CHAPTER FOUR 
The bloodthirster’s rage came before it like an aura, sweeping down onto the druchii like a hot wind. Infernal anger seeped into their thoughts. Immortal hatred stirred the blood. Against this daemonic influence the elves had no defence. Mutterings became battle-cries and agitation broke into violence as Malekith’s underlings suddenly sought vent for their unnatural fury.
Kouran reacted quickly, leading the host into the enemy from the front of the Black Guard, giving the elves a clear foe upon which to sate their bloodlust. There was no finesse, no manoeuvring for superior position – such niceties were boiled away in their frenzy to spill blood. The druchii line charged down the ridge, meeting the chariots and cavalry surging up towards them. Even the darkshards and shades abandoned their crossbows and set into the enemy with drawn knives and short swords.
The clash was horrendous, bodies churned beneath scythed wheels, warriors decapitated by strokes of bronze swords and axes. Undeterred the elves weathered the impact of their foes, fuelled by the daemon-rage. They quickly surrounded their enemies, tearing into them with sword and spear.
Heedless of the danger, the elves pressed on, swarming past the scant remains of their first victims. Into the teeth of the foe they charged, metaphorically and literally, drawn towards the bloodthirster as moths are drawn to flame and with similarly deadly result.
Both sides hacked at one another without thought, driven mad by the blood-rage of Khorne. Those elves that could not lay weapon or hand upon an enemy fell upon each other, slashing and tearing without relent. Even Kouran and his Black Guard, cold-blooded killers to the last elf, were swept away by the orgy of violent release, cleaving like a dark spear into the heart of the daemonic army. The Khainites were driven beyond even their zealous battle-hunger, and cut themselves to let even more blood flow, glorifying in their own wounds as much as the injuries inflicted on their enemies. Their piercing wails lifted higher than the screeching of the harpies as they fell upon the incapacitated of both sides, sating flesh-famine and bloodlust in equal measure.
The manticores descended like comets of rage, slamming into the daemon regiments with claws and fangs slashing like dozens of swords. Hydras and war dogs matched the baying and screeching of the flesh hounds as they ripped bloody chunks of unnatural flesh from bone and in turn were eviscerated and beheaded.
The bloodthirster smashed through friend and foe alike, a massive rune-axe in each hand that lofted limbs and severed heads high into the air with every swing. Like a mariner wading to shore, the greater daemon stood thigh-deep in the bodies of its victims, pushing on without mercy or pause, a bloody explosion of pure rage.
Malekith watched it all in a detached manner. Seraphon was touched by the blood-thirst too but a growl from the Witch King silenced her protest. He felt the anger pulsing around him, bringing visions of slaughter and victory.
He laughed.
The bloodthirst of Khorne was nothing compared to the hatred and anger that had burned in his heart for six thousand years. The Blood God’s promises of conquest and glory were faded temptations, long since outgrown by Malekith’s own ambition and towering desire for vengeance. Every day the Witch King fought the need to vent frustration and exact bloody retribution and today was no different.
With a derisive snort, he ordered Seraphon to descend. The battle was going poorly for his warriors, all advantage of superior strategy and skill washed away by the demands of unquestioning bloodlust. There was only one way to even the odds and avoid certain defeat.
The bloodthirster noticed Malekith’s descent and, tossing aside the broken body of a manticore, lifted both axes in challenge to the Witch King. Malekith replied with a bolt of pure dark magic that earthed along the unholy blades, sending the greater daemon reeling. Black sparks flew from its iron collar as the power of Khorne dissipated the remaining magical energy.
‘It seems your master’s protection against sorcery is not all it once was,’ Malekith laughed as Seraphon circled the brute, one wingtip almost brushing the ground. The Witch King threw another crackling bolt, but this time the collar earthed its power before any harm was done, spraying the magic away from the bloodthirster in a shower of sable lightning.
‘Know that I am thy doom, weak mortal,’ the beast roared back, clashing its axes together. ‘I am Skarbrand, the Deathbringer, the Corpsemaker, Son of Slaughter.’
‘I know of you, Exiled One,’ Malekith sneered. ‘Shamed, humbled, by the simplest of tricks, abandoned by the Lord of Skulls. And shame again you will know for daring to attack the army of the Witch King, Malekith the Great.’
‘Ignoble Malekith, the kinslayer,’ laughed Skarbrand. ‘Much is the blood that has flowed through my master’s domain at your behest. Your skull shall make a fine adornment for Khorne’s throne. Fight me, coward, as a true warrior would fight.’
Skarbrand leapt, one of its axes leaving a ruddy trail through the air as it swung towards Seraphon’s wing. The old dragon was too wily to be caught by surprise and flicked her wing out of the way, soaring above the bloodthirster’s head. Letting forth an enraged bellow, Skarbrand turned in mid-air, the other axe extended for another swing.
Seraphon caught the creature’s wrist in two claws, warding away the deadly blow. Striving with fierce growls, she bore the bloodthirster aloft. Before the daemon’s other blade could be brought back into play, Malekith struck, driving Urithain to the hilt into its eye. The tip of the blade erupted from the back of Skarbrand’s skull. Seraphon released her grip as Malekith ripped his sword free and the body tumbled groundwards, crushing dozens of the greater daemon’s minions with the impact.
Like a wind suddenly changing and freshening, the aura of death and violence that had emanated from the bloodthirster was swept away by the cold winds of the north. The bloodletters and flesh hounds were thrown into disarray by the death of their general, while the elves recovered a measure of their senses, both sides recoiling from each other in the moments that followed.
The elves recovered more swiftly, still driven by the aftermath of Skarbrand’s rage, heeding the commands of Kouran as the elven general issued swift orders to set a proper attack into motion.
As Seraphon lifted Malekith towards the snow-laden clouds, the Witch King considered returning to his pavilion, confident that his servants would know victory after his intervention. He stopped himself from withdrawing a moment later, looking at the broken body of Skarbrand far below.
The mage had foretold this day, in typically cryptic fashion. He had offered several prophecies as evidence that he spoke the truth and indeed was guided by the will of the goddess Lileath. Three visions he had spoken of, three events that would steer Malekith to their common cause.
‘I remember when the lords of Saphery ruled from a flying city,’ said Malekith, looking around the circular chamber near the pinnacle of the White Tower.
‘Beautiful Saphethion,’ his host said wistfully, thin fingers tapping together at his chin. ‘Destroyed by your ambition.’
‘It was not my ambition that brought low your floating city, but the actions of meddling mages,’ Malekith replied. ‘How little you learn.’
‘It is not a scheme of my own devising that I follow, but a divine plan from the watcher of fates herself, Lileath of the Pale Moon.’
‘You seek alliance from me?’ Malekith shook his head in disbelief, and in doing so caught a glimpse of himself in the silver reflection of an oval mirror set behind the mage’s desk. His projection here was as he had been in his early life. No iron-and-fire, no armour of midnight. A tall, darkly handsome elf with lustrous hair and sharp cheekbones regarded him solemnly. But for all that this apparition appeared healthy and hearty, the fires still burned and Malekith felt the pain of his enduring curse. His mood soured swiftly. ‘It was you that reawakened that ancient flame in my soul, resurrecting an agony of ages in my heart and bones. You are mistaken if you think I desire anything other than your drawn-out, horrendous death, Teclis.’
‘You do yourself a disservice, Prince Malekith,’ said the mage. He stood and started to pace the room, hands clasped behind his back. ‘There are many things you desire far more than my demise. You would let me live in return for your rightful return to the Phoenix Throne. You would gladly spare me if I released you from the torment Asuryan inflicted upon you so many centuries ago. Your vengeance has never been anything more than a veil for your frustrated ambition.’
Malekith reached out, his insubstantial hand passing through the mage’s throat. He tightened his fist regardless, keen to prove his point.
‘I do not expect you to trust me, any more than I trust you,’ Teclis continued. ‘You are called the Deceiver by many with good cause. Nor do I expect you to believe me without proof.’
‘You can prove that the End Times are upon us? You have proof that Lileath will guide us to the means by which Chaos can be defeated? Lay it before me now and let me judge how trustworthy your words can be.’
‘The power of three is well known to us, and so three dooms my mistress has laid upon you, as maiden, mother and crone, Morai-heg, Ladrielle and Lileath. When they have come to pass, I shall be brought to you again and you will know the truth of what I have told you.’
‘Prophecy,’ muttered Malekith. ‘Some vague declarations that could be construed to mean just about anything. Has not my own doom been prophesied? Is not the curse laid upon you and your twin nothing more than the utterings of a demented seer driven to grief by the rejection of my father?’
Teclis said nothing as he picked up his staff, the image of Lileath at its tip gleaming silver in the moonlight that came through the window. Malekith flinched, for moments before it had been noon daylight, but now he saw a full moon rising above the forested mountains to the east.
Words came from Teclis’s lips, but the voice was not his. Mellow and lilting, the female voice slipped into Malekith’s thoughts like a lover entwining arms around him, leaving the memory of the words embedded deep.
‘In tide of blood it will begin, a crimson fate that covers all. He that fell will fall again, Lord of Battle will fight no more.
‘The serpent will come forth, fangs hidden behind the snow, with scales of black and eyes of blood. Its venom shall be the doom of ambition.
‘And comes forth the Crippled One’s bane, the forgotten maker shall be found. On mercy’s anvil shall hope be forged, and godly silence shall be unbound.’
Malekith considered these words carefully as Teclis slumped back into his chair, his face even more wan than usual. His eyes were dull, his hair lank and lifeless. Coughing wracked the mage for a few moments until, with a faltering hand, he drew a phial of liquid from a drawer and took a swift draught. Almost immediately his pallor improved, the light returned to his gaze and he smiled.
‘You cannot stop him,’ Teclis said. ‘Not without my aid.’
‘If you think this is the path to anything but utter damnation, you are wrong, my nephew.’ Malekith loomed over the mage. ‘Believe me when I tell you that I have looked into the abyss where this course of action leads. If you trust anything, trust my experience. I have never been short of spite for those that disowned me, but I will warn you that you will destroy everything you love if you insist on following this road to its end. I have walked it far longer than you.’
Teclis sighed, his look one of regret. ‘A wrong six thousand years old cannot be righted in a moment. The time will come when old wounds,’ he reached out a hesitant hand and for a heartbeat Malekith’s true form was revealed, shorn of glamour and armour, incandescent and scarred for eternity, ‘the gravest of wounds even, can be healed.’
Fate was in motion. Morai-heg had foretold this day, but Malekith would not leave to her cruel whim that which he could decide for himself. With a growled command, he directed Seraphon back to the battle. There would be no mistakes this time, no confusion or setbacks or failure by lesser servants.
By his might, the Phoenix Throne would be his again. He was starting to believe.
Teclis had promised it.
The gods willed it.