Hellebron had not always been so. All the recent talk of gods incarnating in the land of mortals reminded Malekith of Death Night seven hundred years before, when he had travelled to Har Ganeth for a very special conclave with the witch elves of Khaine.
It was an even choice which grated on his nerves more – the shrieking of the Khainites, the incessant drumming or the smell of burning viscera. The first was like the scrape of a broken blade across his nerves, the second was so monotonous it made him doubt time and sanity and the third was too much of a reminder of his physical condition.
He endured it all as he endured that immortal pain, in silence.
The temple of Khaine in Har Ganeth was an open forum of black pillars with an iron dome across the top hung with decaying organs and bones that swayed and rattled in the thermals of hot air rising from the sacrificial fire and a thousand braziers. In layout it was a good approximation of the ancient site upon the Blighted Isle where the Sword of Khaine rested in its dark stone altar, but considering the heat coming from the sacred fires – heat he could barely feel but had to be near-lethal for the cavorting worshippers – he wondered if the open aspect of the shrine was more practical than symbolic.
Such thoughts amused Malekith as he watched the ceremony continue. Out in the streets of the city, as in all the other cities of Naggaroth and any settlement where there was a shrine to Khaine, the witch elves were celebrating Death Night. The cultists prowled the streets and rooftops, seeking victims for the temple. In times past only those found outside their homes had fallen prey, but as the millennia had passed generations had grown wise to the perils and now in order to meet the bloody demands of their god the Khainites were not above breaking into buildings to snatch away those that could not defend themselves. Across the city howls of grief and the clash of weapons signalled successes and failures in this quest.
The unfortunates were dragged screaming up the temple steps, their bodies already bleeding from dozens of cuts, leaving a trail of blood on the red-veined marble. Hellebron and her coterie of hag queens stood beside an immense cauldron scored with diabolic runes. Wrought from black iron also, hollow with flames burning within, a statue of Khaine was set behind the cauldron, wicked blades held over the magical vessel. There was a fire lit beneath the cauldron, in which a growing pool of blood bubbled and steamed.
The sacrifices were heaved up onto the altar and their arteries opened wide, spilling crimson life fluid into the channels carved into the stone, running down into the dungeon beneath the temple where slaves laboured with cloths and buckets, passing pails of the spilt blood up slick steps to the priestesses in the shrine. Uttering their shrill prayers to the Lord of Murder the witch elves poured their bloody libation into the cauldron for their high priestesses.
Incredibly the victims did not die from this bleeding, but remained as shambling things kept alive by the magic of the temple. That is, until they stumbled into the grim-faced Executioners that lined the columned space, their two-handed draichs slick with blood. Each victim was finished with a single strike and lesser acolytes fell upon the bodies, some to rip out the hearts to toss into the holy flames, others fighting for possession of the heads to flense and gild as trophies. The rest of the remains were dragged away by whip-scarred slaves, to the workshops where they would be rendered down for components used in the Khainites’ narcotics and poisons, the remaining organs and body parts illicitly sold on to magical practitioners not willing to draw the eye of the Convent of Sorceresses.
For the whole of Death Night this continued, until just before dawn the Cauldron of Blood was nearly full. Ascending on steps wrought of bones and sinew, Hellebron and her hag queens bathed in the heated blood, laughing and splashing like children in a pool. Malekith watched closely. His unnatural gaze, aided by the Circlet of Iron upon his brow, could see the winds of dark magic binding to the cauldron through ritual and sacrifice. The magic flowed into the blood, energising it, and passed into the hag queens within.
Hellebron emerged as the first rays of dawn shone through the gate-pillars of the temple, her pale flesh bronzed by the sun’s early light. She was exquisite, possessed of such youthful vibrancy, her hair lustrous and thick, every limb and feature perfectly proportioned. Malekith knew well why his mother had scorned Hellebron when Alandrian’s daughter had asked for favour in the queen’s service many millennia ago: simple jealousy. For all her politics and machinations, Morathi was sometimes prone to folly caused by her primal need for superiority. Had she been able to stomach the presence of a maiden more beautiful than her, Morathi would have made a powerful servant rather than an enemy six thousand years old.
He snapped himself out of his lustful contemplation, remembering that there was a particular reason he had come to Har Ganeth on this of all nights. Morathi’s pleasure cults were growing again, inveigling their way into the courts and armies of Naggaroth as they had Ulthuan in the time before the oceans had swallowed Nagarythe. For the most part they were harmless, but Malekith was never content to allow his mother free rein, and a message had to be sent reminding Morathi that the Witch King was aware of her ploys.
Malekith paced across the temple as the last of the hag queens pulled her lithe, blood-coated body from the great cauldron. He extended his will, letting Asuryan’s flame burn from the cracks and gaps in his armour. The resemblance to the statue of Khaine was uncanny and it was this that had given Malekith inspiration.
‘You know me as your king,’ he intoned, ascending the steps to stand above the mighty cauldron of the Lord of Murder. He opened his arms, flame burning from his palms. ‘Know me now also as the incarnate vessel of your lord and god, Khaine the Ruthless, the Bloody-Handed Messenger, Jaguar of the Night, the Manticore. In me has He invested His power in the mortal realm, so that He might lead you on the crusade of death.’
Hellebron had known this was to come and she hid her distaste well enough as she watched Malekith stepping down into the blood. The thick liquid roiled at the heat of his entry, bursting and splashing over the rim of the cauldron. Malekith crouched, allowing his head to sink beneath the surface, feeling the dark magic crawling across his armour. He latched onto the threads of energy and poured his own magic back along their channels.
The outside of the cauldron started to glow. The runes grew brighter and brighter until they blazed with ruddy energy, filling the temple with blood-red light. As Hellebron and the assembled Khainites watched, Malekith ascended from the blood, the life fluid blackened, caked across his armoured flesh. He turned his eyes on Hellebron and after a moment – a moment that signalled displeasure but obedience – she lowered to one knee and bowed her head, prompting the rest of the Khaine worshippers to do likewise.
‘Send the word out across the world,’ Hellebron intoned. Malekith emitted a little of his magical power, shattering the burned blood from his armour with a burst of fire. ‘Celebrate and give thanks to the mighty Lord of Murder for delivering unto us his world-born son. We have been blessed and in His name we shall bare our blades in readiness for His will as voiced by His avatar. Hail Malekith, Eternal Khaine Incarnate.’