Hellebron’s cackle cut through the uproar.
‘Khaine’s feast grows daily, and you think you can avoid the banquet?’ Fingernails like daggers scratched the surface of the table. She turned her attention to the Witch King. ‘All that is left is the bloodletting – what does it matter where the droplets fall?’
‘The blood of the druchii belongs to me,’ Malekith snarled. ‘I and I alone have made you what you are. Mine is the will that has stripped all weakness from your hearts, mine is the vision that has poured strength into your bodies. All you think, all you dream, all that you are is as I have made it. The druchii are mine, formed from my vision, moulded by my cause. From the pathetic tatters of a vanquished realm I have built a great and terrible people.’
‘But how does that help us save Naggaroth?’ Malus asked, confidence obviously fuelled by the disapproval voiced by the others. Malekith cared nothing for their opinions, only for their uses.
‘Ereth Khial take Naggaroth!’ Malekith spat. ‘Our treacherous kin are ripe for conquest! What would you do, spend the blood of your warriors to protect a land that you despise, a bleak desolation that has within it nothing but scorn and mockery? I tell you, I tell all of you, this will not be! We will not bleed our armies defending this abominable wilderness! If we are to fight, then we will fight a war that is worth fighting! We will fight to take the land that belongs to us! We will fight to claim the land that is our heritage and birthright! Naggaroth? Let it burn! Let it rot! Let it fall to daemons and beasts! It is Ulthuan we desire, it is Ulthuan that is the destiny of the druchii! Ulthuan and the crown of Aenarion! Ulthuan and the birthright of Malekith!’
The Witch King’s eyes flared from the black depths of his helm. ‘We will not waste our strength defending Naggaroth. We will instead gather every warrior in the realm, every knight and corsair, every beastmaster and shade. We will muster such a host as has never sailed against the shores of Ulthuan. Every black ark, every helldrake and galley, any ship worthy of the sea will assemble in the greatest armada the gods have ever seen. In the past, the druchii have faltered against the asur because always you restrained yourselves, you held something back. This time, such cowardice will not be permitted. You will throw the full strength of your realms against Ulthuan. Nothing will be held back, for there will be nothing to come back to. There will be only victory or death!’
There were nods of agreement, some more forced than others, but Malekith could see that the truth had lingered in their hearts for some time but was only now being acknowledged. The attacks of the northlanders had been bitter, but no more bitter for Malekith than the last six millennia of frustration and disappointment. Now his subjects could feel an iota of what he had felt for so long, trapped behind their walls, seeing all they had built brought to ruin by the failings and machinations of others.
‘Naggaroth will never recover,’ the Witch King continued, erasing all doubt from the minds of his councillors. He knew they would obey his command; they always did. He needed more. He needed them to believe in their cause with greater passion than ever before. For one time only, the entirety of the druchii had to be bound together by a common purpose: conquest or extinction. His voice rose to a shout. ‘It is not the will of our people to slowly dwindle and die, cowering behind our walls. We are the bloodied blade that delivers fate’s end. We are the hunters from whom no prey escapes. We are the victors of a thousand wars, the lords of countless lesser creatures, and we do not bow meekly to Morai-heg’s decree. We are scions of Nagarythe, the people of Aenarion! We will reclaim our birthright or die!’
The dread lords and ladies sat in shocked silence at this decree, none daring to look at any other except their lord, who prowled around the table and stopped before his throne, standing between Drusala and Ezresor. Malekith looked at the sorceress and then the spymaster.
‘Before you depart the Black Tower. Before you return to your cities to gather your warriors, a demonstration. A reminder of what must befall all who betray their king.’
Kouran rose to his feet and joined his master. From the darkness behind his Black Guards emerged Malekith’s personal torturers bringing with them the wickedly barbed, hooked and pointed implements of their profession.
Kouran stood before the iron throne, the torturers flanking him at either side. The captain turned towards Drusala, then in a sudden whirl he fell upon Ezresor. The spymaster was caught utterly by surprise, the blade he had hidden in the sleeve of his robe pinned against his wrist as Kouran caught him, the point of Crimson Death a hair’s breadth from the spymaster’s throat. Ezresor was forced to his feet as the captain bent his arm behind his back.
Malekith seized hold of the struggling elf. His iron hand gripped Ezresor’s gaunt face, forcing his mouth open.
‘You were the eyes and ears of the Black Tower,’ the king snarled. ‘But what good are eyes and ears when the tongue will not relate what has been seen and heard?’ The Witch King’s iron talons reached inside Ezresor’s mouth. A gargled cry escaped the spymaster as Malekith ripped the tongue free, blood sizzling on the Witch King’s fingertips. He held the bloodied strip of flesh for all the Black Council to see, the organ charring rapidly. ‘One of you bought Ezresor’s tongue. Look well upon what you purchased.’
Dropping the gory talisman on the floor, the king stormed from the chamber, leaving Kouran to make an example to the others.
As the Witch King ordered, so it was to be.
Though Naggaroth was to be surrendered, it was not to be gifted to the northlanders and daemons. The slaves were slaughtered in their millions, their departing souls used to cast vile enchantments upon their bodies to bring plague upon those that came after. The earth itself was cursed so that no crop or grass or flower would grow again from the blood-soaked soil. The snows and the water courses were poisoned, and the subterranean rivers and seas of the Iron Mountains were spoiled. The sky was choked by a bank of black smoke from the burning cities and towers. Nothing was left as loot or comfort for the invaders.
Only Morathi remained at Ghrond, and the most demented of Khaine’s acolytes fought endless war with Hellebron against the Bloodied Horde at Har Ganeth. All others of elven blood followed their lords to the coast and prepared not for an attack but for a migration, back to the land of their ancestors.
Because the fates have ever had a sense of drama, even at the hour of setting forth, as the sails of the corsairs’ ships darkened the ocean and the great shadows of the black arks stretched across storm-tossed waves, so the last of the daemons attacking Ulthuan fell to the Sunfang, Lacelothrai, the blade of Prince Tyrion, and his brother Teclis banished their kind from the shores of the elven homeland at great cost to his own health and future. Tired were the defenders but they knew their enemies would think them weak and vulnerable. Muted were the celebrations as the dead were buried and the fortifications repaired.
Thus was set the stage for the opening scene of Ulthuan’s last war.
PART TWO