The End Times, page 15
‘As you wish, my king,’ said the captain. ‘And the mages?’
Malekith could see a pair of sorceresses supporting the Ghrond army, but they were ill-matched against the handmaiden and Sapherians. Drusala had, of her own volition, left with Malus Darkblade’s army of Hag Graef, which left only one other option.
‘Leave Ystranna and her cantrip-pedlars to me.’
Before Malekith could say anything else, another armoured figure approached, her helm dented, breastplate scored and scratched by spear blows. There was the broken shaft of an arrow jutting from her shoulder. She buried her axe into a tree stump as Kouran took a step towards her with Crimson Death raised, and approached unarmed. Her name was Aravenna, and she had been in charge of the Clar Karond host for only two days.
‘Deepest regrets and apologies, your majesty,’ she said, bowing before Malekith. ‘We expected the Anar army to attack first. They were the better positioned for such an assault. I regret that we fell for the enemy ploy.’
‘You believe it was a mistake to redeploy our forces to the west?’ Malekith asked, turning his full attention on the newly promoted commander. She averted her eyes, shoulders slumping.
‘In hindsight, that would seem the case.’
‘The order for the redeployment came from me, Lady Aravenna.’ Malekith’s quiet words dripped with threat. ‘Do you think I was outwitted by one of the Everqueen’s soppy tree-lovers and a group of peasant hunters?’
‘I…’ Aravenna looked at Kouran, seeking support or perhaps a swift end. He gave her neither, replying to her plaintive stare with a casual shrug.
‘Answer your king, Lady Aravenna,’ said the captain. He flexed his fingers on Crimson Death. ‘Swiftly and with brevity.’
‘It was an impossible decision, your majesty,’ the commander said, the words coming so quickly she was barely comprehensible. ‘Nobody could know that the attack from the forest would come first, but to ignore the Anars would have been equally ill-considered, but given all that we know of the shadow warriors’ hatred for us it would be reasonable to conclude they would seek the greater part of the bloodletting, and that a handmaiden of the Everqueen would be loathe to commit to battle.’
As Aravenna paused to take a breath, Malekith held up a hand to stop her.
‘It hurts to know you have such a lack of faith in my abilities as your military commander,’ said the king. Aravenna started to tremble, a reaction that clearly embarrassed her. A look of such self-disgust moved across her face that Malekith almost laughed.
‘Return to your army and prepare for a counter-attack,’ Malekith told her. ‘The enemy are far more stupid than I had hoped.’
‘Your majesty?’ Aravenna clenched her jaw, conflicted, fighting back tears though she fought also to stop a smile of relief twisting her lips. ‘I do not understand.’
‘I deliberately weakened the eastern defence to bait the enemy into this bold venture. They have surrendered all of their natural and strategic advantages to face us in open battle, and now we will punish them for their lack of warcraft. I cannot imagine Ystranna ordered the attack, but some Chracian prince has made a fool of himself. Anar has been forced to move in support, though I believe he would have far rather preferred to kill us one at a time, never revealing himself. We must destroy them before they see the error of their assault.’
‘As you command, your majesty.’ Aravenna hesitated, her gaze lingering on the Witch King.
‘You have a question?’
‘How will we stop the enemy simply retreating back into the forests, your majesty? I do not wish to fail you again.’
‘That is not your concern. Trust me in this matter as you failed to trust in my grander strategy.’
‘Yes, your majesty. I have one other question.’
‘You test my patience, but the thought of putting these wretches to the sword lightens my mood, so ask your question.’
‘The Karond Kar army will likely be heavily mauled.’ She shook her head, disbelieving, as she looked westwards. ‘You knew this, your majesty? You sacrificed them to draw out the Chracians?’
‘Your observation is correct, general. Be thankful that the host of Clar Karond was not in their place.’
Aravenna bowed again and hurried away, pulling her slender axe free as she departed. Malekith watched her run back down the slope to where her regiments were mustering behind the army of Karond Kar, which had taken the brunt of the Chracian assault as Malekith had planned.
‘You spared her,’ said Kouran, apparently so surprised by this fact he forgot to say ‘my king’.
‘She may not survive the battle, but if she does she will fight doubly hard to prove her loyalty, and from now on she will not question my orders. If I kill her I will simply have to repeat the lesson with another.’
Kouran accepted this wisdom with a thoughtful expression and a nod.
‘The Chracians and the aesenar of the Shadowlands seem to be making quite a headway through my troops,’ Malekith remarked, watching the lead elements of the two converging forces moving towards each other. ‘Go now and convey my orders to the generals. I wouldn’t want to accidently lose this battle when it promises such a sweet victory.’
When Kouran had departed he made his way up the ridge to where Seraphon had made her temporary lair. The other black dragons were already in the sky, duelling with great eagles, griffons and phoenixes, but Malekith’s mount lay in the shade of a great outcrop, gaseous breath billowing down the slope.
‘Come,’ said the Witch King as Seraphon raised her head, opening her long mouth to reveal rows of wickedly serrated teeth. A draught of noxious air washed over Malekith, hot and wet. ‘It is time that we educated these peons in the true art of war.’
The black dragon carried Malekith north, towards Ystranna and her maiden guard companies. It was her presence that was the greatest threat – without Ystranna the spirits of the forest would depart and the magic that bolstered the resolve of her followers would be broken.
As he scanned the forest below Malekith felt something glance from his armour. Turning in his saddle as he wheeled Seraphon to the left, an arrow ricocheted from his shoulder. Three great eagles rose up towards him, an elf prince atop the back of each, their bows levelled at the Witch King. Another flurry of arrows converged on him, sparking from the scales of his mount and deflecting from his breastplate. Malekith was about to turn away from his attackers, their missiles inconsequential, when something stinging lodged in his arm.
An arrowhead that glowed with golden energy had pierced his armour. Another mystical shaft sped past, leaving a welt across the side of his helm, a finger’s breadth from his throat. He followed the flickering trail of magic back to one of the eagle-borne princes, who was fitting another enchanted arrow to his bow.
Flicking the chains with one hand, Malekith rolled Seraphon towards the impudent asur lordling. Even as the black dragon heeled around to face the eagle, the prince steered his mount higher, climbing over the great beast. More arrows skidded from Malekith’s armour from the other two princes, a further distraction.
Leaving a wake of gold, another magical arrow sped towards Malekith as Seraphon laboured to turn after the far more agile great eagles, her tail lashing with rage. It struck the black dragon in the neck, parting scales with a spurt of thick blood. Seraphon snarled with pain, thrashing her head away from the impact, almost jarring the chains loose from Malekith’s grasp.
‘Enough,’ rasped the Witch King, pointing Urithain at the offending prince. A bolt of black energy leapt from the tip, but the eagle had foreseen the attack and folded its wings, dropping beneath the blazing flash of magic. Malekith loosed another bolt and another, chasing the eagle down towards the forest, his prey twisting and turning. Pivoting on the immense bird’s back, the asur prince shot another arrow, which tore through the skin of Seraphon’s left wing, eliciting a further screech of pain.
Changing tactic, Malekith coiled the winds of magic to his will and focused on the prince’s mind. A protective amulet about his neck started to glow, resisting the attack, but Malekith gritted his teeth and pushed harder. The amulet shattered, overloaded with dark magic. Reaching out across the gap between them Malekith let his hatred flow, filling the other elf’s brain with shards of pure agony.
He saw the prince stiffen and cry out, his bow falling from flailing fingers as he toppled from the eagle’s back. The bird stooped down to catch the falling elf but Malekith was ready and hurled another dark bolt that struck the eagle square on the spine, turning feathers to ash and flesh to dust. Crippled, the eagle spiralled down after its rider, the wail of the latter drowned out by the dying shriek of the former.
Shadow darkening the regiments below, Seraphon flattened her dive and ascended again. The other two eagles broke away, unable to harm the mighty black dragon and her immortal master.
More Chracians had joined the attack, charging from under the trees in lion-drawn chariots, driving deep into the flank of a spear regiment as they tried to fall back alongside a company of Black Guard. The white lions fell upon the druchii with claws and fangs, manes matted with splashed blood, while the chariot riders hewed to the left and right with long, slender-headed axes, cutting down those that eluded the wrath of the lions.
The attack threatened to turn the whole flank of the withdrawal, leaving Malekith no choice but to intervene. Seraphon’s climb became another dive, claws outstretched as she crashed into the lead chariots like a thunderbolt, carving apart Chracians and druchii without discrimination. She seized a mighty lion in her jaws as Malekith swept down Urithain to behead the two chariot riders behind. Three bone-crunching bites and a huge gulp later and the lion was no more.
Traces and yokes whipped and cracked as the black dragon continued on her bloody rampage, sword-long talons dragging tatters of white lion hide and viscera. Malekith’s sword crackled with dark power, blood fizzing from the infernal flame that burned along the blade. Another sweep cut a Chracian from groin to shoulder and a third sheared a lion in half across the midriff.
The impetus of their charge abated by the Witch King’s attack, the lion chariots floundered and were soon beset by the Black Guard, who spilled around and over the chariots with halberds flashing, their hate-filled snarls and battle cries as ferocious as any mountain lion’s. His task complete, Malekith steered Seraphon away, seeking the real enemy.
He arrowed the dragon towards the tree line, following the tendrils of forest magic to their source. In parts, the woods themselves had moved, encroaching upon the paths cut by the druchii the day before, following the lead of the treemen and their kind. The boughs of the moving forest were too close together for any mortal eye to penetrate, obscuring all sign of Ystranna. Malekith would have to hunt her down another way.
Seraphon seemed to feel his intent and strained at her chains to swoop down into the Avelorn contingent, her muscles bunching as she prepared for the dive. Malekith hauled back on the reins, dissuading her from the manoeuvre, eliciting a growl of frustration.
‘I have a far more fitting fate in mind,’ Malekith told the dragon. ‘She thinks to rouse the spirit of Ulthuan against me? She will learn who is the true master of this isle.’
Sheathing Urithain, Malekith reached out his will into the forest below. The life magic pouring through the woods bucked at his approach, veering away from his presence in serpentine coils. Turning the extension of his self into a stiletto point, he struck out, pinning part of the retreating Ghyran with his mind. It writhed beneath his attention but could not escape, and slowly through the blade of the imaginary poniard Malekith poured forth his dark thoughts.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
GHYRAN, THE POWER OF LIFE
Like ink spreading in water, the Witch King’s magic started to pollute the stream of Ghyran brought forth by Ystranna. It was like forging against a river current, pushing against the resistance, but slowly, heartbeat by heartbeat, Malekith infected the magical current with his own will, corrupting it to his desire, perverting its nature.
The grass began to wither and the branches on the trees drooped as the life-force of the forest started leeching into Malekith’s dark magic. The power that had sustained the greenery now fed his wrath, and the longer he suckled on its foul-tasting purity the stronger his own sorcery grew.
Suddenly there was a flash of golden sunlight, arrowing down through the canopy, enveloping Malekith’s extension of will with an aura of warmth. He felt himself drawn out of his body, and blinked unreal eyes against the sudden light.
He stood in a quaint grotto, the sun overhead dappled by lustrous foliage swaying in a warm summer breeze. He could smell wild flowers on the banks of the dell – a sensation he had not enjoyed for several thousand years. His armour was no more, and he was clad in garlands of blooms and leaves, which coiled about him with a comforting embrace. A stream trickled through the grotto from a tinkling waterfall, fish of all colours darting to and fro beneath the surface.
‘Why hate so much?’ asked Ystranna. ‘Hate has never created anything.’
She appeared part maiden and part light and part tree, her hair spilling like willow branches, her eyes wells of sunshine. Streamers of flowers grew from the ground at her feet and enveloped her nakedness with a gown of rainbow hues, shimmering like the sunlight on the waterfall.
‘My hate created Naggaroth,’ said Malekith.
‘And what now of that creation? It has fallen, exposed as the pale imitation of life that it was. Something raised out of jealousy can never endure.’
‘What do you hope to achieve here? To sway my mind away from destroying you and taking back that which rightfully belongs to me?’ Malekith walked across the dell, feeling the soft turf beneath his bare feet, the grass between his toes. He closed his eyes, unable to avoid the memories stirred by the sensation. Memories of living flesh when he had thought he might love and be loved, fulfilled by duty and belonging.
‘No, Malekith, I do not. This is not for you. Nature can be harsh as well as beautiful. I am here to kill you with kindness.’
Ystranna’s expression changed. Her eyes became shards of ice and the garlands that wreathed Malekith revealed themselves to be the roots of the immense tree whose boughs spread over the dell, casting darkness across the Witch King. The roots tightened around his limbs and throat while thorns erupted from the tendrils, piercing his flesh, his splashing blood nurturing the ground to bring forth more bramble-like appendages.
The handmaiden stalked closer, her skin now like the bark of white trees, her fingers the clawing taproots that could prise open the foundations of castles and penetrate the walls of cities. Green and golden Ghyran continued to pulse through her body as she approached, hand outstretched.
‘I think not,’ said Malekith, letting free the bonds he had placed on his power to conceal it from Ystranna’s awareness. Aqshy, fire magic, surged through him, burning away the grasping roots and branches in a moment, turning his avatar into a pillar of fire.
‘You cannot harm me,’ the handmaiden said, her scornful expression written in creased bark and cracked leaves. ‘This is my realm and you are nothing but a projection of your will.’
The Witch King lunged at Ystranna’s apparition and before she realised what was happening, insubstantial fingers closed on her throat. She gasped in shock as the fires of his projection died, leaving a shadow-figure in their place.
‘Your realm?’
Ystranna looked around to see that the trees were withered, twisted things hunched over sickly-looking fungal growths. The ground had become a black mire, the river bubbling with the movement of fanged, slithering eels, the sun obscured by storm clouds.
‘My will is strong indeed, Ystranna,’ Malekith mocked. His blackened fingers become iron claws, digging into the flesh of Ystranna’s neck, puncturing the blood vessels. His spite bubbled from the wounds like acid, flowing into her body to create a spider’s web of blackening veins and arteries. ‘Thank you so much for coming to me. You are the taproot, the motherstone, the source of the power and now you have opened it to me. You should have stayed hidden.’
Ystranna’s flesh blistered and burned from within, pustules erupting to release clouds of spores that stung her eyes and choked her. She was immobile in Malekith’s grasp, unable to put up the slightest resistance.
‘Ulthuan will never be yours,’ the handmaiden gasped. Ystranna’s swollen veins started to pulse, splitting her bark-skin to allow sap-like fluid to run free, washing away Malekith’s venom. Her form shrank, becoming a tangle of blossoming vines that fell from the Witch King’s grasp. The blooms shattered like glass and where the shards landed, the decay of dark magic was dispelled, greenness and life returning to push back Malekith’s curse.
Assuming his usual form, the Witch King stamped a flaming foot on the spreading patch of earth magic, leaving a cindered footprint. The patch continued to grow, running up the hunched boles of the trees leaving fresh shoots in its wake, cleansing the filth from the brook, changing pale, eyeless eels into gleaming fish once more.
‘So crude, so clumsy,’ Ystranna said, her voice coming to Malekith from all around, carried on the rustle of jade leaves and the trickle of fresh water, the creak of branches and swish of grass mocking him with subtle laughter. The words tore at his pride, so close to those barbed comments his own mother had made.
‘Is that so?’ he snarled in reply, striding up to the closest tree. He punched his fist through the bark and opened his fingers in the heartwood, letting his frustration loose as a flame that consumed the tree from within. Steam and smoke billowed from the wound as the core of the tree disappeared, leaving the mass of branches to collapse in a welter of splinters and cracking wood.
