The clash was horrendous, bodies churned beneath scythed wheels, warriors decapitated by strokes of bronze swords and axes. Undeterred the elves weathered the impact of their foes, fuelled by the daemon-rage. They quickly surrounded their enemies, tearing into them with sword and spear.
Heedless of the danger, the elves pressed on, swarming past the scant remains of their first victims. Into the teeth of the foe they charged, metaphorically and literally, drawn towards the bloodthirster as moths are drawn to flame and with similarly deadly result.
Both sides hacked at one another without thought, driven mad by the blood-rage of Khorne. Those elves that could not lay weapon or hand upon an enemy fell upon each other, slashing and tearing without relent. Even Kouran and his Black Guard, cold-blooded killers to the last elf, were swept away by the orgy of violent release, cleaving like a dark spear into the heart of the daemonic army. The Khainites were driven beyond even their zealous battle-hunger, and cut themselves to let even more blood flow, glorifying in their own wounds as much as the injuries inflicted on their enemies. Their piercing wails lifted higher than the screeching of the harpies as they fell upon the incapacitated of both sides, sating flesh-famine and bloodlust in equal measure.
The manticores descended like comets of rage, slamming into the daemon regiments with claws and fangs slashing like dozens of swords. Hydras and war dogs matched the baying and screeching of the flesh hounds as they ripped bloody chunks of unnatural flesh from bone and in turn were eviscerated and beheaded.
The bloodthirster smashed through friend and foe alike, a massive rune-axe in each hand that lofted limbs and severed heads high into the air with every swing. Like a mariner wading to shore, the greater daemon stood thigh-deep in the bodies of its victims, pushing on without mercy or pause, a bloody explosion of pure rage.
Malekith watched it all in a detached manner. Seraphon was touched by the blood-thirst too but a growl from the Witch King silenced her protest. He felt the anger pulsing around him, bringing visions of slaughter and victory.
He laughed.
The bloodthirst of Khorne was nothing compared to the hatred and anger that had burned in his heart for six thousand years. The Blood God’s promises of conquest and glory were faded temptations, long since outgrown by Malekith’s own ambition and towering desire for vengeance. Every day the Witch King fought the need to vent frustration and exact bloody retribution and today was no different.
With a derisive snort, he ordered Seraphon to descend. The battle was going poorly for his warriors, all advantage of superior strategy and skill washed away by the demands of unquestioning bloodlust. There was only one way to even the odds and avoid certain defeat.
The bloodthirster noticed Malekith’s descent and, tossing aside the broken body of a manticore, lifted both axes in challenge to the Witch King. Malekith replied with a bolt of pure dark magic that earthed along the unholy blades, sending the greater daemon reeling. Black sparks flew from its iron collar as the power of Khorne dissipated the remaining magical energy.
‘It seems your master’s protection against sorcery is not all it once was,’ Malekith laughed as Seraphon circled the brute, one wingtip almost brushing the ground. The Witch King threw another crackling bolt, but this time the collar earthed its power before any harm was done, spraying the magic away from the bloodthirster in a shower of sable lightning.
‘Know that I am thy doom, weak mortal,’ the beast roared back, clashing its axes together. ‘I am Skarbrand, the Deathbringer, the Corpsemaker, Son of Slaughter.’
‘I know of you, Exiled One,’ Malekith sneered. ‘Shamed, humbled, by the simplest of tricks, abandoned by the Lord of Skulls. And shame again you will know for daring to attack the army of the Witch King, Malekith the Great.’
‘Ignoble Malekith, the kinslayer,’ laughed Skarbrand. ‘Much is the blood that has flowed through my master’s domain at your behest. Your skull shall make a fine adornment for Khorne’s throne. Fight me, coward, as a true warrior would fight.’
Skarbrand leapt, one of its axes leaving a ruddy trail through the air as it swung towards Seraphon’s wing. The old dragon was too wily to be caught by surprise and flicked her wing out of the way, soaring above the bloodthirster’s head. Letting forth an enraged bellow, Skarbrand turned in mid-air, the other axe extended for another swing.
Seraphon caught the creature’s wrist in two claws, warding away the deadly blow. Striving with fierce growls, she bore the bloodthirster aloft. Before the daemon’s other blade could be brought back into play, Malekith struck, driving Urithain to the hilt into its eye. The tip of the blade erupted from the back of Skarbrand’s skull. Seraphon released her grip as Malekith ripped his sword free and the body tumbled groundwards, crushing dozens of the greater daemon’s minions with the impact.
Like a wind suddenly changing and freshening, the aura of death and violence that had emanated from the bloodthirster was swept away by the cold winds of the north. The bloodletters and flesh hounds were thrown into disarray by the death of their general, while the elves recovered a measure of their senses, both sides recoiling from each other in the moments that followed.
The elves recovered more swiftly, still driven by the aftermath of Skarbrand’s rage, heeding the commands of Kouran as the elven general issued swift orders to set a proper attack into motion.
As Seraphon lifted Malekith towards the snow-laden clouds, the Witch King considered returning to his pavilion, confident that his servants would know victory after his intervention. He stopped himself from withdrawing a moment later, looking at the broken body of Skarbrand far below.
The mage had foretold this day, in typically cryptic fashion. He had offered several prophecies as evidence that he spoke the truth and indeed was guided by the will of the goddess Lileath. Three visions he had spoken of, three events that would steer Malekith to their common cause.
‘I remember when the lords of Saphery ruled from a flying city,’ said Malekith, looking around the circular chamber near the pinnacle of the White Tower.
‘Beautiful Saphethion,’ his host said wistfully, thin fingers tapping together at his chin. ‘Destroyed by your ambition.’
‘It was not my ambition that brought low your floating city, but the actions of meddling mages,’ Malekith replied. ‘How little you learn.’
‘It is not a scheme of my own devising that I follow, but a divine plan from the watcher of fates herself, Lileath of the Pale Moon.’
‘You seek alliance from me?’ Malekith shook his head in disbelief, and in doing so caught a glimpse of himself in the silver reflection of an oval mirror set behind the mage’s desk. His projection here was as he had been in his early life. No iron-and-fire, no armour of midnight. A tall, darkly handsome elf with lustrous hair and sharp cheekbones regarded him solemnly. But for all that this apparition appeared healthy and hearty, the fires still burned and Malekith felt the pain of his enduring curse. His mood soured swiftly. ‘It was you that reawakened that ancient flame in my soul, resurrecting an agony of ages in my heart and bones. You are mistaken if you think I desire anything other than your drawn-out, horrendous death, Teclis.’