‘It is not as you fear, my king,’ said Kouran. To prove himself, he tossed Crimson Death aside and held up his empty hands. ‘There is no treachery.’
‘Your guard threatened me first,’ Imrik said, by way of explanation. He flicked the blood from his sword and sheathed it.
‘I should think so too,’ said Malekith, lowering Urithain a fraction. ‘That is what guards are for when unwelcome visitors arrive.’
‘He would not listen to my command,’ said Kouran.
‘My command had been explicit.’ Malekith could see that there was no immediate threat and sheathed his blade. He sat down in his throne and beckoned the two elves to approach. ‘Kouran, only one of my four guards saw fit to deny you entry. He has unfortunately lost his life for his dedication. The other three should fare no better for their disobedience.’
‘I will attend to it presently, my king,’ said Kouran, retrieving his weapon. ‘There is a more pressing concern.’
Before Malekith could ask, the drape across the chamber entrance moved aside as Teclis entered, leaning heavily on his staff, looking even worse than he had at Eagle Gate. There was a dangerous look in the mage’s eye nevertheless and he thrust his staff towards Malekith while with his other hand he made an arcane gesture and threw up a semi-transparent wall of gold that surrounded the mage and Witch King. Kouran slashed his halberd at the barrier and was rewarded by an explosion of sparks that threw him halfway across the throne chamber.
‘I knew I could count on the treachery of one of you, at least,’ snarled Malekith. His hand moved towards the hilt of his sword again, but stopped just short. A fight with Teclis would not be conducted with steel, no matter how ensorcelled. The Witch King started to summon the winds of magic to his will. ‘Do you think me a fool?’
‘The arch-traitor stands in accusation of me?’ Teclis’s rage was almost as great as Malekith’s finest tirades. ‘You have conspired and misled me since I first came to you in your dreams, and now you think that I have betrayed you? You are a gutless serpent, Malekith, and I curse the day I ever thought to trust you.’
‘Perhaps it is your mistress, goddess Lileath, that has led you awry,’ snapped Malekith. ‘You come to my camp and threaten me, but it is I that is the traitor? How contrary.’
‘Do not deny that you and your wretched mother have been trying to manipulate me from the outset.’
Malekith was stunned by the idea and was lost for words to utter any such denial. Instead he laughed, finding the accusation so ridiculous there was no other way to answer it.
‘Even now she whispers into the ear of my brother, guiding him to his destruction.’
‘You have taken leave of your senses, nephew. Morathi broods in Ghrond surrounded by thorns and northlanders. If she desires to whisper into the ear of any mortal it would be mine.’
Teclis hesitated, his anger wavering. ‘She left Ghrond with you, in the guise of Drusala. You brought her to Ulthuan and then sent her with Malus to confront my brother, where she infiltrated his camp by means of another glamour.’
‘Nonsense. You are getting confused in your fatigue. Drusala is one of my mother’s chief sorceresses.’
‘Drusala was Morathi.’
‘I would see through such a guise in moments,’ protested Malekith, but uncertainty gnawed at his confidence. ‘Do you think I would not sense the soul of my mother?’
‘And that is why I concluded that you must have been colluding with her,’ said Teclis, but his tone was uncertain. He waved a hand and the shimmering barrier dissipated.
‘No!’ snapped Malekith as Kouran readied to launch himself at the mage. Imrik stood beside the captain looking confused. ‘Something is wrong here. I will hear him speak.’
‘Apologies, my king, but he lied to us,’ said Kouran, glaring at Teclis with unconcealed homicidal intent.
‘A lie of omission, perhaps,’ admitted Teclis, never moving his eyes from the Witch King. ‘I told you that my brother now marches north and that I needed to speak to your master. Both of these facts are still true.’
‘Tyrion seeks battle,’ said Malekith, pondering the import of this news.
‘We need to prepare if Tyrion advances on our position,’ said Imrik.
‘What of Malus Darkblade and the vanguard?’ asked the Witch King. ‘Has he also turned against me?’
‘Malus is dead,’ said Teclis.
‘Finally some good news,’ Malekith exclaimed with a contemptuous laugh. ‘I hope his demise was painful.’
‘He was possessed by a daemon, which tore him apart from inside, before being slain by Tyrion.’
The elves thought about this in silence for several moments, even Malekith’s bitter humour dissipated by the gruesome revelation.
‘Settle this matter,’ insisted Malekith. ‘You swear that Drusala was my mother wrapped in a glamour?’
‘I swear by Lileath,’ said the mage. ‘I recognised her immediately, as did my brother.’
‘And I did not…’
‘Sometimes the closest are the easiest to deceive,’ said Teclis, pacing across the chamber to stop just short of Malekith. ‘A riddle to resolve another day. Of import is that her deception has succeeded. My brother, in his vulnerable mental state, has fallen under her bewitchment. She has persuaded him that he must draw the Widowmaker.’
‘The Sword of Khaine?’ Malekith thought on this and then snorted with derision. ‘Oh Morathi, you poor enamoured soul. You think that this princeling is Aenarion reborn.’
‘I thought it odd that she relinquished him so easily before,’ said Teclis.
‘What are you two talking about?’ demanded Imrik. ‘You speak in half measures, and I would know everything we must face.’
Teclis looked at Malekith, intrigued. ‘I did not realise you were aware of the event. You were, as I recall, indisposed.’
Malekith grimaced, remembering the time well.
‘It is true that I was not of the mortal realm at that time, due to your efforts, nephew. You of all people should remember that we see much more when we have a different perspective and the Realm of Chaos gave me the greatest vantage point one might wish for.’
‘What happened, my king?’ asked Kouran.
‘The Blighted Isle, one hundred and fifty years ago,’ said Malekith. ‘Always it seems our fates revolve around that little bloodied dark altar to the God of Murder.’
It was the blood magic that attracted his attention. It made ripples in the Realm of Chaos, drawing attention from across the spaceless abode of the Ancient Powers. The first drops quickly became a waterfall, channelled by a powerful mind into a torrent of energy that blazed across the immaterial skies like a beacon.
He had been drawn to it out of instinct, moving to its source with a shoal of other near-mindless entities to lap at the delicious sacrifice. More powerful creatures, servants of the Chaos Gods, followed swiftly, causing the lesser denizens to scatter, but he remained, the scent of the blood, the feel of it flowing through him and over reminding him of something he had once been.
As more blood was spilled on the altar of the elves’ God of Murder further power thrashed through the Realm of Chaos, drawing a crimson scene upon the ever-changing world. He saw the rocks of an island – a place he had known – and two armies clashing. An altar of black stone was awash with blood, the basin-like temple around it filled with corpses of slaves and sorceresses. By the altar itself stood a tall figure, hair thick with gore, wickedly jagged sacrificial blade in hand, her naked form bathed in blood.