Lithe creatures clad in the guise of half-maidens cavorted through the paradise, laughing and chattering, caressing each other with shimmering claws. Across emerald meadows roamed herds of sinuous beasts whose bodies shimmered and changed colour, their iridescent patterns hypnotising to the elf prince. Malekith felt himself drawn onwards, ensnared by their beauty.
Suddenly realising his peril, Malekith tore his gaze away from the mesmerising vision. He became distinctly aware that he was being watched and could feel the attention of otherworldly beings being turned in his direction. Feeling as if his soul were about to be laid bare and flayed before the gaze of the Chaos Gods, Malekith felt terror gripping him. He sought somewhere to flee, but in every direction spread the domains of the Dark Gods. With a last dread-driven effort, he wished himself away and was surrounded again by the twirling energies of magic.
When his vision had cleared again, Malekith found himself hovering far above the world, as if stood upon the edge of creation itself and looking down upon the realms of men and elves and dwarfs and every other creature under the sun. He could see the jungle-swathed forests of Lustria where lizardmen scuttled through the ruins of the Old Ones’ cities. He saw orc tribes massing in the blighted wilderness, carpeting the ground in tides of green.
Over everything drifted the winds of magic, now more clear to him than they had ever been. The prince saw them streaming from the shattered Gate of Chaos in the north and spreading out across the northlands. He saw the vortex of Ulthuan as a great swirl of power, drawing the energy out of the world. He saw sinkholes of darkness and blazing mountains of light.
In that instant it all became clear to Malekith. The whole world was laid out before him, and he saw as perhaps only his mother had before seen. There were torrents of power that swept across the lands untapped by mortal kind. The very breath of the gods sighed over oceans and plains, down valleys and across forests. From Chaos came all magic, whether good or ill. It was stunning in its beauty, just as a storm-tossed sea can enthral those not caught in its deadly grip.
Malekith lingered awhile, now aware of the crown burning upon his head. It acted as some kind of key, some artefact created by the races that had come before the rise of elves, before even the coming of the Old Ones. It would be easy for him to stay here forever, marvelling in the rich, random choreography of the dancing winds of magic. He could spend an eternity studying their heights and depths with the circlet and still not unlock all of their secrets.
Something nagged at his mind however, a sensation deep within his soul that threatened to break his reverie.
Malekith summoned the willpower to master the Circlet of Iron and returned to the mortal world. With the power of the crown, Malekith could see the magical forces binding the skeletons together and the ancient commands that blazed within their empty skulls. It was simplicity itself to order them to stop and then with another thought, the prince bade them return to their eternal slumber. All about him the hall was filled with great golden arches and glittering pillars, unseen to all except him.
Given extraordinary awareness by the circlet he could look upon the magic of the ancient architects of the city, the curving galleries and arching balconies constructed from mystical forces that even he had been unaware of. This was why the chamber had been devoid of other magic, for it contained its own power, far stronger than that of the fitful winds of magic. Just as air cannot pass into a solid object, so too the winds of magic found no room to creep into the enchantment-filled chamber.
Now gifted the insights granted by the crown, there was no telling how acutely the Naggarothi prince might master the power of Chaos. With the circlet to act as his key, Malekith could work such spells as would make the witchery of Saphery seem insignificant. Had he not looked upon the realm of the Chaos Gods itself? Did he not now know their lands, and had he not dared them and survived?
Elation filled Malekith, more majestic than any triumph he ever felt before. His mother had warned that Chaos was the greater enemy; the perils of orcs and the armies of the beastmen paled into insignificance against those legions of daemons that Malekith had seen. The Chaos Gods plotted and waited, for they had an eternity to ponder their plans and to make their schemes. The elves could not shelter behind the power of the vortex forever, Malekith realised, for he had felt the slowly growing power of the Chaos Gods even as he had stood in their midst.
It all came together in the prince’s mind. The men of the north were vassals of the Dark Gods, and as they prospered and multiplied, so too would the influence of their ineffable masters. There might come a day when the bulwark of the vortex would fail, and again the hordes of Chaos would be unleashed upon the world. Ulthuan was utterly unprepared for such an eventuality. Bel Shanaar could not hope to meet such a threat. It was an apparent truth to Malekith that he alone, with the power of the circlet, now bore the means by which the elves might be protected from this greater doom.
Slowly, with much effort, Malekith took the crown from his head. The great magical architecture faded from his vision and he found himself back in the strangely-angled hall beneath the prehistoric city. His Naggarothi surrounded him, staring at their lord with eyes full of wonder and fear.
Malekith smiled. He now knew what he must do.
‘It means,’ Malekith said slowly, ‘that a time of destiny is upon us. An opportunity to shape the future and seal fates presently caught in the balance.’
‘You plan to move on Ulthuan once again?’
‘Not yet, there is too much turmoil in Naggaroth with the army of that blood-bitch Valkia still roaming my lands, and Morathi haunts Ghrond with further mischief in mind, I am sure. There can be no fresh attack while these matters are yet to be decided.’ Malekith stood, the flames from his body erupting into fresh life, so hot that Kouran was forced to take a step back, his armour glittering in the orange and yellow light. ‘Assemble my army and call for my generals. Send the word to all that have fought beneath my banner and let them know that I demand their service again. The Witch King marches forth.’
Three
The March North
A city of tents dominated the high ground, walls and banners flapping in the incessant breeze that brought its icy touch across Naggarond from even more northerly climes. In more comfortable lands it was spring, but the Land of Chill had been well named in the first years after Malekith had arrived with his exiles. Snow covered the frozen ground, broken by patches of hardy grass and low-growing shrubs with tiny leaves and long thorns.
To the west the Iron Mountains heaped steeply from the foothills, charcoal against the pale sky. To the east the tips of the Spiteful Peaks could just about be seen, as jagged as their name suggested. The gap was the only way to reach Ghrond, and though for that day the blizzard had paused in its ferocity, many thousands of the Naggarothi host had already succumbed to the ceaseless march and deadly weather. As many again had fallen to northlander blades and mauls, slain during raids and pitched battles that had dogged the army as it had forged north, marching into the night for the daylight hours were far too few, progress slowing as their destination neared and the weather worsened.