The End Times, page 12
‘No pain?’ said Malekith.
‘Not that I am aware of, highness,’ said Palthrain.
‘What a pity,’ said Malekith.
The Naggarothi prince walked down the passageway to Bel Shanaar’s chambers, forcing himself to stride slowly so as not to garner attention. He knocked at the door and waited for Bel Shanaar’s call for him to enter.
The Phoenix King was sitting at a writing desk, no doubt penning corrections to his speech for the council.
‘Malekith?’ he said, startled.
‘Forgive the intrusion, your majesty,’ said Malekith with a low bow. He stepped across the room and placed the tray on the desk.
‘Why are you here?’ asked Bel Shanaar. ‘Where’s Palthrain?’
‘I apologise for waylaying him, majesty,’ said Malekith. ‘I wished to bring you your wine as a peace offering.’
‘Peace offering?’
‘I wholeheartedly wish to offer my apologies,’ replied Malekith, pouring the poisoned wine into the goblet. ‘I spoke out of misplaced anger earlier, and I caused great offence. My anger is not with you, though it might have seemed that way. I have endeavoured to earn your trust and to be a loyal subject, and it is my failings not yours that have led you to choose Imrik. I will be happy to support your choice.’
The prince passed the cup to Bel Shanaar, his face a mask of politeness. The Phoenix King frowned and for a moment Malekith feared that he suspected something. The Phoenix King took the goblet however, and placed it on the desk.
‘Your apology is accepted,’ said Bel Shanaar. ‘I do trust you, my friend, but you have personal concerns that far outweigh any duty to me. I choose Imrik not just on ability, but on the fact that I would have you address the problems of your kingdom without distraction. I would have you direct your energies solely to restoring your rule, not pandering to the whims of other kingdoms.’
The goblet remained on the desk.
‘Your consideration heartens me greatly,’ said Malekith, keeping his eyes fixed firmly upon the Phoenix King lest he dart a betraying glance towards the wine.
‘You will offer your support in the council?’ Bel Shanaar asked, finally lifting the cup to his lips and taking a mouthful of the wine.
It was not enough for the poison to work and the prince silently willed Bel Shanaar to drink more.
‘When the debate rages, none will argue harder than I,’ said Malekith with a smile.
Bel Shanaar nodded and took another sip of wine.
‘If that is all, then I wish you a fair evening and look forward to sailing with you in the morning,’ said Bel Shanaar with a polite nod.
Malekith stood there watching for some sign of the poison’s effect.
‘What are you staring at?’ asked the Phoenix King.
‘Is the wine not to your satisfaction?’ said the prince, taking a step closer.
‘I am not thirsty,’ said Bel Shanaar, placing the goblet back on the desk.
Malekith twisted and picked up the goblet and sniffed it.
‘It is very fine wine, majesty,’ he said.
‘I am sure it is, Malekith,’ said Bel Shanaar, pursing his lips. His voice became more insistent. ‘However, I feel a little sleepy all of a sudden. I shall retire for the night and see you in the morning.’
Stifling a frustrated shout, Malekith lunged forwards and seized Bel Shanaar by the throat. The Phoenix King’s eyes widened with terror as Malekith forced open Bel Shanaar’s mouth and emptied in the contents of the goblet. The goblet tumbled from the prince’s fingertips and spilt a cascade of red droplets over the white boards of the floor.
Clamping one hand over the Phoenix King’s nose and mouth and dragging his head back by his hair, Malekith choked the king until he swallowed the deadly draught. He then released his grip and stepped back to watch his future unfold.
‘What have you–’ panted Bel Shanaar, clawing at his throat and chest.
Malekith lifted the parchment from the desk. As he had suspected, it was a draft of the Phoenix King’s speech for the council. Thinking it better that no evidence of Bel Shanaar’s support for Imrik was found, he crossed the room and tossed it into the fire burning in the grate. Turning, he saw that there was still life in Bel Shanaar’s bulging eyes.
Malekith padded forwards until he was very close, and bent towards the dying elf’s ear.
‘You brought this upon yourself,’ the prince hissed.
With a last gurgle, Bel Shanaar died, his face purple, his tongue lolling from his mouth. Malekith stood for a while, absent-mindedly looking at the contorted face, not quite believing that it was almost over.
‘Well, I have to leave you now,’ he said at last, affectionately patting the Phoenix King’s head. ‘I have a throne to claim.’
Kings and princes, all had thought to rob Malekith of his rightful inheritance and they all had been sent to the underworld of Mirai for their efforts. Malekith had some respect for Imrik for the simple fact that he had been able to break the cycle of history, realising that his future was beside the true Phoenix King, not against him. If only his forefathers had been so astute the carnage and waste of elven lives would have been avoided.
Malekith turned away from the evidence of the battle, wondering why he was so preoccupied with thoughts of death and the countless lives sacrificed in endless battle for possession of Ulthuan. It was a recent phenomenon, this train of thought, having grown in frequency in the couple of centuries since his defeat at Finuval Plain and his escape through the Realm of Chaos. Perhaps back then he had sensed the rising tide of Chaos that had engulfed the world and it had nagged at his thoughts.
It was strange also that while he did not regret a single druchii life lost in service to his claim, Malekith found it harder to contemplate the losses of the asur. His own folk were driven by greed and revenge, base desires that hung on the cloak of Malekith’s quest for justice. In contrast, the asur’s stubbornness had been a constant vexation to him, their blindness to his natural right and authority an affront, but all the same his hatred for their weak society and hand-wringing rulers had been tempered by respect for their tenacity in defending such a flawed civilisation.
A shadow passed over him and he looked up to see Imrik descending on his dragon. The prince left his monstrous steed on the broken ground between walls three and four and crossed the bloodied rubble with long strides.
‘The dead should not be left to suffer such outrage,’ the prince snapped, waving a hand towards the beasts devouring the corpse banquet.
‘What would you have me do?’ Malekith asked, knowing that it was too early in the alliance to simply dismiss the prince’s squeamish concerns. ‘Their souls are in Mirai now and the mortal remains behind make good fodder for my beasts.’
‘Bury them, or at least make a pyre to mark their sacrifice.’
‘An interesting idea,’ replied Malekith, warming to the notion. ‘The stones of Eagle Gate would make a fitting mausoleum and monument to those who died here. It is a shame that we do not have time to tarry to raise such an edifice. A pyre perhaps would serve better, and its pall would mask our advance from prying eyes.’
To make his point, Malekith gestured towards the cloudy skies, where the silhouettes of great eagles and the glitter of phoenix wings betrayed the avian allies of their foes. Imrik glanced up and shrugged.
‘My dragons will teach them to be more circumspect.’
‘Our dragons would be better employed securing the eastern end of the pass, until my vanguard arrives.’
Imrik considered this, not looking at Malekith, obviously caught between the logic of the Witch King’s declaration and a desire to defy his will brought about by long centuries of stubborn defiance. No doubt the need to feel on an equal footing with his former foe also weighed on the Caledorian’s thoughts. In the end Imrik’s military sense prevailed and he nodded.
‘The Ellyrians will desire to make a counter-attack. We shall dissuade them,’ he said. ‘Who is to lead your vanguard? It will be a risky position, for surely Tyrion will bring his whole force to bear upon our advance.’
‘Riskier still considering I have no intention of following them along Eagle Pass.’ Malekith laughed at Imrik’s confusion. ‘Your people are driven constantly by history, yet forever miss its lessons. I would no more march directly into confrontation with Tyrion than I would lay aside my shield in battle. I know that his bravery cannot be questioned and his sword arm is strong, but let us see whether this upstart who claims the blood of Aenarion can wield an army with the same skill as his blade.’
‘You will march north, and attack Chrace?’
‘We will, Imrik,’ corrected Malekith.
Imrik said nothing, fingers toying with the hilt of his sword.
‘Speak, or depart, but cease your vacillation,’ said Malekith.
‘When this is done, when we have won this war and you rule Ulthuan, what then?’
‘Grief, strife and war,’ Malekith answered plainly. ‘I do not promise to end suffering, but under my leadership we will prevail against the adversity that is to come. I offer nothing but victory, Imrik, bear no misunderstanding in this matter. Should Tyrion be victorious, the elven race is doomed.’
‘Perhaps it is simply the sealing of a doom that began long ago, and we should resist it no longer.’
‘Feel free to end your own life if you desire,’ said Malekith, turning away. ‘Just leave me your dragons.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE TYRANT SHAMED
‘My king.’
Kouran’s quiet warning drew Malekith’s attention away from the map he was studying with his generals. They stood just out of the shadow cast by the toppled fourth wall, marshalling the columns of druchii moving through the fortress while harpies nearby picked at the corpses buried in the rubble. The captain’s gaze guided Malekith’s eye to a figure standing beneath the arch of a gatehouse a short distance away.
Malus Darkblade was a forlorn figure, almost wraith-like in his pale nakedness. All that protected his dignity was the tattered remnant of a cloak, still smeared with the blood of the corpse it had been torn from. Around his neck hung his signature heavy talisman and in his hand he still bore the warpsword of Khaine, but save for these accoutrements his battlegear had disappeared.
He pushed himself away from the stone and tottered forwards a few steps, drawing the attention of the other druchii nearby. The whispers began a heartbeat later, subtle at first, but Naggarothi had never been known to hide their cruel humour and soon their taunts and jibes followed Darkblade across the ruin.
His bared flesh was marred with small cuts and bruises amongst older scars, and in places there were puncture wounds that looked as though his bones had split the skin, though he moved without any sign of physical pain. A particularly dramatic slash of lacerated flesh stretched from navel to throat, white in the morning light. Malus’s eyes seemed darker and more sunken than usual, bloodshot and rimmed with the shadow of fatigue. Not all the blood was his; his skin was marked with bloody handprints and other smears.
Ignoring the sharp stones underfoot, Malus came directly towards Malekith. The Witch King eyed the warpsword in Darkblade’s hand, the enchantment within the blade a blaze of colour in his magical sight. Numbered amongst the few weapons that could easily penetrate the armour of midnight, the warpsword was one of the reasons Malus had risen to the top of Hag Graef in a comparatively short time. Its true origins remained a mystery to Malekith, but knowing that Malus possessed such a weapon had sometimes been a source of some concern to the Witch King. He doubted whether Malus would ever dare test the magical sword against Urithain, but there was a crazed look in the Tyrant’s eye as he approached and Kouran moved forward, Crimson Death at the ready.
Malus stopped about two dozen paces away. He seemed oblivious to the sneering remarks of the other elves at hand, gaze focused on Malekith. He swayed slightly, one eye twitching. The Witch King saw the Tyrant flexing his fingers on the grip of the warpsword and moved his hand to the hilt of Urithain.
‘You are alive,’ said Malekith, looking the haggard figure up and down. ‘Mostly.’
A degree of focus returned to Malus’s gaze and a frown creased his brow. He turned to glare at the other elves that were drifting closer to witness what transpired next, before concentrating on the Witch King.
‘Mostly alive, yes, your majesty,’ he said, bowing with a flourish. He lowered to one knee, the point of the warpsword in the ground, head bowed against the hiltstone. ‘My apologies, Lord Malekith, for my tardiness in reporting for my next commands. I was otherwise engaged during yesterday’s triumph and could not share your victory.’
Malekith paced around Malus, who kept his eye on the Witch King for as long as possible until he was behind the Tyrant of Hag Graef. The king stopped behind Darkblade, noting the fresh cuts upon his back.
‘Tell me, dear Malus, what matters of such import took your insightful counsel from my ears last night?’
Darkblade did not reply immediately, his head turning left and right in an effort to catch a glimpse of his tormentor. He sighed, long and languorous. ‘Alas, our revered king, I was so caught up by Khaine’s thirst that I pursued the enemy far beyond reasonable strategy and have only this dawn returned.’
‘You were overwhelmed with bloodlust?’ said Malekith, remaining behind Malus.
‘That is true, your majesty.’
‘And you pursued the enemy so vigorously that it took the night to return?’
‘Apparently so, your majesty.’
‘And which enemies did you pursue?’
‘The traitors that held Eagle Gate, your majesty.’
‘Be more specific, dear Malus. Which of the traitorous enemy did you pursue?’
‘I believe they were Ellyrians, your majesty,’ interjected Drusala, emerging from the crowd to Malekith’s left. Malus stood up and faced the sorceress, quickly hiding a moment of confusion behind an indifferent mask.
‘That would make sense,’ said the Darkblade. ‘They fled towards Ellyrion.’
‘And so furious was your pursuit that you abandoned your cold one? Spite, isn’t it?’ asked the Witch King.
‘In the melee before the gate was breached I was pulled from my saddle,’ admitted Malus. ‘I lost my mount and hope that one of my knights has recovered him and he awaits me in the camp of my household.’
‘And your clothes and armour?’
Malus looked down at himself, as if realising his nudity for the first time. His gaze moved back to the Witch King and then to Drusala, and then around the gathered crowd who awaited his reply with unconcealed smirks and leering.
‘Discarded, your majesty.’ Malus looked at Malekith directly, daring him to gainsay a word of his testimony. Malekith had no idea what had happened and it was clear that only torture would loosen the Tyrant’s lips.
‘Discarded? In battle?’
‘Forgive me, your majesty, for I was foolish and to heighten my battle prowess I imbibed some of the witch brew of Khaine before the fighting began. Just a mouthful, of course. Just enough to strengthen my sword arm for a long day of bloodletting. I did not realise how delayed its effects might be and in my Khaine-blessed rage to get at the Ellyrians I stripped off my armour which had been weighing me down, suffering as it had much damage during the fray so that many straps and buckles were broken and its efficacy much reduced.’
This was greeted with harsh laughter from much of the crowd, and shouts of derision. Malus rounded on the watchers with the warpsword raised. Kouran was about to take another step but Malekith gestured for him to remain where he was.
‘You laugh, who allowed the enemies of our king to retreat without harassment?’ Malus railed, spittle flying in his false indignity, eyes wide. ‘You would let them rally and fight again, their resistance, their existence, an affront to our ruler? Smirk if you dare, those that were less than worthy.’
Malekith silenced the audience with a gesture and Malus’s attention returned to him.
‘You threw off your wargear so that you could pursue the enemy with more speed?’ The Witch King shook his head, trying to decide if he was entertained or outraged by such an obvious lie.
‘Yes, your majesty, it is just as you say. He fell to his knee once more, a fist clasped to his chest. ‘I feel so ashamed, but there was nothing I could do to stop myself. I understand now why Hellebron and her bloody sisters wear so little.’
It took all of Malekith’s will to quench the laugh that rose from his gut. He knew that he should have Kouran take off the treacherous dog’s head there and then, but if lying was to be a capital crime under his rule he would have no subjects left. It was hard to see to what benefit Malus’s current display was turned. There was no advantage to Malus being absent for the night – all of the most powerful druchii had been in camp with Malekith, so no collusion had been possible. There was a chance that he had conspired with agents of the asur, perhaps seeking to make a common foe of Malekith, but Malus was despised across Ulthuan almost as much as his king. Tyrion did not have the benefit of Imrik’s flexible morality and Malekith had ensured there would be no politicking from the Phoenix King, Finubar.
‘You vouch for this account?’ he snapped, turning his wrath on Drusala. She met his infernal gaze without flinching, her face set in an expression of sincere attention. Her part in this worried Malekith more. She was Morathi’s creature, no doubt, and if the queen was truly breaking bonds with Malekith the Tyrant of Hag Graef would make a well-positioned ally. Though the host of Hag Graef had been badly mauled in the three assaults upon Eagle Gate, if they were to combine with the army of Ghrond Malekith’s resources would be outmatched, in the short term at least. ‘How can you be so certain of friend Malus’s movements?’
