CHAPTER NINE 
To his credit, Darkblade calmed his squirming and offered no defence or apology. Malekith regarded the master of Hag Graef carefully, seeing something writhing in the dreadlord’s heart, some daemonic power granted by illegal rite the Witch King suspected. There were whispers that the title Daemon’s Bane was not mere affectation but also not entirely truthful.
Malekith looked away, assuring himself that Malus would receive his justified fate soon enough. Malekith’s gaze swept over the others and finished upon Hellebron, who was staring with suspicion at Drusala, eyes narrowed like a cat’s.
‘Welcome back to Naggarond, chosen bride of Khaine,’ Malekith said slowly, extending a hand of greeting to the leader of the Khainites. ‘I offer my regrets that your temples have been so despoiled and your city ravaged.’
‘Had your bitch mother played her part we would have seen the human cattle slaughtered at the walls.’ Hellebron shuddered with excitement, eyes closing fully for a moment. She composed herself. ‘No matter. The temples of Khaine have been anointed in battle. It is a dedication, not a desecration.’
Malekith accepted this with a nod and took a moment, one hand upon the hilt of his sword.
‘Lord Vyrath Sor shall not be joining us,’ Malekith’s voice echoed across the chamber. ‘He was slow to answer my summons and only arrived this morning. I reminded him of his obligations to the Circlet of Iron. The harpies should carry what’s left of him back to his tower by sunset. It would pain me if the garrison of Nagrar were to think their master had fallen victim to some lesser fate.’
To emphasise his story, Malekith tossed an object onto the obsidian table. The gold chain clattered as it came to rest. Though caked in blood and shreds of flesh, there was no mistaking the sigil that had represented Vyrath Sor etched onto the chain’s clasp.
Malekith stalked about the periphery of the chamber, drifting between the shadows like some prowling tiger. ‘Do not mourn Vyrath Sor,’ the king advised with mock sympathy. ‘He decreed his own doom when he placed the defence of his miserable outpost before his duty to his master. The same doom any one of you might have earned by defying me.’
‘Nagrar is lost, then?’ the question was uttered by Venil Chillblade.
The Witch King made a deprecating wave of his hand.
‘An inconsequence,’ he declared. ‘The garrison will fight to the last because they have no choice. They will die as druchii should, shedding their blood on behalf of their king. When the tower falls, the advance of the barbarians will falter. They will be some time plundering their conquest and slaughtering such captives as they take. It will take their warlords still more time to gather their animals back into a fighting horde.’
‘But they will continue their advance, your highness?’ The hesitant voice of Thar Draigoth, the great flesh-merchant, sounded more like a rodent’s squeak than the words of Naggaroth’s most infamous slaver. Like Venil, he had extensive holdings in Karond Kar. After seeing his interests in Clar Karond massacred by the triumphant invaders, he was doubly worried about protecting the rest of his property.
Malekith came around behind Lady Khyra’s seat, one of his iron claws reaching down to stroke the shoulder to which her false arm was attached. The king glanced along the table, sweeping his gaze across each of his dreadlords.
‘The Rhana Dandra is coming,’ he announced. ‘The End Times are upon us and the moment for action is nigh. You have all felt it, I am sure, and we have certainly all witnessed it as daemons and northlanders bayed at the gates of our cities. Ulthuan stands on a precipice. Usurpers and faint-hearts defend our ancient isle against a foe they cannot defeat. If our people – all of our people – are to survive the coming onslaught they will need strong leaders. Leaders only Naggaroth can provide.’
‘The weakness of our cousins shall finally be their downfall,’ said Lady Khyra. ‘As soon as our city’s defences have been repaired, we shall assemble the fleets and await your command.’
‘Karond Kar suffered also,’ added the dreadlord Eillhin, eyes flicking towards his rivals, ‘but you can count upon our ships and warriors no less than any other city.’
‘Once the northlanders have been driven back, all of Naggaroth will heed the call to arms,’ said the male watch commander, whose name Malekith had not bothered to learn.
‘You misunderstand my intent,’ the Witch King told them, stilling their enthusiasm. ‘The End Times are coming. The Realm of Chaos seeks to devour the world and the Chaos Wastes expand. The northlanders will pillage everything that has not been warped by the storm of magic descending upon us, and will squat in our fallen towers where they will be preyed upon by daemons sent by the masters they seek to serve.’
He stepped down from the throne dais and paced along the hall. All eyes followed him until he stopped upon the seal of Aenarion set in gold and malachite in the floor. The sigil began to writhe, infused with the heat from Malekith’s tread, seeming to come to life to light the Witch King with an auric glow.
‘This blasted wilderness has never been our home. It was a refuge, nothing more, and it has become an anchor to our ambitions. It is time to cast free ourselves from its cold burden, and direct our fullest intention to the only home we have ever desired.’
‘The defences of Ulthuan are considerable, even if our cousins are busy fighting daemons,’ Ezresor said carefully. ‘Lines of supply and retreat…’
‘There will be no retreat.’ Malekith’s words echoed along the hall like tomb-slabs of mausoleums closing on the council. ‘Naggaroth will die and any that remain or try to return will die also. Do not mistake necessity for vanity. We must reclaim Ulthuan or perish in the Rhana Dandra. Put all other thoughts from your minds. There is no failure on this expedition, only death or victory.’
This announcement was greeted with outbursts of disbelief and horror. The Black Guards stood ready and Kouran’s eyes were fixed on Malekith waiting for the simplest of signals, but Malekith gave no indication of his displeasure. The Witch King saw his captain cast his gaze about the room, no doubt noting who protested the most, or did not, either perhaps a sign of a deeper plotting. Kouran turned his halberd in his hands, unnoticed by the others, until the blade pointed towards Ezresor, who was sneering and shaking his head at the posturing nobles.
Malekith would have killed any for such dissent only a year earlier, but his resources were dwindling rapidly and he needed these leaders of druchii society to support him. He allowed protests and veiled threats to wash over him, salving his pride with the knowledge that despite their haranguing every elf present would do exactly as Malekith commanded. Voicing a difference of opinion was one matter, openly disobeying the Witch King’s orders another.
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.