The magical entanglement continued as far as the walls of the city itself, which were unmanned.
‘You trust to magic more than the spears of our people?’ Malekith said to Drusala.
‘Spears are of little use against daemons, your majesty,’ replied the sorceress. ‘Better that the garrison stays away from the bloodthorns, lest unseemly incidents occur.’
Passing through the great gate beside Drusala, Malekith found the streets empty. Now and then a terrified face appeared at a window or a shutter would creak open, revealing dread-filled eyes for a moment before closing. All was shrouded in near-darkness, the cold light of the sun blocked out by the dome of thorns, broken only by a ghostly green glow that emanated from the pinnacle of the Tower of Ghrond.
The heart of the city was a lone spire almost as high as the tallest pilaster of the Black Tower. A solitary finger of dark rock topped the Convent of Sorceresses, and this tower was tipped with a faceted crystal sphere from which the sisterhood commanded by Morathi would gaze north into the heart of the Wastes, into the Realm of Chaos itself, gauging its moods and movements. The summit of the tower was partly obscured by the wavering miasma of energy sustaining the thornwall.
The atmosphere of dread was as palpable as the dark magic that Malekith felt moving sluggishly through the foundations of the city. The buildings were low and squat for elf construction – barely a tower four storeys high broke the skyline away from the convent. Slate roofs gave the city a grey appearance, broken by the silver and gold of talismans hanging over doorways and windows. Some walls were painted with red or white or pale blue runes of protection, others with names of the Cytharai and many decorated with intricate mural-geometric designs incorporating the name-icon of Hekarti.
‘Upon the edge of damnation it is wise to appease all patrons,’ Drusala said, noticing the Witch King’s stare lingering on these totems. She pointed to his shield. ‘The antithetical rune of the supreme witch protects you in battle, my lord.’
‘You find judgement where only curiosity exists,’ said Malekith, scrutinising Drusala closely. She seemed more defensive than during previous encounters. ‘Of more interest to me is my mother’s assertion to possess the mantel of Hekarti. It is not the first time in recent memory that one has claimed to me that the gods are ascending and descending to the mortal realm.’
‘Really?’ Drusala regretted her interested outburst immediately, looking away shame-faced. When she looked at Malekith again she had regained her composure, though there was stiffness in her tone. ‘Apologies, your majesty. We are indeed in tumultuous times and the gods themselves will play their part in events to come. Forgive my intrusive demand.’
‘It excites you? The possibility that we enter the End Times?’
‘There are no endings, your majesty, only beginnings that have not been exploited yet. The world turns upon cycles, and we stand on the brink of a fresh era of growth and dominance.’
‘To which ‘we’ do you refer? The Convent of Sorceresses? The Naggarothi? Mortals?’
Drusala kept her expression neutral when she replied. ‘Your people, of course, your majesty. We are all your subjects.’
‘Even Morathi?’
‘I would not speak for the incarnation of Eternal Hekarti, your majesty, but your mother has long laboured for your power and best interests. Was it not her that aided Kouran in holding together your dominion when you were cast adrift in the Realm of the Dark Lords? If she had desired to usurp your majesty’s position, she would have done so then, would she not?’
‘My mother does not support me – she fears the reprisals of the princes should one of them ever seize power.’
Drusala clamped her mouth shut, cheeks drawn in as she kept whatever remark she had to herself. It was obvious that Malekith’s barbed words had touched a nerve. He was not sure if the sorceress was offended, or upset in some other fashion by his comments. Certainly she held Morathi in very high esteem and it pained her to hear Malekith talk of his mother in such an off-hand fashion.
They continued without speaking. Drusala’s footfalls made no noise as she strode along the paved streets, but the impact of Malekith’s boots rang hollow from the buildings, each step a knell that announced his passage through the city. More and more faces peered at his approach, some of them now showing curiosity more than fear. Once or twice he caught the expectant gaze of a noble or servant, quickly replaced with fear as his dread gaze fell upon them.
He could imagine the whispered conversations, the rumour. The bloodthorn wall kept out news as surely as it guarded against attack, and perhaps that was Morathi’s true purpose. Had the people of Ghrond known that the rest of Naggaroth was being destroyed by the bloodied horde there might have been dissent, even rebellion. He knew his subjects were not overtly loyal to one another, but enlightened self-interest and the risk of total destruction always ensured they would come together against an external foe.
What lies had Morathi and her sisters spun to the military commanders? That it was safe to stay here, waiting for reinforcements that Morathi hoped would never arrive? As time dragged on she would speak of how Malekith had been absent, and how the lords of Naggarond had cared nothing for the people of the other cities. By such half-truths was a new centre of power created, and by such manipulation of events were loyalties shifted.
Drusala was right in one regard. The End Times was an unnecessarily grandiose name for a period of change no worse than any Chaos influx the world had seen before. The magical vortex of Ulthuan ensured that no matter how far the Realm of Chaos expanded, never again would the touch of Chaos corrupt the whole world as it had done during the daemonic invasions that had beset Aenarion. If the latest news from Ulthuan was true, Prince Tyrion was ably impersonating his ancestor in holding back the latest daemon surge.
It was all so repetitive. The cycle of the world, the endless ebb and flow of nations and battles, and here was Malekith again, about to take his mother to task for opposing him, for testing him. He would have hoped that she of all other people would understand the pointlessness of trying to resist his will, but her vanity always urged her to the wrong path at the most untimely moments.
I’ve been here before, he thought.
Not literally, but the similarity to events in the far past made him wonder if he was an actor in a play being staged again and again with a few alterations to the script between performances.
At the far end of the hall sat Morathi, clad in a draping wind of golden cloth that obscured very little of her nakedness. She held her staff of bone and iron across her lap, her fingers toying with the skull at its tip. Morathi was sitting in a simple wooden chair next to the mighty throne of Aenarion, which was cut from a single piece of black granite, its back shaped like a rearing dragon, of which Bel Shanaar’s throne was but a pale imitation. Magical flame licked from the dragon’s fanged maw and glowed in its eyes.
Malekith’s eyes were drawn to the throne above all other things, ignoring even his mother, for this was the strongest memory he had of this place, of his father girded for war sat upon that immense chair, in counsel with his famed generals.
The memory was so vivid that Malekith could hear his father’s soft yet strong voice echoing around the throne room. The prince was but a child, sat in the lap of his mother beside the Phoenix King, and Aenarion would occasionally pause in his conversation and look down upon his son. Always stern was that look: not unkind, yet not compassionate either, but full of pride. For years Malekith had gazed back at those strong, dark eyes and seen the fires that raged behind their quiet dignity. Malekith imagined that he alone knew the sinister spirit that hid within, clothed in the body of a noble monarch, masked against the eyes of the world lest it be recognised for what it truly was.