‘The world is in upheaval,’ he said. ‘Forces of life and death stir and the gaze of the gods falls upon us all. The winds of magic have not been so turbulent since the last great war against the Dark Gods’ servants. The tempest of Chaos obscures unnatural sight, so you must bring me all news from across the globe. I will know what rumour passes in Lothern and Tor Achare. You will tell me what counsel is spoken to the ears of the human kings and Emperor. Armies march, alive and dead, and I would know their disposition and strength. All of this you will bring to me, or you are of no more use.’
‘From your will, majesty, to my hands,’ Venil said, wetting his lips once more. ‘I shall be your eyes and ears, as always.’
Two
Destiny’s Master
Malekith dismissed Ezresor and Venil, and sat down on his iron throne to consider their counsel. At a gesture from his lord, Kouran approached the throne and stood to one side, awaiting instruction.
Malekith looked at the backs of the other two elves for a moment before the huge double doors closed behind them. It was too easy to dismiss their concerns out of hand. Seven millennia had delivered many crises and setbacks to Malekith but he had overcome these disappointments. Recent events seemed at first to be world-shattering, especially to his minions that did not share their king’s advantage of such long perspective.
Weighed against the risks of over-reaction was the price of complacency. The barbarians had been at the walls of Naggarond itself, during the Witch King’s absence, and that was almost unthinkable. This was not just another incursion by the cultureless hordes of the north, this was a far rarer moment, a genuine mass migration, an expansion of the Chaos Wastes that could signify a great change in the course of history.
None other than Malekith, save perhaps his mother, understood the importance of harnessing the turning points of history to one’s own end. He looked at Kouran.
‘Destiny,’ said the Witch King, ‘is a lazy device invented by simpleton philosophers, endorsed by inadequate playwrights and poets, and thrown around by half-blind mages. The gods rarely care to interfere in the life of a single mortal, and the wider universe certainly does not pause in its cycle or shape itself for the betterment of a single person. If one believes in destiny, one forfeits the right to choose a path, giving away all credit and taking no blame for one’s actions.’
‘I understand, my king,’ said Kouran.
Malekith regarded his lieutenant, looking for a sign that this was merely platitude. It was not, and Malekith could tell.
‘Of course, my dear captain, there are few better examples of a self-made elf than you. Gutterspawn you were, am I right? Raised in the streets and alleys, orphaned?’
‘I was, my king. I fought for food, for survival. The Black Guard took me in and gave me something else to fight for.’
‘For a master?’ said Malekith, knowing the truth but curious to see if he could tease it from his loyal bodyguard.
‘Respectfully, no, my king. Though I am honoured to serve and would give my life for yours, it was not loyalty to you that drove my ascension through the ranks. The Black Guard gave me a chance to earn respect.’
‘Do they respect you, or do they fear you?’ It was a question Morathi had oftentimes asked of Malekith down the centuries. Malekith had always been ambivalent to the difference but he sensed it meant something to Kouran.
‘A mixture of both,’ the captain replied with a rare half-smile. ‘Those that do not know me, fear me, and that is enough. A few that know me, they respect me. I would hope, my king, that you do not fear me, but that I have your respect.’
Malekith nodded thoughtfully.
‘Yes, my dear Alandrian, you have my deepest respect. So few do, these days.’ Malekith was in a strange mood and felt like confiding in his companion something he had not shared with any other. ‘The truth is, I do not fear you, and perhaps you are the only mortal I do not fear. The others are weak and venal and would strike me down in a heartbeat if given the chance.’
‘Surely you are too powerful to be overthrown in such fashion, my king?’
‘I can die, despite my longevity. It is not a casual dread, of mortality, but an ever-present knowledge that I am not loved, and those that serve, except for you, serve me out of fear not respect. I wonder, Alandrian, if I should have tried harder to win them to my cause rather than coercing them into servitude.’
‘My name is Kouran, my king,’ the captain said, his voice edged with concern.
‘Yes, I know that,’ Malekith snapped. ‘What of it?’
‘Twice in the last few breaths you called me Alandrian. One of your earliest lieutenants, I think.’
‘Did I really?’ Malekith tried to recall what he had said but could not remember misnaming his companion. There was, unusually for Malekith’s retainers, no cause for Kouran to lie so the Witch King accepted the correction without doubt. ‘Take it as a compliment, Kouran. Alandrian was an exceptional commander, an accomplished negotiator and orator, and one of my most loyal servants. He helped me forge the colonies across the water in Elthin Arvan.’
‘I recall now, my king. You made him Regent of Athel Toralien. He was Hellebron’s father.’
‘The past vexes me,’ Malekith said suddenly. ‘That must be why I was thinking of Alandrian. The past is returning. It repeats itself, coming in cycles, birth and death and rebirth. Ever has it been so, since before my time, until the End Times. The gods rise and fall, are worshipped and cast aside, and the lives of mortals pass like the heartbeats of the world.’
‘What about the past particularly vexes you this day, my king?’
‘Something is changing. Like a familiar smell, of blood and hot iron, these past days remind me of a time long, long passed.’
‘We have fought many wars with the northmen – it is not strange to be reminded of such events when the barbarians come south again.’
‘It is not the northmen that I can smell, my dear Kouran. I smell something far older and far deadlier. Chaos in its raw form. The portal opens and the Realm of the Gods expands, polluting the world. The winds of magic are changing. Death shrouds the world.’ Malekith took a breath, the flames of his body dimming to ruddy embers as he shuddered. ‘Daemons, Kouran. I smell the spoor of daemons. They have come again to Ulthuan – the hosts of the Chaos Gods’ minions throw themselves upon the spears of our weaker cousins.’
‘Yes, my king, we have received reports that the upstart Tyrion leads the armies of the Phoenix King in defence of our ancestral isle. What does it mean?’
What did it mean? Malekith knew. He had known this time would come for six thousand years.
His glowing hand reached up to the spiked crown upon his head – the Circlet of Iron – and the Witch King’s thoughts drifted back across the ages to a strange city in the north, wherein he and his expedition had found a temple unlike any other, and within that temple Malekith had found a prize that promised the world.
Seven figures sat upon low square stools, more opulent versions of the skeletons below with more pearls and brooches of the same dark, black material. Six sat facing outward, each one facing one of the lines upon the ground below as far as Malekith could tell. They had no hoods but instead wore simple crowns, each nothing more than a narrow band about the skull with a black gem that reflected no light.
The seventh figure sat facing Malekith, though he suspected that he would have faced the intruders regardless of from which direction they had approached. His crown was much larger, of a silver-grey metal, with curling, horn-like protrusions, the only organic shape they had seen since entering the city.