CHAPTER FIVE 
It was not long past noon but in the northern reaches of the world the sun was barely a paler disc behind the clouds, the lands of Naggaroth shrouded by twilight. Bearing magical lanterns that burned with cold, blue fire the Naggarothi army appeared like a host of ice statues given life, the bleak light reflected from black enamelled armour plates and silver mail.
A host of knights led the vanguard, five thousand strong, mounted on reptilian cold ones. The stench of the creatures was matched by the steam of foetid breath that rose from their ranks, swathing the riders in a bank of fog that made their appearance even more ethereal.
At their heart rumbled a company of chariots drawn by more of the beasts, twenty of them, flanking the massive war engine of Malekith while Seraphon flew overhead. Malekith’s chariot was a construction of black iron, drawn by four cold ones bedecked with barbed armour over their glistening blue scales. The chariot itself was hung with chains and hooks, the wheels spinning with jagged blades to slash the legs from under any unfortunate foe or beast that came close.
The host followed a road of cracked stones, cleared of snow by a legion of slaves driven ahead of the host by whips and hunger. The rag-shrouded corpses of those that had collapsed during their labours were heaped in the snow drifts beside the ancient slabs, faces frozen in pale-skinned grimaces, limbs protruding from the white banks with icicles dangling from splayed fingers.
A lone rider appeared out of the white haze and approached, swathed in a black riding cloak. His horse, also the colour of midnight, was tall and sleek, bred from stock stolen from the fair plains of Ellyrion in generations past, the flanks marked by the brand of Lord Ezresor.
Ezresor’s dark steed whinnied and cowered at the stench of the cold ones, almost throwing him as he pulled to a walk a few paces from Malekith’s chariot. The high agent dipped his head, sunken eyes betraying nothing as they rose again to meet his king’s gaze.
‘Your majesty, the riders report that the way to Ghrond is blocked,’ Ezresor told the Witch King. The spymaster’s steed gnashed at its bit and whinnied, shying away from Malekith. He yanked the reins and dug spurs into the creature’s scarred midriff, hauling it in a circle to come alongside the Witch King once more.
‘More vagrant northlanders?’ Malekith replied. ‘Call the captains to arms.’
‘No, your majesty, it is not a foe that confronts us,’ the spymaster said. He looked perplexed. ‘It is… Well, they said we should go and look for ourselves.’
This was a deeply unsatisfactory answer but Malekith could see from Ezresor’s expression that no further detail would be forthcoming, regardless of coercion or cajoling. He raised a hand and signalled for Seraphon to descend.
The journey from the van of the column did not take long. Soon the cold one knights were left behind and he saw a group of outriders coming south, riding hard along the road. Ezresor galloped out to meet them and returned swiftly to bring their reports to his master who had landed a short distance behind. The riders departed into the bleak wilderness, moving off the road to give Malekith a wide berth, turning hooded heads to dart looks back to the north.
‘They come with a warning, your majesty. Several riders and shades attempted to breach the barrier just before midday,’ Ezresor explained. ‘They have not been seen since.’
‘Barrier?’ The Witch King did not mask his displeasure. ‘You are being obtuse, Ezresor, and I would know the reason.’
‘Your indulgence, for a little while longer, your majesty,’ said Ezresor though there was little hint of pleading in his tone. He pointed ahead, to where Malekith could see a darker blur against the white horizon.
‘Where is Ghrond?’ the Witch King said slowly, looking left and right as though he was lost. ‘We should be able to see the pinnacle of the convent by now.’
‘That, your majesty, was what we cannot explain.’
Malekith did not press the matter further at that time, but followed Ezresor along the road until the darkness in the distance became clearer. It looked as though a forest had sprung up from the tundra, of black, twisted trunks and stunted branches. It stretched east and west almost as far as the eye could see, and stood many times taller than an elf.
Coming closer Malekith saw that it was not a forest that barred his path but a giant thicket of dead-looking vines, each thicker than his arm, jagged with scimitar-like thorns. The stench of magic contorted the air, undulating as a black and purple aurora.
Malekith studied the barrier for some time, feeling the ebb and surge of the magic sustaining it, watching the lash of mystical wind that caused the thorny extrusions to sway and bend. He barely noticed the clatter of armour as Kouran arrived with a company of Black Guard. Behind them a thousand knights of Naggarond waited on their cold ones. Several of the dark riders had returned and were riding the edge of the obstacle, not so close that they would be caught, seeking any weakness in the wall of thorns. Other druchii – lordlings and petty commanders – had followed Malekith from the army and waited a short distance away, quietly discussing their own theories on the phenomenon that barred their onward route.
‘The Chaos Wastes extend south,’ said Malekith, confident of this explanation.
‘Not so, your majesty,’ corrected Ezresor, his gaze fixed firmly on the thorny growths so as to hide any hint of accusation. ‘My riders say that it can be circumnavigated, though it would take us two or more days to do so. It is not daemonic in nature.’
‘Morathi.’ Malekith growled his mother’s name. ‘She thinks that this will stop me from reaching her in Ghrond. A girdle to protect her dignity, and as sharp as her tongue has ever been.’
He dismounted to approach the looming barricade on foot. At his approach the thorny growths stirred, moving slowly towards him. A spiked tendril slithered towards his shoulder and he seized hold of it. Fire burned in his fist and the thorny tentacle shook violently, trying to rip itself from his hot grasp. Opening his hands a few heartbeats later he let the charred remnants drop to his feet.
‘It would take an age to burn through with sorcery, your majesty, even for one of your puissance,’ said Ezresor, keeping his distance and a wary eye on the unnatural hedge.
As he looked more keenly, Malekith saw that the thorns heaped higher and higher, merging with the magical storm overhead, taller than Ghrond itself.
‘Seraphon could not penetrate this mass,’ the Witch King said to himself. ‘And let us not even waste time contemplating digging to the tower.’
‘How do we proceed, your majesty?’
Malekith considered his options. Brute force was unlikely to work. Morathi would be wary of any attempt at trickery. There were, however, other types of guile.
‘How many sisters of the Dark Convent remain loyal to me?’
‘None within Ghrond that we know of, your majesty.’ The spymaster shrugged. ‘Had any desired to betray Morathi we would have received warning of the northlanders’ attack. We must assume that any that attempted as much died before their treachery bore fruit.’
‘A shame,’ said Malekith, remembering the first time he had been forced to confront his mother in similar fashion. She had usurped rule of Nagarythe and turned Anlec against him. On that occasion princes from House Anar loyal to Malekith had infiltrated her defences and opened the gates to allow entry to his army. He could not expect help from the interior this time. ‘I expect that the only course of action left to us is to undo the binding of the enchantment, and that will be laborious work.’
As the last of these words left Malekith’s ravaged lips, there was movement in the magical thicket. The vines twitched and curled, parting from each other to reveal a slender, pale-skinned figure standing less than a dozen paces away.
She was garbed in a robe of dark fur, edged with the white pelt of a snowcat. The same trimmed her high boots. Emerald rings glistened on slim fingers, matching the eyes that regarded Malekith from beneath a black shock of hair that was entwined with black brambles that twitched with a life of their own. There were mutterings of approval from the assembled druchii warriors, but Malekith knew that none would be judged worthy of such a prize – not even Ezresor or Kouran.
‘Drusala,’ Malekith whispered, as the sorceress bowed low, right leg crossed over the left. As she straightened, a fleeting smile passed her lips.
‘King Malekith,’ said the witch, assuming a demure pose, hands clasped at her waist, head slightly tilted forward, though this made her appear more coy than deferential. Her eyes glittered – literally – as she half turned and gestured along the path. ‘My Queen Morathi, beneficent ruler of Ghrond, Eternal Hekarti Reborn, bids you welcome to her demesne and invites you to attend conference at your earliest convenience.’
This caused a different sort of stirring in the elves that heard the declaration. Ezresor moved closer, his voice barely a whisper though Malekith knew that Drusala would hear his words easily enough despite this precaution.
‘Morathi declares herself to be divine?’ The spymaster wrung his hands, looking more worried by this than any news of rampaging northmen hordes and fallen cities. ‘She names herself the goddess of sorcery. There can be only one purpose to such a claim.’
‘To cow any further ambition within her sisterhood,’ said Malekith. It was a move he himself had used in the past, assuming the mantel of Khaine’s avatar to head off the growing power of Hellebron and her bloody cultists. ‘Perhaps she is not as certain of her position as leader of the convent as you thought.’
‘She would put herself above even you, my king,’ snarled Kouran. ‘To claim to be Hekarti is an affront to all the Cytharai.’
‘My Queen awaits your pleasure,’ said Drusala, as if this answered Malekith’s doubt.
The Witch King considered rebuffing the invitation, just to remind his mother that she answered to him, not the other way around. He rejected the notion as petty. The real prize was Ulthuan and the longer he delayed at Ghrond the greater the chance that Prince Tyrion and his allies would defeat the latest daemonic intrusion and recover to meet any Naggarothi attack. The season of the sun was just beginning, an ideal time of year for a fresh offensive to reclaim their homeland. If Morathi wanted to play these mind games, Malekith could put aside his pride long enough to gain entry to Ghrond, if not any longer.
‘Take me to your queen,’ said the Witch King, stepping towards Drusala. ‘At my pleasure.’
‘Of course, your highness,’ replied the sorceress.