame, utterly reckless as it had been held back for far too long and now that it was free to rampage took any opportunity to do so. The cracks in Hotek’s armor were burst asunder as flame spilled from them, and at last the enchanted metal began to melt. Morathi watched in stunned silence, her magic lost to her as the fire sucked up the winds as fuel. No eyes were wider than hers when the figure at the heart of the flame sat up and his hand reached for her.
Morathi screamed when Malekith’s fingers, encased in the white hot metal, closed around her face. She howled as she never had before. The molten metal dripped from her son’s hands and hissed against her perfect body, forever marring her flesh. The crown on her head shattered from the heat and was lost forever. The princes, no matter what their creed, watched in horror as the Queen Mother was mutilated by a ghost. The Shrine shook again, and the fire now out of control at its heart began to burst through the marble of the floor. Stones began to fall from the ceiling, one crushing a Black Guard soldier. As Morathi screamed they decided to save their lives and flee the sacred chamber.
Outside the Shrine of Asuryan the common people and the retainers of the High Princes watched in confusion as the temple shook. They saw their lords spill out of the temple’s opening and flee towards their camps. White fire began to lick at the space between the stones, gradually pulling the temple apart. The commoners edged back, but they were still fixated on the awesome sight before them. The last figure to flee the temple before a gout of flame rushed from the entrance was an elf woman, naked, holding her face as smoke trailed behind her. None of them would ever guess that it was Morathi they had seen fleeing the temple. At last, a pillar of flame burst through the top of the Shrine, and fire poured from every crevasse and every entrance. Stones began to crumble, and some exploded under the heat. Every elf who witnessed the spectacle would claim that they saw a pair of wings made from the flame unfurl behind the doomed pyramid, before collapsing with it.
When the flame died, as suddenly as it had appeared, a figure emerged from the ruined hallway that lead towards to heart of the temple. He was tall, and crowned with a mane of unruly black hair hat fell down to his back. Even from a distance any elf in the crowd could perceive his piercing stare and his gaunt, sunken face. He was naked, but soon wrapped himself in a purple banner once he had descended the ruins of the shrine. He walked with purpose through the crowd, and there was not an elf, commoner, Black Guard, or noble, that dared to approach him. The Cultists who had come to crown their final victory now fled in all directions, but this figure, this unapproachable elf, paid them no heed. He approached a single elf, the captain of the Black Guard who had rushed to the site of the emergency, and who now stopped dead in his track as he fell under that icy blue stare.
“Kaellkillath.” The elf spoke. “I have returned to lead my people. Spread the word to every corner of Ulthuan. Malekith is restored, and as king he calls for war.”
374 ***
With the coast of Cothique visible in the distance Alith Anar could not bring a smile to his lips. The future was now closed to him. What had seemed certain was now in doubt. “I can feel them.” The Everchosen muttered. “What luck, that I will be able to kill him again.” The invasion proceeded.
375 Everything and Nothing By Voodoomaster Ulthuan in Flames
Arcanus Firestorm silently cursed as the Druchii patrol moved past above him. Dozens of heavily armoured elves from the retinue of the Queen Mother, armour clinking and weapons ready, and all of them watching for any movement. Arcanus would have been a source of that movement had he even moved just an inch, the black cloak he wore pinned against the rocks of the cliff. His breathing was controlled, his emotions in check. His mind, however, was frantic and racing, trying to work out what had happened at Lasgalen, the mighty fortress of the Vraneth family. He had felt the air… vibrate… hours ago, and had even seen the sun blocked out in Tor Tiaonna. He alone had ventured from the city to investigate the rumours now emerging from the Vraneth stronghold. Rumours that already he had begun to dread.
“Here is far enough,” the voice said. “None will find it here in this crevasse.”
Arcanus dared to look up slightly, towards the cloaked feminine figure above. She looked down into the dark depths of where he was hidden. He knew her voice. He had heard it months ago in Lasgalen. It was the voice of the sorceress rumoured to be Queen Morathi’s second, Lonicera. This… dark princess… was perhaps the most dangerous member of the Cult of Pleasure he knew, and here she was just a short distance away from him. Arcanus could hear his pulse quicken as Lonciera looked directly at his location. Her eyes seemed to pierce the gloom for a moment, but then she was looking elsewhere, turning away as two other elves flung a large bundle into the crevasse. It glanced off a rock near to Arcanaus before rolling down the softer sides and settling near the bottom. From above, Lonicera’s voice could be heard once again, and tears began to fall as he struggled to keep control.
“We return to Lasgalen,” she instructed those in her entourage, “for I am certain the Lady Morathi wishes to congratulate the new High Prince of Saphery on reaching his exalted position.”
Their laughter seemed cold and harsh as Arcanus stumbled down the slope, tears obscuring his vision as he reached the black robed bundle, pulling out a knife and cutting the cloth away from the figure. He hoped he was wrong. He prayed he was wrong. Anything but this. This was not how it was meant to be.
The knife fell from his lifeless fingers as Arcanus looked at the face of the figure, a look of shock still upon the now partly blackened face. His face fell and the tears continued to fall. His teacher, his enemy, his friend, his saviour. Drukh Vraneth was dead.
***
Before.
***
“I still don’t understand why you are doing this, Vraneth.”
376
“Firestorm,” the High Prince of Saphery replied, “for the benefit of both yourself and others, it is Prince Vraneth until I say otherwise.”
Arcanus frowned. He couldn’t work out what was going on. It had been several weeks since that fateful day in the canyon, fleeing Sarthailor as it burned in fire behind him. Since then he and his three companions had been forced to drop their armour and robes, donning the attire of Druchii warriors. Although initially they had been disgruntled, even angry at first, Arcanus saw the benefits, begrudgingly admitting that the armour was exceedingly useful. Sarthailor had little ithilmar, most of it remnants from before the Exodus. They stood together, the High Prince and the prisoner, upon the deck of the graceful Eagleship as it moved towards the capital of Saphery, Tor Tiaonna.
“Prince Vraneth,” Arcanaus chose his words carefully, “I can understand you saving us to serve you as slaves. I do not understand why you let the others live, though. From our tales, you are a barbaric warlord who delights in torturing any living thing. Yet here I am, standing beside you armed and speaking freely while my kinsmen below are cooking with your own warriors. What are you?”
Arcanus looked as Vraneth continued to stare to the north, as if looking for something. Abruptly, he turned, his sharp blue eyes – much like those of his second son, Arcanaus recognised – a contrast to his black hair. But it was the eyes that held Arcanus. They held power and wisdom in them as they looked through him. There was something different about this one. Then Vraneth looked away, as if lost in thought once more.
“Firestorm, you have only ever seen and heard of the extremes of Ulthuan,” he finally said, in the tones of one who chose his words carefully. “The ones who are willing to go to war for what King Malekith believed right and good. Yet many of us simply work, and live our lives. I have done the things you speak of, in my time. Perhaps I will be called on to do such again. I have learned, though, that some things are necessary evils, and I can at least understand and regret the choices I have made. You may prefer not to admit it, but we are not all the brutal, uncaring murderers that your people have portrayed us as, fellow Druchii.”
Arcanus opened his mouth to respond but the look upon Vraneth’s face, turning back to hold him captive, caused him to close his mouth once more. Again the eyes stared through him. Perhaps he was right? It was clear, whatever the reasons – he wasn’t sure that he understood them himself – that Prince Vraneth was not like those he had killed on the battlefield. Arcanaus idly wondered when he had begun to respect the High Prince.
“I called you fellow Druchii, Firestorm, because that is what we both are,” Drukh continued. “Druchii. Dark elves. We are elves who have lived without the light of Asuryan for ages now. It was Malekith who christened us as millennia ago. Your people in their arrogance may never have accepted or admitted it to themselves, but that is the truth.”
Arcanus looked north. He could see a dark tint in the sky to the north, and he knew what it was, though there existed only stories of the place. The Isle of the Dead. The High Prince was right, he recognised, in his assessment of Arcanaus. They were all Druchii. They had been living a lie. They had thought they were protected by Asuryan, but instead they been ignorant. Asuryan didn’t protect them. Did Asuryan even know or care that they existed? He looked back at Drukh, his eyes sad.
377 “What can we do?” He asked the question more to keep himself from despair than anything else, but the High Prince answered him.
“Everything and nothing, Arcanus Firestorm. I want you to travel Ulthuan in my name, doing everything and yet nothing at the same time. I want your word that you will obey me and that you will keep your silence. I warn you that this oath, should you utter it, will be one that you can never break. It cannot be broken except by your own death. We will teach you in everything we know. The Beast will turn his eyes here soon, and we must be ready.”
Arcanus nodded and looked at Drukh. He looked the part, aged but strong, his eyes seeming to flicker slightly, as if there was a chance – no more than a chance – that hope remained. Kneeling, he looked down at the deck, his mind unsure and even amazed at his reason for doing this. Weeks ago such an act would have made no sense to him at all, but now, something was different.
“I will serve, my lord.”
The dull thump of an amulet near his feet caused Arcanus to look up slightly. It was a talisman, a small golden box. It meant something, he knew. Rising up, Arcanaus grasped the box, feeling a strange warmth coming from inside. Turning it over and examining the symbol, suddenly everything became clear. He realised what Drukh Vraneth was doing, and he nodded, handing the talisman back to the High Prince, who once more looped it over his neck and tucked it under his clothing. Closing his hand as if to hold the last bit of lingering warmth in his closed fist, Arcanaus looked at his former enemy, understanding now in his mind. Drukh simply walked away, his midnight blue cloak billowing with the wind.
***
Now.
***
Arcanus stood beside the mound of stones and rock that now formed the tomb of the one who was – in his mind – the noblest elf upon Ulthuan. The tears and anguish were gone, and in its place grim determination. The joy of returning to his ancestral home, the home where his forefathers had dwelt and fought, was gone now. His kin were dead, and he was the last of his line. The last fighting elf of Sarthailor. Perhaps the gods were dead, and the world would surely fall.
“Do not give up hope so quickly.”
Arcanus whirled around to find the darkness gone. His eyes squinted in pain at the whiteness that now surrounded him. It extended in all directions, seemingly infinite, and while he could not see any light, there was no difficulty seeing. Reaching for his sword, his hands fumbled at the realization that his weapon was gone. Arcanus opened his eyes fully as looked towards the figure that had now appeared, standing perhaps a half-dozen paces from him. It was an elf, of that he knew, clad in plain grey robes with cowl thrown back. His hair was white and his eyes glittered with blue, but more than that, there was something strange about this one. Different. More, even.
“Perhaps Drukh was wrong in rescuing you,” the elf continued, “and perhaps choosing you for this role
378 was a mistake. His loss saddens us, for he had grown to become a lynchpin for what we worked to achieve. You do well to honour his memory despite his ancestor’s persecution of your people.”
Arcanus was silent as he looked at the elf. It was as if he knew him, but more importantly, he knew Drukh. This elf could read him like a book, much like Drukh had done.
“Who are you?” His voice was steady, questioning. “Who is this ‘we’ you speak of?”
“To the first, my name is not important. To the second, something you don’t need to know. The real question you should be asking is who you are, not who I am.”
“I am Arcanus Firestorm, formerly a Prince of Sarthailor.” What sort of a question was that?
The elf seemed to almost roll his eyes. “Why must they all be so… stupid?” he muttered to himself, before addressing Drukh once more. “Wrong answer,” he continued. “Who are you?”
“Arcanus Firestorm, Sentinel of the Cult of Asuryan.”
The elf drew an amulet from beneath his robes. A small golden box. Drukh’s amulet. Holding it out, the amulet lifted from his hands as if levitated by some unseen force, drifting across to hover in front of Arcanaus. “Who are you?” he repeated.
Arcanus paused and looked at the elf. The weight around his neck suddenly became real. The world became real. Around him the whiteness seemed to flash with sudden colour, and grasping the amulet, the warmth within it grew until it seared his hand. Images flashed before his eyes, of wars, of travel, of magic, of time, of space. Finally, they focused on two figures standing tall. Each was the opposite of the other and yet they stood united. Beyond them he could see ten empty chairs – ten empty chairs and a space where an eleventh chair should have been – facing outward towards him. He couldn’t see anything of the figures in the chairs, he realised, but he could feel their presence. He knew that they were watching him. Releasing the box, Arcanus looked up into the elf’s eyes, his memory of their previous meeting – and the oath he had sworn – restored. He remembered the oath he had sworn. I will serve, my lord. Spoken in this whiteness, before Drukh and the one who stood before him now. He knew the history, the true history, as Drukh had before him. He knew what Drukh had known.
“I am Arcanus the Grim,” he declared. “Sarathai of the Cult of Asuryan and Keeper of the Flame. You are Tathel. You taught Drukh Vraneth, long ago.”
Arcanus watched as Tathel nodded, a satisfied expression on his face. Walking forward, he motioned that Arcanaus should look down. His sword was returned to him. The odd elf had a curious smile on his face, as if he knew more than he was letting on. Arcanus dismissed the thought thought. He would know more when he needed to and not before, but there was one final thing.
“I am not an Asur,” he said. “Perhaps I never will be, but I will do what must be done. And I can only hope that there is hope remaining.”
Tathel nodded and looked at him, something resembling sadness in his eyes. He knew that nothing could persuade Arcanaus to go down another path. Drukh had chosen Arcanus wisely, for this successor would continue the role that the High Prince of Saphery had carried out for centuries. His son, though…
379 his son would surpass him in every way.
“Go, Arcanus the Grim. Prepare the Cult for war.”
380 Tremors By Ashnari Doomsong Ulthuan in Flames
Screams. Screams were never far away in the corridors of the Scarred Hand, headquarters of the Cardaith in Caledor. The screams were not the urgent howls of torture, however, nor were they the horrified shrieks of those facing their deaths. No, those who were brought to the Scarred Hand itself were the special prisoners, the most difficult of Chaos cultists found in all of Caledor, for the interrogation techniques employed in this building were not simple torture. The screams echoing through the corridors were the despairing wails of men and women who were lost in utter darkness, whose food was filling but incredibly bland and whose cells were heavily padded. Every effort was made to keep the prisoners' senses completely isolated; only hearing was left to them, so they screamed.
It was a problem, Inspector Trevaj reflected for the seventh time; the gaps that let their screams out also let others' screams in, and that broke the spell of isolation. He was very proud of the cells otherwise. They were his concept, his creation, up to the limited enchantments placed on them - he had some training in manipulating the Wind of Shadows, taught to him as a reward for his devout and stalwart service. Witchsight was among the most useful traits a man in the Inspector's position could possibly have, allowing him to notice even faint traces of enchantment. Incidentally, the Shadow wind allowed him to dampen the sorcerous senses of the more magically inclined prisoners as well as their mundane ones. The entire building was warded, a veritable fortress in the midst of the port of Tor Caralai, guarded by only the most trusted of men; Caledor was among the kingdoms least afflicted by the taint of Chaos worship, but the threat was still significant enough that Trevaj took no risks.
Still the screams went on. One became inured to them quickly, working in the Scarred Hand - it was that, or go mad. Such a waste, though; the prisoners in here were definitely going to break - they always did. Such great people, with such wonderful qualities: They were utterly devoted to keeping the secrets of their fellows, of aiding the whole. It was a twisted thought, but had all of Ulthuan consisted of people like those in Trevaj's cells, his job would have been completely redundant. Destroying them felt wrong, like he was violating something sacred, something precious. But it had to be done; Cults were rampaging throughout the land. Ulthuan teetered on the brink of civil war, and civil war would benefit no-one. Subversive elements must be stamped out, or all the people of the Enchanted Isle would suffer for it. Trevaj would not let petty gangs and criminal fanatics destabilise his homeland; he had fought in Ulthuan's wars of expansion, battled in its conquests. He refused to give in now, when things were at their most critical. Of course, it was only a matter of time. Morathi was expanding her influence; the Cults of Slaanesh and Asuryan were more or less openly clashing, and the former was winning out, crushing the Asuryanites at almost every turn. Trevaj had infiltrators and informants within both; men he trusted. He had grounds to believe that Morathi herself was a follower of Slaanesh, along with several extremely prominent figures - but he could not act upon it. Powerful he might be within Caledor, but even the High Prince could not protect him from the political pressure of the Queen Mother and her allies. It was all such a mess.
Investigations were further hampered by the lack of respect the Scarred Hand gained from the landed nobility, all of whom seemed to collectively despise him for being a jumped-up son of a camp follower,
381 and the Prince's pet to boot; in theory, his position was enough to summon any noble in the land short of Lord Imraldar himself. In practise, it was somewhat different; every time he arrested some noble's favourite courtesan or a mistress or trusted servant of some description, all sorts of castle-borne riffraff came wearing down his door. He had been forced to petition for a pair of Black Guard bodyguards to serve as a reminder of who was in charge, and to prevent anyone from actually murdering the Inspector on the job - the Cult had infiltrated deeply, and though Caledor was one of the kingdoms least afflicted, the enemy was still very entrenched. Trevaj looked out of the chamber's small window; it was getting very dark. Soon, he would sleep. But not yet. He still had papers to see to.
The assassin ghosted through a window of the Scarred Hand, the bars weakened by acid. The place was a fortress, but a small one and poorly garrisoned at this time of night. Nobody was really expecting the Cult to openly declare war on the Hand. Well and good, but the Hand had already declared where it stood, at least with the current leadership. No matter; her fellows languished in their cells, and it was up to her and her contacts in here to free them and eliminate the Inspector. The loss of life was regrettable, but necessary; the paradise to come was paramount. A guard staring lazily out of a window, dreaming of somewhere else, was struck down from behind; a stair was descended, quietly. Six men guarded the cells every day. Four of this evening's lot were cultists. The other two were to be subdued and kidnapped; let the remainder think the place was entirely corrupted. They had their orders, however; all she had to do was to give the signal.
Be quiet, that was the thing. She padded lightly through the relentless noise of screams; hoarse throats would be making screaming painful, now, which was helping the prisoners remain whole, their faith put in Slaanesh. The assassin smiled slightly; even here, her brethren were unshakeable. Silent, now. Let her comrades mask her movements; if you were quiet enough, you could afford to be seen; the guard would take it for a movement on the shadow, or a trick of a tired eye. She snuck in down the stairs to the guardhouse; one of the men outside the cell-block itself was a loyalist, whose eyes widened when he saw her. He opened his mouth to shout a warning when his erstwhile comrade landed a powerful blow to the back of his head. Cultist and assassin looked at each other for a moment, then nodded and went to their duty. Silence and speed.
Trevaj looked up; the screams were stopping. They were faint here, in his office, but they were there. He frowned.
The assassin snapped the neck of the Black Guard stationed at the Inspector's door. It caused a loud crack; she let the armoured body tumble to the ground noisily, tore open the door and prepared to dispatch the Inspector himself; this departure from silence had been necessary for overwhelming such a formidable foe without giving his protectee enough warning to properly prepare. Knives were appearing in her hands from her sleeves as she thundered in and was hit hard on the back of the head by something heavy and blunt. As everything went dark, she saw the splinters of a broken chair fall to the ground with her.
It had been the uncomfortable and rickety guest chair; Trevaj's own chair was not for use as some improvised weapon. The Inspector looked down on the unconscious murderess. So. War it was, then. Somehow, the cessation of the ever-present screams were as much a declaration of it as any band of trumpeteers. He sighed and went to work, pausing to search the assassin thoroughly and then tie her up to his own chair. As he was progressing, it became clear to him that he had seen her before, somewhere, somehow. No matter; he had there were more urgent things to do. He looked down at the guard; the moment of warning had been all he had needed to hide behind the door in his
382 alerted state. He knelt down and closed the elf's still-wide eyes. Then, as he straightened, he picked up his dead bodyguard's halberd and set his back to his labour.
The screams of desperate prisoners had become the groans and mutters of wounded men clinging to life by a thread, sometimes strong and sometimes not; the cultists had escaped, hacking down a good many men in their bunks or as they came to oppose them. It was an unbridled disaster; his most trusted core of watchmen had been thoroughly infiltrated, thoroughly enough that they had managed to get all of the guards on the cells. Seven guardsmen were dead, and a score more wounded, of whom three looked unlikely to make it. Good people, reliable elves and decent watchmen had perished during this escape, and all he was left with was the cetainty that he was still compromised, as well as a single prisoner. Trevaj licked his lips nervously, eaten up by his own gross display of incompetence and overconfidence as much as the cunning of the enemy; he had trusted the guards at the Hand, each one an experienced and dedicated upholder of the law. At least he knew now. He could organise purges, and he could track down the cultists to their source. Screams were going to echo across the Scarred Hand once more.
When he went to sleep that night, he found that he couldn't; the presence of the prisoners had been a not-so-quiet testament to his own skill, his talent and his wit. He had become so used to the screams that there was no way now to sleep without them. He lay awake awhile, pondering his course of action. First, he had to secure the prisoner. He went to her; she was now the only prisoner in the cells, but she hadn't started screaming yet. There was no time to make her scream now, Trevaj realised. He had to shatter her, and quickly. He sent for certain ointments and sat down.
She really was very beautiful, with rich blonde curls and enchanting eyes. Beyond that, she was not quite muscular enough for it to be off-putting, well-toned and with a certain coquetteish feistiness that elves whose appetites ran towards the feminine would tend to find irresistable. Trevaj's did not, though he knew that if it ever became known he would suffer ridicule if not outright condemnation for it.
She was currently wrapped in a linen blanket, bound tight to prevent any suicide attempt or anything that could pass as exercise. Standard processing usually worked, but not very quickly. He needed speed. A pity; haste ruined the thoroughness with which Trevaj preferred to work. It could not be helped.
He sat down opposite to her, even as she blinked at the unexpected torchlight. Her eyes narrowed and her cheeks reddened in humiliation and anger as she looked upon him. He drew a dagger. "I am Inspector Trevaj," he said. "I am now going to ask you a few questions. If you refuse to answer, or I sense that you are lying, I will take one of your senses away, ending with hearing. This gives you five lies. First, I will put out your eyes with this," he gestured with the dagger. "Then, I will stop up your nose with molten metal. After that, your tounge's surface will be torn up, prior to a complete dousing with Cold One venom. Do you understand?" The cultist's eyes had been growing wider, feigning fear efficiently enough that any but a master would not have been able to tell the difference. She nodded hesitantly. Trevaj grimaced. "I will let this one pass," he told her - to his satisfaction, to her much more genuine fear. He had seized the initiative and exploited it. "First, tell me your name." Hesitation. Then... "Allora Windleaf, Inspector." There was uncertainty, but no lie in her voice or her face; as importantly, the Winds indicated no deception. Good. An admission. Trevaj favoured her with a small smile. This was going better than expected. Indeed, she only tried to lie once; she was sufficiently cowed once he
383 stabbed out her eyes to answer the rest of his questions truthfully. Praise Khaine for His mercies.
The truth stung, but it was hopeful; only four of the guards on the cells had turned out to be cultists - though the remaining two were probably dead by now, it proved that the Hand was not completely crippled. It could not be relied upon until he had purged the Slaanesh worshipers from his ranks, but at least that purge would not be as costly as he had feared. Indeed, he might very well be able to avoid any innocent lives being lost - the captives were gone, and Windleaf had not known where, save that it was somewhere in Avelorn. Moreover, he had been told where he had seen her before. Allora Windleaf was one of the commanders of the Maiden Guard of the Everqueen of Avelorn, Landalle. He, Trevaj, was to be assassinated at this point specifically because he was considered a nuisance, and because he might have uncovered evidence to disrupt the Everqueen's coming diplomatic visit to the city. So, the Inspector's duty was clear. He headed to the armoury.
Trevaj looked at his crossbow pistol, turning it over in his hands. He should have been delegating this task. No, he corrected himself. He should have ordered the Everqueen's arrest. Unhappily, his own organisation would shatter if he did that. He might trigger the civil war he had hoped desperately to avoid. Irrevocable certainty was one thing, but sometimes the law failed; there was no way to try such an important figure as the Everqueen, let alone have her condemned for treason. The law had died some time ago. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He put four quarrels into his weapon; confiscated, they were of a kind often used by the Cult of Asuryan, complete with poison. Trevaj hated himself for doing it, but it was necessary. He cloaked himself, both literally and sorcerously, and left the Scarred Hand, now scarred in truth; morally, it was now reduced to breaking the law to maintain order - bodily, it was rent and shaken by the deaths and betrayals of many senior officers.
Entering the palace was simple enough; he actually had alternate offices there. From there, it was a simple matter to make his way through the halls; his sword was his to wear even here, a symbol of his position, and a crossbow pistol was easily concealed. He simply moved along as if he was on official business here, and nobody tried to stop him. He regrettably had to slay the Everqueen's personal door- ward, going up behind, clamping his hand over the elf's mouth and shooting him in the back of his chest with one of the confiscated crossbow bolts - a dagger would have been better, but he needed everything he could get to implicate the Cult of Asuryan. He reloaded the weapon, steeled himself, and opened the door to behold a grisly scene.
Everqueen Landalle. Dead in a pool of her own blood, lying naked on the with a similarly naked man sitting over her, regarding the body coolly. Trevaj's mouth dried at the sheer beauty of this person; even more so at the way the Grey Wind seemed to radiate from him. Deception! Trevaj snarled, raised his crossbow pistol and pulled the trigger. It glanced off the assassin's bare skin and broke away. Snarling and unwilling to lose the initiative, Trevaj raised his sword and charged. The man recovered from his surprise with exceptional speed and rolled out of the bed in a fluid motion, coming to his feet with a knife he had produced from... *somewhere*? Trevaj hesitated; the winds of magic coiled around this man, but in a way that the Inspector had not seen ever before. He seemed to *weave* the winds together somehow. No matter - Trevaj had the reach and the preparation. He swung the blade, and the sorcerer, whoever he was, leapt back; he followed up, and managed to score a nasty gash despite some resistance from an unseen force. As long as he kept attacking, Trevaj reasoned, he should be able to defeat this man. But he wanted a prisoner, not a corpse. Corpses told no tales. He continued to advance gingerly. It was a mistake.
384 Allowing the man to regain his footing also let him mutter an arcane syllable. Trevaj's own training was all that gave him the warning to cast up his cloak of a piercing light burst from the other elf's mouth; it was swiftly torn aside by another spell, but this time Trevaj was prepared to counter with his own. The searing incandesance seemed to dull somehow, as if filtered through a thick smoke - which was exactly what the inspector had made; smoke billowed forth from every shadow of the room until it quenched any sight at all, sorcerous or otherwise. It did not, however, block out hearing; a spell was being cast - from the other side of the room to where the stranger had been only seconds before. In a desperate gamble, Trevaj hissed and charged blindly, swinging his sword at where he thought he heard the voice from.
He hit. His sword bit deeply into the flesh of his opponent, who groaned and thumped to the ground.
Everything was dark. He realized that he had surely caused a commotion here, and that he had to disappear quickly. He wiped his sword on the carpet, fumbled towards the door and left, his head suddenly full of questions - who could get close enough to such a senior member of the Cult of Slaanesh to actually slay her? Who could wield such sorceries as he had seen wielded? Lines of reasoning started and were choked by a sudden weariness. He longed for the screams of his prisoners; they were so much simpler. Perhaps there would be screams when he dreamt.
385 Return of the Kings By TimmyMWD Ulthuan in Flames
Few knew who he even was. The last anyone had seen of him, he had been known as the Witch King, encased in the terrifying Armor of Midnight. And now, Malekith strolled down the sandy beach in his regal purple robes, his hair flowing behind his gaunt and unburned face. In the whispers of the camps news had emerged about him – Malekith the Pale. Malekith the Vengeful. Malekith, the Dread King. These words were tossed around with fear and respect – the descriptions of his assault on Morathi had disturbed the core of every Druchii assembled around the ruined Shrine of Asuryan.
An entourage surrounded him as he walked the beach, yet retained a respectful distance. Most of the high princes that had openly displayed their loyalty to the Cult of Slaanesh had retreated from the island and regrouped elsewhere, but a few remaining intermixed within the group of nobles who wished to hear the commands of their reborn King. The silent Black Guard maintained a vigilant watch on their surroundings, the failure of their kin on the other side of the sea not forgotten. In the distance Malekith could already spot the white flecks of ships approaching the island, no doubt to verify the rumors of his return.
The nobles that followed him from a distance were sure he was in contemplation on how to handle the current implosion of authority on Ulthuan, but Malekith was focused on the exhilarating sensation of sand flowing up his sandals and underneath the bottom of his feet. His journey through the wilderness, his encounter with the gods, they were still very real to him but felt so different than the physical experiences he found himself rediscovering. He took a deep breath of air, and looked up to the sky.
He still found himself struggling to engage the world around him fully. It was if he was experiencing his senses through thick layers of cloth, the sights and sounds present … but distant at the same moment. The Dread King rounded a bend in the beach, and looked ahead to a hill that protruded out several yards over the beach. The scene was nothing unique, until the fluttering of blue and white banners could be seen over the crest of the hill.
The nobles walked closer to Malekith as the party approached, moving within the protective circle of the Black Guard. Malekith raised his hand to signal the Black Guard to allow the visitors to approach. Scanning the faces of the nobles he could see their fear and apprehension at the approaching party. But more than that, he could feel their thoughts like an energy that played over his body. He closed his eyes to drink in the sensation even more, and he remembered a power that he had not tasted for quite some time. He allowed the winds to roll over his body, the sensation electrifying his nerves and raising his hairs on end. With his eyes closed, he could still see the nobles and Black Guard – not as individuals but as coalescing forces of emotion and thought. He turned his attention to the approaching party and saw a radiant light.
A radiant light he was not stranger to.
Lifting his eyelids, he saw that the group of strange elves was now just a few yards from where he stood. Their blue and white robes flowed in the wind, revealing suits of intricately crafted ilithmar scale armor.
386 At the center of the party stood an elf that bore a resplendent crown and a depth in his eyes the likes of which Malekith had not seen in thousands of years.
The crown was the battle helm of his father.
A searing pain rolled over his body, and Malekith clamped his eyes shut in pain. He could feel flames turning his skin to ash, and burning through his tendons and muscles. He opened his eyes to see what had become of his body, only to find it unharmed. The memory of his near death in the flames of Asuryan tore at his mind. That crown … His attempt to don the crown and become Phoenix King himself was now fresh in his mind. A force inside him, so overbearing it nearly consumed him, willed him to lunge forward and strike. Closing his eyes again, this time in hopes of tranquility, the Dread King attempted to focus his thoughts. That is not who I am anymore … I have a different purpose now …
“They are Asur,” a noble hissed. Malekith knew him as Aralyon Hainar. There was a brief pause before he spoke once more as he drew a long, rune-carved blade, “How did these disgusting filth get HERE?” Other nobles around Aralyon drew their blades and began to step slowly towards the new arrivals. The Black Guard did not move an inch, their discipline and obedience to the Dread King’s command never in doubt.
The Asur took a hesitant step back and drew their weapons in response. All save one; the elf that bore the majestic helm of his father.
Malekith felt the fear and apprehension turn to anger. Hatred. He could feel the adrenaline begin to course through his kin’s veins, their minds gearing up for battle. The Dread King could not let this be. “Stop.”
The one word was the first he had uttered since he had departed the Shrine of Asuryan, yet its power and clarity caused the escalation to cease. The druchii turned back to look at him in surprise. Stepping forward, Malekith walked past the weapon-clad nobles and stepped into the open stretch of sand that separated the parties of elves.
He stood before the crowned elf. “You are the proxy of Asuryan.”
“I am Bel-Saarin, Phoenix King and successor of Caledor.”
He could hear a commotion behind him. The vilest of insults and sprays of saliva were lobbed at the Asur at the mention of the title Phoenix King. Even the Black Guard displayed the slightest signs of a reaction – keeping their hatred as contained as possible.
“I am Malektih, Dread King and Lord of all Elves.”
Bel-Saarin nodded in respect, extending his hand in greeting. “Do you feel the storm approaching?”
“It is what I have come back for. To help my people weather this coming storm, and to remove any weakness that could allow the deluge to flow in.” Malekith placed particular emphasis on the second part, turning back and scanning the eyes of the nobles that followed him out to the beach. He knew where their loyalties stood, and several in that party he could not call an ally.
387 Gesturing back to his guards, the Phoenix King smiled. “These are but a fraction of the host that stands to aid you. Ulthuan is our true home, and we will defend it.”
Malektih nodded, “Your timing is impeccable, Bel-Saarin. The coming -- ”
Malekith could sense the change almost instantaneously. The flow of air changed as the druchii lunged forward. He could hear the sand shift and the cloth on the nobles flutter as they pressed forward. He could feel their hatred and resolve flow over the scene as they hurled themselves towards the two kings. He could hear Aralyon cry out “You are not my lord. The Witch King died long ago!” as he sprang forward with dagger drawn.
The Dread King raised his hand, and the attacking nobles became suspended in mid air. Malekith looked at Bel-Saarin, who had unsheathed a sword and held the hilt out for Dread King to take. A fire burned in Malekith’s eyes. “I don’t need that.”
He turned and walked towards the assailants, who were wide eyed in fear as they tried to fight their apparent paralysis. He stood in the middle of the suspended attackers and turned in a circle to scan their faces. “I am Malekith,” he said as he paced around their floating bodies. “The son of Aenarion himself.” Stopping in front of Arayon, he looked the elf straight in the eyes. “What makes you think that a bastard, backwater noble from Chrace like you can even think to challenge me?” He canted his head to his side in a cant adjustment to the winds that kept Arayon suspended. “You can speak.”
Arayon smirked, “You’re easily distracted.”
Before Malekith could process the sentence, he saw a blur of motion in his peripheral vision. Several black guard and two more nobles charged forwards towards the Dread King. His instinct took over, and with slight gestures of his hands he used the suspended bodies as projectiles, throwing them at the oncoming attackers and knocking the back several feet. There were still two attackers that were up and running towards him.
The first had his blade held high up over his head in preparation for a strong, sweeping attack. Malekith charged at him with blinding speed, grabbing the noble by the throat. The choking grab startled the noble, causing him to stumble backwards and drop his blade. Feeling the winds of magic flowing through his body, Malekith focused the energy through his arm and crushed the elf’s throat as if snapping a twig.
The second elf, a member of the Black Guard, continued to charge in with his halberd drawn and ready to strike. Malekith looked at him with utter disgust. “I am the Lord of all Elves. Die.” Canting his head in concentration, the Dread King forced the soldier up off the ground and suspended him midair.
The black guard; whoever he was, laughed at the move. “You used that parlor trick already.”
“I’m not done yet,” Malekith grunted. With a rush of energy, the armor of the Black Guard shattered into a thousand pieces and sprayed out in all directions. Eyes closed in concentration, Malekith slowed the velocity of the armor fragments down to a standstill.
“Have you seen this one?”
The shards of ilithmar chainmail and plate pierced through the body of the solider in a thousand places,
388 rupturing his major arteries and causing a torrent blood to flow down to the sand. The lifeless and shredded body collapsed to the ground as Malekith directed the shards of armor and shot them through the bodies of the two nearest attackers. Those that he had knocked back were up and charging in again, stepping over the flayed corpses and lunging towards the Dread King.
Arayon was the first to reach him. He stabbed at the Dread King, aiming for his rib cage. The Dread King stepped to his left, using his hips to carry his body with and dodging the stab. He grabbed Arayon’s knife hand and redirected his arm causing Arayon to stab himself in the diaphragm. The Chracian looked up at the Dread King, gasping at the pain that now rolled through his body. Malekith met his gaze, “Yield Arayon. You know you cannot win here today.”
Blood frothing from his mouth, Arayon clawed at Malekith with his free hand. The Dread King released his grip on Arayon, allowing the noble’s velocity to send him stumbling forward. In close pursuit, Malekith grabbed Arayon’s head with both hands and twisted it nearly 180 degrees. The crunch of the spine snapping was unmistakable as the noble’s limp body dropped to the sand.
“Yield!” the Dread King cried out, anger flowing from his voice. He grabbed at his own blood stained tunic, “Your efforts are pointless. The only blood on my clothes comes from you. Death is the only thing that awaits you if you strike.”
Despite his declaration, two more attackers charged at him. At this point; however, Malektih was fully engaged in a dance of death. Those that remained loyal or were too frightened to attack wondered if any mortal could defeat Malekith on this beach.
The Dread King collapsed to his knees. He stared at his blood soaked hands as his hands balled into tight, white knuckled fists. “This is not what I returned to do!” He stared at the corpses as frustration overtook him, his tears forming small areas of damp sand underneath his face. Malekith looked over at the Asur, and saw Bel-Saarin walking towards him, his robes untouched and his demeanor unshaken. It was a stark contrast between the two kings of elves – the bloodied and angered Dread King and the undisturbed Phoenix King.
It was in this image that Malekith suddenly knew the value of Bel-Saarin in this coming war.
Standing up, the Dread King stared at the Phoenix King through the obstruction of the blood caked hair that stuck to his face. “I am bloody so you may not be.
“Ulthuan splinters amongst itself. Those who are loyal to me will always rally around the death that will follow me to my end. But you, Phoenix King, will be instrumental to me. You are an alternative for those who have chided Druchii society for millennia. You are a weapon unexpected, not just by me – but by Alith Anar as well.”
Bel-Saarin walked towards the Dread King, unsheathing a sword and presenting the handle to Malekith. “I wish to give you this blade, Malekith. It is called -”
“Avanuir,” the Dread King finished his statement. As he uttered the syllables, he felt instantly teleported back thousands of years. He could see his younger, fairer self clad in resplendent Nagarythian armor standing on an imposing battlement next to his closest warriors. All around the city was an innumerable, gibbering horde of daemons. He could see himself saying words down to the horde below him, and
389 found himself repeating them now as he stood before Bel-Saarin. “Iscariot! Scion of Tzeentch I swear to you Avanuir will send you back to the abyss just as my father destroys your kin at the Isle!”
Shaking his head to clear the memory from his vision, Malekith eyed the Phoenix King, “My old blade. It was destroyed in the flames. How did you come by it?”
It was now Bel-Saarin’s turn to journey back. He was in the flames once again. His mind had touched with Asuryan, and he had donned the crown of Aenarion. The white flames still surrounded him, but he was walking back towards the Asur with purpose. He could see another object within the flames, coming towards him. Birthed in fire like his crown, it slowly formed into an eloquently crafted sword. Curiosity played over Bel-Saarin’s mind, and he realized that he was still being watched.
Purpose. The thought was projected into Bel-Saarin’s mind with booming clarity.
He looked at Malektih and returned to the present. “Consider this a symbol of our cooperation, and a symbol of acknowledgment. You were not brought here on his wishes, but it is realized now your purpose is without doubt.”
The Dread King nodded and grasped the handle, raising the blade high into the air and striking imaginary foes as he reconnected with an old and valued weapon. “I accept this blade once more, but for now our common purpose will remain a quiet affair.” The Phoenix King looked somewhat puzzled, the first sign to those assembled that he was capable of expression beyond unwavering purpose. “You saw what happened here today,” Malekith continued, “Imagine a nation full of my kin reacting this way.”
Bel-Saarin chuckled in agreement. “I know. I was one of them, once.”
“Then let us walk, Phoenix King. We have much to discuss, but very little time. The storm clouds draw near, and I must depart for Anlec soon.”
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