I present my part of the final fiction wrapping up the recent Ulthuan in Flames campaign. My thanks to all the staff and players who made this series of campaigns possible, and not only that but an unqualified success. I have had a great time developing this alternate storyline and I hope I have crafted an ending worthy of the many authors who have contributed to the Dark Empire, going back to Calarion whose work all of us who took over the development of the Dark Empire are indebted to. So, without further ado...
The Sins of Aenarion
Setesh stumbled on a rock slicked by the churning surf. Half delirious he couldn't catch himself, his balance as exhausted as the rest of him. He took big, stomping steps into the water was soon up to his knees as the restless sea churned up big pillows of angry foam that clung to his thighs and sopped up the blood oozing from his wounds like hungry sponges. Finally, steady amidst the jagged rocks of the sea floor Setesh could begin to get his breathing under control. He drew great gulps of the acrid air, tasting on each breath the oppressive scent of death tinged with the stinging salt of the sea. Fear had left him, the works of the elves stood resolute behind him, their bowstrings silent as they, like him, contemplated the horizon.
The sea heaved as if horrified by the blood that turned its waves a deep crimson. Corpses were pushed up onto the beach, trying to reinforce the dead who were draped from the cliffs. Setesh was beyond retching, the battlefields of the last war were all too fresh in his mind for any scene of carnage to move him. But this was the first time he stood alone, bereft of his comrades, his armor, and his weapons. If not for the few tatters of cloth, stolen from the denizens of the island on one of the many campaigns and raids that had utterly devastated their lands over the past years, he would be naked before the sea that had carried him to his last battlefield.
The waves surged, and as they soaked the sand with their retreat the sickly wet thump of another body being tossed from the makeshift ramparts of the makeshift defensive works bid them farewell. An army occupied the narrow strip of land between sea and fortifications, an army that Setesh had called his own. It rested now, having exacted the blood of its enemies only to be reduced to blood by them at the end. Perhaps a few, like the bereaved general of Chaos, remained. But the cause, and the battle, were lost. Norsca, the wild valleys between the great mountains of the Olde World, the wastes and even the sands of Khemri had all emptied their sons onto this rock, only for the delicate banners of the elves to stand as headstones for their mass grave. Now a calm stole over that final battlefield, though it was not respect for the dead that held back the victory songs of the united elves. What silenced them transfixed Setesh, knee deep in the bloody water, and caused his fists to clench in rage.
Black sails dotted the horizon. Sleek, powerful elven ships were born towards the island by an arcane wind. Compared to the vast, hasty flotilla that was now so many splinters on the island's rocks this new squadron was nothing, an insult to the elves who had earlier defended the last citadel that needed defending. The silence that had fallen over the defenders as they prepared for what they could before these ships arrived was broken by Setesh's scream. The elves, however, paid him no heed as he thrashed in the water, throwing up even more foam. Not one arched notched a precious arrow to end the general's life. They had come to the same realization that he had. “Alith Anar!” Setesh screamed his leader's name at the implacably approaching group of ships. “You bastard! You coward! You elf!” The last word carried particular venom, and Setesh almost fell as he swung his fist impotently in the direction of the Everchosen. “Is that what you planned for us all along?” His voice, already tired from the battle, cracked. “My men are dead! My comrades! We followed you across the world and you won't even die with us!” He reached into the surf and plucked up an iron helm that had belonged to a nameless barbarian. As it rose from the waves crimson water, deeper and thicker than the fine wines that had once graced Setesh's table in Khemri, cascaded down to the surf.
“Daemons to paradise!” He cried as he hurled the helmet, that water within pin wheeling in an impressive spray before the armor itself crashed lewdly into the waves. It had not gone very far. “All you do is lead daemons to paradise!” with this last exclamation Setesh fell to his knees and, like every other elf on the Isle of the Dead, watched and waited for Alith Anar.
*
All the elves on the improvised ramparts praised Malekith's foresight and Bel-Saarin's bravery. During the onslaught of the previous days the young Phoenix King had been everywhere; though few could recall the foes he had slain. It was not the Asur's warrior prowess but his steadying influence, apart from the skill of his general, the descendant of Aenarion, Auralion. Now the Phoenix King rested at the rear of the army as new soldiers went to take the place of their grim faced brethren at the front while the bodies of the victorious dead streamed back to an eternal rest.
A shadowed passed over the Phoenix King's camp, and it was not long after that the few Black Guards remaining on the island, indeed in the whole of Ulthuan, formed up as the bodyguard of their eternal charge. The purple banner emblazoned with the Rune of Khaine was soon apparent as it marched towards the front. Druchii, fresh and battle weary alike, raised their voices to cheer for the arrival of their king. The Asur's eternal and unshakable disdain hid behind a carefully studied mask of stoicism. At long last Malekith had arrived, and some who had despaired at the sight of the approaching black sails found new solace in the arrival of the ancient standard.
Bel-Saarin rose to his feet as the procession that accompanied Malekith drew closer. The Black Guard were not the polished unit they were when the war began. These Druchii had all seen the fiercest of the fighting and stood down the waves of barbarians just when it seemed that they might top the line. They showed it in their armor, they showed it in the blood and dirt caked on their robes, they showed it in their wounds. More than one could not maintain the parade-like precision demanded of their ceremonial function, but not one elf who had been on that line believed in pure ceremony anymore. The small company crossed in front of Bel-Saarin's tent but not one soldier looked over to him. The standard bearer at last turned and presented the Dread King's banner, but he did not dip it to acknowledge the Phoenix King's title. The Black Guard parted, and into the gap they left stepped the Dread King, Malekith.
The war, despite countless battles, had left Malekith unscathed. But that was not to say that he looked well. He looked as he had that day he stepped out of the burning Shrine of Asuryan and resumed control of an Ulthuan that was torn between Chaos at home and a wearing bearing down on her shores. He regarded Bel-Saarin with sunken eyes, his gaunt features unreadable. He was a far cry from the Malekith the Fair who had first entered the flames. But the tall elf, with his wild black hair and refusal to wear armor in favor of his regal robes generated an aura of command that would not have been unknown to his more ancient self. Neither king, painfully young or impossibly old, bowed to the other. And neither was in the slightest insulted.
“Bel-Saarin.” Malekith was the first to speak.
“Malekith.” The other acknowledged the greeting. “How goes the war in Caledor?”
“I report a tentative victory.” Malekith replied, resting one hand on the pommel of his sword, Avanuir. His posture seemed to relax as he allowed himself to unwind after the journey. It was an indirect challenge to the Everchosen en-route. “Our legions have out-maneuvered the barbarians, and with your victory on the isle their strength is all but spent.”
“And yet I feel no relief.” Bel-Saarin replied.
“It is because you are growing into wisdom.” Malekith looked towards the horizon, and the front. “Alith Anar was always the heart of his army. Defeat him, and chaos crumbles. If he endures, his victory is all but certain.”
“Fortunate for us, then, that he has misjudged his army's strength and is now forced to come alone.”
Malekith's brows knit as he peered down at Bel-Saarin. “Alith Anar does not misjudge. IF he has made any misstep in this war it was in those he chose to trust with command of his armies, as soon as he took to the field he brought within a knife's edge of total defeat. I have my suspicions as to why he is so late, but I cannot be sure. I trust that our defenses are prepared to meet him?”
“They are.” Bel-Saarin replied with a firm nod and a note of confidence. “Our forces are diminished from the battle with the barbarians, but they are more than ready for a second wave. Asur and Druchii alike have fought with all of their heart and soul to defend this place...though it is not easy. It has a way of getting into your dreams.”
Malekith turned away from Bel-Saarin, whose eyes had shifted unconsciously towards the heart of the isle. The Vortex, after the incredible stress placed upon it by the war on Ulthuan, was now plainly visible. For the first in millennia it, like the isle, was firmly a part of the real world. “The door stands open.” Malekith said softly, tension draining out of his posture completely. He could not look away from the incandescent blue pillar that linked the material world with another.
“It's calm now.” Bel-Saarin replied in the same tone. Malekith could feel the reflection of rage borne from the earlier battle. It echoed off the rocks and thrummed in the air. The gentle turning of the Vortex would not last much longer.
“All he has to do is walk through it.” Malekith completed his own thought without much regard to the one thrust into it by the Phoenix King. Finally, their eyes found each other again. The spell of that ultimate portal was temporarily broken.
“We should proceed to the front.” Bel-Saarin told Malekith when it was clear he had refocused on the task at hand. “Present a united force when he finds land. Throw him back into the sea with the rest of his armies.”
Malekith nodded lamely in reply. “Where is Auralion?”
Bel-Saarin's expression seemed to brighten, his face illuminated to the degree that his smile was capable. “On the southern ramparts. We will join him, not even Alith Anar can prevail against two sons of Aenarion and the Phoenix King.”
“No.” Malekith replied. It was not in agreement.
Bel-Saarin's expression hardened. “Would you want Tathel as well? There are other, powerful mages we can call upon. We should take advantage of our numbers and confront him with all we have.”
“Do you know, Bel-Saarin, what the greatest sin of Aenarion was?”
At first Bel-Saarin could not reply. His mouth opened to answer what he thought was a new line of discussion from the sometimes enigmatic king, but was forced to close it so that he could consider a serious reply. “Drawing the Sword.” He settled on at last.
“Without the power of the Sword not even Aenarion could have overcome the four daemons that he faced on these very rocks. No, Bel-Saarin, Aenarion's greatest sin was that he could not see beyond the battle in front of him. He could not, for all of his strength, perceive the depthless nature of the threat presented by Chaos. My father, your predecessor, could not give up the myth of an ultimate victory. Only the wisdom of Caledor rescued Aenarion from a stubborn belief in his own destiny. When the end of his war finally came, as ours is upon us, the great champion of Asuryan, right hand of Khaine, the general and leader of all elves in their darkest hour, was little more than a bodyguard for a cabal of mages. He never led the armies of Ulthuan to a final battle against Chaos. No one could. Only Caledor realized that the duty of the present is not to free the future of pain and secure them a golden age, it is to furnish them the tools they need to maintain the world and add their own aspirations.”
“The ships draw closer, Malekith.” Bel-Saarin told him, though what might have seemed impatience was belied by his soft tone.
“Go to Auralion. Stay close to him. I will take the central position against Alith Anar.”
“I will not.” Bel-Saarin replied firmly. “I will not jeopardize our chances at victory by allowing anything less than a full us of our resources.”
“This is an order, Bel-Saarin.” Malekith replies coldly as he resumed his military bearing. “The only one I will ever give you.”
“And I must refuse it.” Bel-Saarin took a step forward. “You cannot command me, Dread King. I am the Phoenix King, the emissary of Asuryan who is the emperor of the gods and lord of all elves.”
Malekith could not help but smile. The soft, patronizing expression stirred a hint of youthful rage within Bel-Saarin. “Then take it up with him.” The Dread King replies. “See if he has the strength to move me.” Malekith turned away. His banner was hoisted soon after, joining him on the way to the front.
“I will find you, Malekith!” Bel-Saarin shouted as his counterpart's back. “You cannot stand alone! None of us can! Not against him!”
Malekith merely raised his hand, never looking back, and waved goodbye.
*
Fingers encased in obsidian armor found the fur at the wolf's neck and slowly worked through it. Alith Anar's dozing companion barely stirred at the familiar touch; his eyes closed and the rest of him lulled to sleep by the gentle sway of the ship. The small flotilla, barely more than a dozen ships constructed by elven slaves in their distinctive style, was now in plain view of the Isle of the Dead. Every ship was alike save for one. The Everchosen sat enthroned on a rough-hewn dais while barbarians worked the ship's oars around him. Alith Anar's gaze looked beyond the defender's ramparts to the blue pillar that loomed behind them. He only had eyes for the Vortex, and amid the flurry of activity that consumed the tiny fleet he was a rock of calm.
“My lord!” A barbarian chieftain, perhaps the only one left of the armies that had crossed the Anulii in Avelorn and ravaged Ulthuan to the tip of Saphery, knelt before the Everchosen. The furs he wore on his back, a fashion that clashed with the pillaged elven robes he wore without a hint of the grace of their former owners, were tinged with spray as the ship hit a rough wave. As Alith Anar turned his attention toward the barbarian he recognized the pale rosy color of diluted blood. They were nearing the shore. The few remaining Shadow Warriors that formed the Everchosen's bodyguard turned to regard the barbarian with their cold, depthless eyes. His tongue snaked out to wet his chapped lips as felt their icy stare. He held the damp floor of the boat in his vision, and dared not let go of it.
“Is there are issue with your kin?” Alith Anar asked evenly. The hand that was not occupied with the wolf turned the hilt of his sword, the tip resting in the wood. It flashed in the light of the Vortex, and even in the deck spray the chieftain could see the daemon trapped within howl with an eternal, boundless rage.
“No, my lord. They remain ready to serve.”
“Then what is your concern? The only task given to you is to see that your men carry us to the isle.”
“They are perhaps...concerned, my Everchosen.”
“Concerned?” One of the wolf's amber eyes opened to lazily regard the chieftain as Alith Anar replied. “What is there to be concerned about? Our final victory is well in hand and they occupy a privileged place at my side.”
The chieftain still did not dare to look at the Everchosen. “They see only that they sail into a battle that an army has already lost. A much greater army.”
One of Alith Anar's brows arched upwards. “Has a tour of the elven kingdoms instilled the servants of Chaos with an appreciation for their own lives? Has your thirst for blood been slaked? Or have you taken up the arrogance of these creatures, that you pretend for a moment that any army I send into battle could ever lose?”
The chieftain shook his head vehemently. “No, my lord, I would never...”
He was cut short by the snap of the ship's black sail. It heralded that Alith Anar was rising from his makeshift throne. “They may have all died, human. But they did not lose. Can't you feel it?” The chieftain now regarded Alith Anar's boot. The wind was coming up; the crimson water heaving along with the more violent skies. “The air is electric with their hunger.” The Everchosen had lowered his gaze; it was now fixed on a banner he could barely perceive at the center of the elven lines.
“We are nearly in range of their batteries, Everchosen!” A look out called from the prow.
The wolf rose up to his feet and stretched, yawning impressively before he turned and padded towards the rear of the ship. “As with every victory I allow the followers of Malekith it is swiftly followed by an even more crushing defeat.” The Vortex, which had just seemed to stabilize following the earlier carnage, shuddered and was consumed with violent eddies as something in the winds shifted.” You should be on your feet.” Alith Anar was looking down at the chieftain. “We will reach the shore soon and you will need to see to your men.”
There was no warning when one of the ships on the edge of the formation burst into brilliant white flames that consumed the timbers and all men aboard. It quickly fell behind the others. “It is a paradox.” Alith Anar began as he watched one of his ships burn. “This is the site of the portal that drains magic from the world, but all one need to do is wound it, coax it back into the world Caledor separated it from, and there is no place where the winds are stronger. Look at the brilliance of that fire; it is an incredible feat for a junior mage at this range.”
The chieftain shakily rose to his feet again, his own eyes glued on the ship as the eldritch flames continued to burn even as it sank beneath the waves. “So you have empowered them, my lord? You hand them the citadel, and empower their greatest weapon against us? To what end, my lord? I cannot see it.”
“No, you won't.” Alith Anar turned and his blade separated the chieftain's head from his neck. Blood arced briefly, just nipping at the bottom of the sail, before falling to the timbers with the rest of the body. “No one who has died in the assault on this island, including your chieftain, has been sacrificed in vain or out of caprice.” The mark of Chaos on the Everchosen's left hand burned brightly, and every barbarian could hear his voice. “Look to the cliffs where so many of your comrades have fallen.” The point of his bloody sword condemned the elves manning the defenses. “Many of you will see ramparts, or a bloody climb, or the elves that you have so ably hunted in our time on this island. What you should see, and what I see, is an altar drenched with earnest sacrifice. Let it be known that I, Alith Anar, am willing to sacrifice whole armies to the gods who empower our crusade. Lend your ears to the turbulent sky and hear the hungry cries emanating from the other side, voices that strain an already thin barrier. No, this army did not lose. It guaranteed our victory.”
Alith Anar turned and swung his sword towards the sky, now filled with dark clouds that contained a hint of the crimson water. The chieftain's blood flew from the blade in fine drops.
*
Malekith had not been out of his armor so long that the spray of sea water on his face had become mundane. He cherished the cold feeling even as the worsening wind tore through his robes. His banner flapped behind him and he could feel the eye of Chaos, the third eye that rested on Alith Anar's brow, upon him. The Dread King looked to his left and then to his right, raking stock of the elves who stood with him. They were all veterans of war now. But he was not sure that even they were prepared for what he believed Alith Anar had in store for them.
“How is he doing?” Malekith asked the sea.
“He's gone to the south in search of Auralion so that he can bring the three of you together. He won't be back in time.” The mage wearing gray who stood among the Black Guard replied. He leaned heavily on the staff of the loremasters, gifted to them by the goddess Lileath.
“You feel it, then?” Malekith asked as he cast a glance over his shoulder. He could see that the mage was frayed around the edges, his awesome magical power leaking into the world around him. The staff helped to keep him together, but the Dread King was not certain how much longer the grey mage would be of much use to anyone before he became a dangerous liability.
“And we are too weak to prevent it, I'm afraid.” Tathel responded as he stepped up to Malekith's side at the cliff edge.
“No.” Malekith agreed with the assessment. In the distance one of the longships burst into flames. “Hmm.” Malekith didn't seem impressed. “I had thought that Auralion had agreed to my plan to hold off on all attacks until my signal.”
“I suspect that he did.” Tathel replied with the same dismissive calm as the Dread King, but the weariness in the mage's posture was unmistakable. “It is this place. The mage has likely been here for weeks, in the shadow of the Vortex. Even at the periphery of the isle the post, and its burden, has a way of seeping into sensitive minds. Time is not the same here, Dread King. You cannot maintain a force here much longer.”
Malekith could hear an echo in the distance, a voice that he was familiar with speaking to an ear he had long left idle. He did not reply immediately. The weather was getting worse. His grip on Avanuir tightened, even the son of Aenarion had found that his nerves not invulnerable to the period of anticipation. “I do not need your condescension, mage.” The Dread King’s expression turned dark. “I know how you look at me, the distaste that stems from your masters. He at least remembers a time when I shaped this world; he knows what I did for it, and what I might yet do.” Malekith hesitated. “Promise me that you will look after him.” The Dread King finally told the mage.
“I can't promise any more than you can.” Tathel replied.
“I meant in the next few hours. He'll need you, Tathel.”
Tathel shrugged lightly, and stepped back. “I hardly needed you to tell me that. I serve the Phoenix King as the living representative of Asuryan's will. You passed through the flames twice, and you can't claim that title. You tasted the fruit. Your life, for an elf, has been wholly unnatural. We do not part as friends, Malekith. But, unique among us you have a chance to shape your destiny. We are all counting on a wise choice.”
The horizon rippled. Alith Anar had cast his sword. A sound, like the tortured tearing of wet canvas distorted through a distant horn reverberated through the defender's lines. A new, eerie and shifting light began to taint the clouds as Alith Anar's sword stroke was reflected in the sky.
“Asuryan be with us.” Tathel breathed before he hurried away. Malekith gave no reply; his gaze was fixed on the scar that the Everchosen had wrought. For a brief moment the isle was calm, even the wind died as every elf and man held his breath. The pause broken by a keening, hungry cry that echoed from that place: the thin line in the sky. It was joined by smaller cries, some whimsical, others soothing. All blended into a cacophony that grated on the souls of the defenders before hands, claws, hooks and gauntleted stumps gripped the edges of the scar and with a force of will that shook the hearts of the elven defenders torn open the hole between the worlds.
For most of the elves it was the first time that they had seen the coruscating colors of the realm of chaos so plainly. But it was not an empty landscape. Daemons of all shapes, sizes and gods leered hungrily at their prey. They did not hesitate to pour out of the maw, some on ethereal wings and others propelled by more unnatural means. Their cries filled the air, extending the incomprehensible din from the back of the defender's heads into the realm of things real and whole. Nightmares given form. Under this gibbering mass Alith Anar's ships were forgotten as they moved steadily towards the cliffs.
“Battle is joined.” Malekith breathed as he raised a hand. His words rescued a line that shook with terror. “Now we fight! All missiles, fire! Mages, to your stations!” The first of the daemons, an iridescent screamer that wailed as the light of the Vortex played on its fleshy back, dove at the lead figure of the army. Malekith needed a single swing of Avanuir to cut the creature down. “To arms! All defenders of Ulthuan, to arms!” They responded.
A volley of arrows and larger bolts met the tide of daemons as mages sought frantically to close the portal that Alith Anar had opened. They found their magic dangerously unreliable as the strain of the battle caused the Vortex to pulse wildly out of control. The world teetered as close to the brink as it had ever come in the first frantic seconds before the work of the mages within reasserted itself. But by that time many young mages had discovered the perils of the realm of Chaos. As his soldiers fought desperately against the quick furies that seemed drawn to the mages in the defender's line a Sapherian attempted to dispel them. The tide was great, soon the pressure of the magic that he gave vent to seeped into the fabric of the world around him. Hungry, lustful eyes peered at that young, handsome mage. As the veil that separated reality and madness melted away the obscene servants of Slaanesh, their alluring and grotesque bodies shimmering with the otherworldly light, emerged. Wicked claws cut down the mage and opened a hole in the line. The scene was repeated more than once. Fire leapt up between the defenders, monstrosities appeared from thin air. All reserves were committed. Even the wounded took up their spears.
The leaders of the elves, from the lowliest captains to the Dread King himself, remained calm. At the center of the maelstrom Malekith held the daemon-tide at bay, knowing that like all armies it would exhaust itself while the Vortex still stood. The daemons could not yet tap into the death and fear that they were causing to create an unstoppable juggernaut with which to topple the world. Caledor had severed this from them, so that even now, in the darkest hour, hope would be given to the hopeless. The hordes of gibbering horrors that poured up the cliffs as if gravity was nothing to them did not instill fear in Malekith. No junior Sapherian Malekith cast aside the petty magics of Tzeentch's chosen with minimal effort. Bereft of this support they were no match for the elites and hardened regulars that made up the defenders. A daemon, drawn on the backs of screamers and calling out the praises of Tzeentch in a thousand shifting tongues bore down on the Dread King. He raised a horn to his deformed lips and let the eldritch call flow out.
Almost too late Malekith felt the spell being woven around him. He let Avanuir rest and raised his free hand. The contours of the net being drawn about his form came into focus, tiny incisions in the material world meant to pull him into the realm of Chaos. It was not a fate which he couldn't escape, but it would take precious time. Empowered by the climate of magic Malekith tapped into the bleeds already drawn by the herald and refocused the magic into a burst of sheer power without grace or cunning. The daemon howled as its flesh was torn asunder by its own fire. Its mounts collapsed before it did, spilling the mortally wounded horror onto the barren soil at the feet of the Dread King, who calmly stepped out of the trap. Avanuir was soon at the expiring daemon's throat. He chuckled, lacerated neck bubbling with perverse laughter.
“Alith Anar is out of tricks.” Malekith told the herald. All down the line this scene was being repeated. Many elves fell, but the line would hold.
“We are driven at you by fear, not hunger.” The herald replied before Malekith finished its banishment. His eyes narrowed and he looked back at the rift's gaping maw.
“Brother.” Four spoke as one. Their voices, many thousands bundled into four channels that spoke louder than any other, shook every mortal that still lived. The visages of four massive daemons emerged from the ether, each cast in the most favored image of their gods. The Bloodthirster was the first to appear, leathery wings spread in flight as it leapt to the grim harvest. Malekith quickly put it in the back of his mind as he was not its prey. The Great Daemon took another course, and in the brief moment that it obscured the open maw of the rift the daemon that did have the Dread King in its sights slipped into the material world. It occupied the Bloodthirster's shadow, moving deftly into the disturbance created by the passage of one of Khorne's most favored servants so that when Malekith realized it was there it was already far too late. Brilliant plumes of coruscating blue fire picked apart the Dread King's bodyguard. Their black armor burst with the force of horrific mutations that soon rendered them wholly unrecognizable. When they had died, and Malekith had spun to face his opponent, the Lord of Change had settled precariously on the cliff's edge.
Cold avian eyes stared down at the elf with a calculating air. Malekith looked back, fingers working as he considered a move against the fearsome daemon. “You are not altogether here.” The daemon remarked, its voice shifting between gender and age with a fluid ease that caused dissonance to flow with a broken harmony. “We see your shadow, and we see your face. You are here, you hear the screams around you and you feel fear creep into your heart for the first time in an age. But you are distant. Caught between concern, care, and utter indifference. At once you are eating the fruit, your hand is raised in victory, you are on your knees, you are dead, you are reborn. All these things strive within you as one. In short, you are one of us. We see him in you, too.” The daemon's brilliant plumage shifted as it took a step onto the isle. It was impossible to grasp any one color; the hues in the periphery of Malekith's vision always caused him to doubt what was plainly in front of him. His grip tensed on Avanuir. It was dangerous to let the daemon speak; but he had little alternative until he was ready. “Is it the sum of your experiences, more than your birth, that allows you to throw away the lives of your people so recklessly? You are as much a god as we are, Brother, if you would but grasp it. The world is, to us, hopelessly fettered. Would you continue to be the slaver that you were in your past? The butcher? Look at how many around you die. Every death in vain. What a pitiful, empty world it is, Brother.”
“And yet it is our nature to cling to every rock as it was the last. Enough.” Malekith drew up his free hand into a fist and brought it to his chest. The Lord of Change, for his part, could feel the Dread King's sorcery around it. Wicked, shimmering claws clicked against the haft of the daemon's impressive staff which bore Tzeentch's serpent on its head. It seemed to consider a moment, gauging the strength of Malekith's spell before it made a decision. The supreme daemonic sorcerer thrust out his staff and in one motion destroyed the careful work laid down by the Dread King.
“Pitiful.” The daemon concluded in its discordant tone. Malekith's reply was immediate. He stepped into the vacuum left by the pulse of magic and aimed the tip of Avanuir at the daemon. It was no martial challenge; a bolt of dark energy shaped by the Dread King's will out of the violent winds broken by the Lord of Change was soon hurtling at the daemon. The blast strike it firmly in its serpentine chest, eliciting a howl of pain from the daemon as it stumbled back towards the cliff's edge. Malekith's feet did not move, but at his command the world him began to shift. The winds of magic became married to the mundane currents that flowed over the island and Malekith drew about him a cloak of pulsing air that threw up the isle's dirt and tore at the body of his fallen soldiers. He dropped his sword to his side, he wouldn't need it. Chill winds closed around the reeling daemon and brought an arcane chill that touched its plumage in a way that mortals could not perceive. The spell drove it towards the edge of the cliff but before it could tumble over its free talons dug into the tortured earth and anchored it fast.
The Lord of Change, from one knee, looked across the small battlefield to the elf who held him in his arcane grip. Tiny flowers of frost began to bloom on its beak, and it was perhaps this indignity that spurred the daemon to seek his full power. It began to wail in a low, keening tone that danced over notes as ably as its colors danced across its feathers. It was an aura of fire that distorted the air around it like the emanations of the mid-day sun upon the surface of the desert; except that this heat could tear the fabric of the world asunder. Slowly the daemon rose back to its feet and threw its arms wide, inviting the full skill of its opponent. Malekith would not be one to deny it. The battle became invisible; a test of wills carried out in a hidden realm that nevertheless often determined the fate of the mortal world. Malekith was frozen to the spot; all that he needed to do was meet the daemon's eyes with his own and communicate the depthless nature of his resolve. The ground beneath them cracked under the strain, and the personal contest was reflected in the Vortex as its energies thrashed across the sky in pained gyrations.
The Lord of Change screamed again, yet could no longer stand to look into the Dread King's eyes. Its powerful wings beat at the air and sent shocks deep into the already cracked earth. The side of the cliff began to crumble, cracks racing up towards Malekith to devour his ground. The Dread King grimaced and tried to steady himself. The daemon, enraged, indignant and possessed of a drunken madness from the deal took to the air and began to pass over the Dread King. Before he disappeared into the devouring maw of the rockslide, a ravenous beast that had already taken the corpses of his men and reduced his banner to splinters, Malekith reached up and hooked the talon of the passing daemon. He was immediately lifted from danger. Malekith dared not look down so as not to preoccupy his mind with an assessment of the battle. He was born towards the heart of the island and the Vortex that stood there. It was the only placed that the Dread King wanted to be.
He was not aware that the Everchosen's fleet had touched the shore of the isle before his duel had even begun.
*
Alith Anar's feet touched the matted sand of the beach the moment his longship lurched into its final berth. His was the first ship to arrive, but in moments others had joined him. Where the barbarians erupted into raucous cries of near frenzy at the sight of the embattled elven ramparts the Everchosen was silent. The beach that he had now taken was no longer filled only with the corpses of the late chaos horde. The red seas were frothing as the daemonic legion continued its assault. From the midst of decaying and rotting corpses the favored of Nurgle, plaguebearers, lurched out of the surf. They were the steady, implacable foes who would sweep away the elven defenders who had been fractured by the gods' more spectacular servants. They were as silent as the Everchosen who led them towards the cliffs that had in turn served as the altar for the mortal sacrifice that had ushered in the legion.
The wet sand around Alith Anar was kicked up as the wolf returned to his side at a lively trot. The creature craned its neck up towards the narrow, corpse choked path that led up to the isle proper. At the point where the cliffs parted and opened the way to the Vortex a slender elven banner bearing the long dormant rune of Asuryan flapped defiantly in the increasingly turbulent wind. The elven line, it seemed, was holding. A white fletched arrow sailed from the tightly clustered knot of troops to the beach below, where it took a barbarian between the eyes and added another corpse to the sea that Alith Anar would have to pick through.
“If I am not mistaken,” the Everchosen commented bemusedly to his companion, “I would say that they know that we're here.” The wolf smiled in reply, but the laughter that should have accompanied Alith Anar's words bellowed from the sea behind them. The rich sound reverberated off the cliffs and rolled among the dead like the gentle waves of the ocean. Alith Anar turned to look over his shoulder as the sea disgorged its most vile traveler so far. The Great Unclear One of Nurgle rose out of the surf on the backs of hundreds of nurglings. The bloated daemon swayed as if drunk, and crimson water flowed out of its pockmarks and blighted recesses like wine.
“Hail Alith Anar, favored son of Nurgle!” The daemon shouted, laughter ringing in its voice. A rusted sword cut through the air above its near indistinguishable head, as if daring the elves to try and stop the slow moving lord of decay. A few archers did take the bait, but their arrows upon piercing the daemon's dead flesh rotted away to worm food, leaving only a rusted ring where their arrow-tips had been. “What a day! What a fine day!” The Great Daemon bellowed in a tongue that all who feared death could comprehend. Alith Anar understood the words only because the mark of Chaos on his left hand glowed with fierce amber light now that he had drawn near to the purpose for which it had been branded onto him. The Everchosen turned away from the Greater Daemon, who could not fit on any path that had led to the ramparts and so would have to climb, or be carried, up the sheer cliffs alongside his plaguebearers. To Alith Anar the daemon seemed to be singing, praising death and exalting the fallen mortals all around him. The Everchosen could not muster similar regard for the dead. He avoided those that he could, and trod upon those he could not.
The volume of arrows, though a mere trickle compared to what the first wave of mortals had faced, increased as Alith Anar reached the trail leading up away from the beach. The archers had finally found the Everchosen and now resolved to use every item in their arsenal to cut him down. “Follow after me.” Alith Anar told his companion as he looked upward. Whether or not the Everchosen saw the arrow that was destined for his face the outcome was the same; he disappeared. The shadow steed that had been granted to him by Slaanesh in the First Shrine carried its charge away from danger and up the severe slope of the trail. The elves at the top began to shout, a few commanders pointing to the spot the Everchosen had occupied, but the best they could do was catch a few glimpses of Alith Anar as he appeared briefly, perched on the rocks surrounding the trail. Wisps of shadow, heavy as smoke on the air, clung to Alith Anar as he made his final appearance at the summit behind the line of spears and shields erected to prevent his passage. He struck without a word, neatly cutting open the formation's commanding officer. In the same motion his blade found the junction in the standard bearer's neck between head and shoulder, and as he relinquished his hold on the banner the Everchosens's marked hand shot out to seize it.
“I once venerated this symbol.” Alith Anar told the rank and file as they turned to engage him. He turned the banner and with it parried those first blows. “Perhaps I might still have had some respect for it before coming to the isle.” The Everchosen had let the spearmen commit and now brutally cut them down with a flurry of quick strokes. “Rejection is, after all, the first step to justice.” He turned, having sensed the large with the heavy two handed sword aimed at his crown. The banner was furled in the would be hero's gut. Alith Anar's eyes wide with the super human awareness of combat, looking into his face as it contorted with the pain of looming death and total defeat. “But, if your god crawls back to his ultimate betrayer for salvation, then he is a weak god.” This speech was delivered as the elf collapsed, inverting the banner. The Everchosen now turned to regard the elven soldiers who composed the rest of the regiment and whose hands twitched with fear as they clenched their weapons. “And who would serve a weak god, who cannot uphold even his own decrees? Who else but a corrupt, dying race?” As if to emphases his point he didn't leave a single elf alive.
The wolf bounded after Alith Anar, content to use his legs to propel him up the narrow path. There was no fear of arrows, Alith Anar had seen to that. When he crested the last rise the wolf saw his Everchosen amidst the elves he had recently slain. Alith Anar seemed captivated by the blue light that engulfed him, the wild, pained gyrations of the stricken Vortex overwhelming the carnage of the battlefield that raged around them. The wolf padded forward, to his master's side. “I can hear it screaming.” The wolf told him as it licked its lips. “It is in so much pain...it feeds every daemon on the island with its swan song, urging them on...I have never heard anything like it.”
“It is the same song that called them through the gates millennia ago.” Alith Anar said softly as he stepped forward. Some elves under the banner of the Dread King had spotted him and now shouted to their comrades for help. They knew their orders. “The bleating of a wounded sheep. It calls for help but the only ears it can find belong to wolves.” The elves were forming up in front of him, preparing to join the battle for the world. Alith Anar paid them no heed and instead looked down at his side. His sword, though slicked with blood, was idle. “Can I leave this to you?” He asked the wolf.
The wolf looked up to the Everchosen, and promptly sat on his haunches. “You can leave /everything/ to me.” It replies earnestly, golden eyes shining.
Alith Anar's face, gaunt, pale, lined and hardened by a lifetime in the wastes and an eternity at war, seemed to soften for a moment, a look the wolf recognized from the Everchosen's dreams. “Throughout it all,” He began, “The only constant has been our friendship. You are my last, and only, true companion in this world.”
“May we meet again in another.”
Alith Anar nodded, and summoned his steed again. The Druchii who had come to claim him now faced a looming shadow that soon consumed them.
The Sins of Aenarion [Final(ish) Campaign Fiction]
Moderators: The Heralds, The Loremasters
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VictorK
Re: The Sins of Aenarion
The Isle of the Dead passed below Malekith as he struggled with the Lord of Change. Avanuir, cloaked in blue fire, rang against the daemon's plumage and when it could spare them its claws. The physical battle was continued on another plane, where the will of the two combatants clashed. The flight of the daemon was erratic but focused on the heart of the island. No matter which way it turned or bucked to dislodge its stubborn passenger its destination was always the Vortex. The camp made by the defenders had long since retreated into the horizon. This part of the island belonged only to rocks and ghosts.
“Release me!” The daemon cried in its multi-tonal voice, screeching at the stubborn Dread King. Malekith had no reply; he was too occupied with the work of his sword. The Dread King gambled and retreated from that other battle, opening himself up for the daemon's deadly counter-attack. Even as he could feel the Lord of Change mustering the power to destroy him Malekith channeled his will into himself and his sword. In the end, he was faster on the draw. Avanuir plunged into the daemon's back, between its shifting wings, and shattered the beast's spine. A twist, and the daemon flesh that kept the great avian aloft was completely ruined. The beast cried in a thousand voices, all expressing anguish. Malekith braced himself on the daemon's useless wings as they plummeted to the rocks below.
Fortunately for the Dread King the Greater Daemon took the brunt of the fall, skipping off of one exposed rock before sliding into the smaller stones that formed the surface of the island. It was nearly torn apart, its blood shining like oil and pooling in the isle's cracks. Malekith crawled forward, picking his way along the beast's sinuous neck until the point of the deadly Avanuir hovered over its eye. The orb widened at the sight, the daemon's beak falling open in mute protest.
“You are a god!” Its discordant voices finally managed. “Why do you reject us, Brother? We are your heralds! We are your allies, your servants! A whole race calls your name, a world lies at your feet...Take your places with us in the heavens! IT is your birthright, the inheritor of Khaine, who sampled Chaos and forged his own way! Brother!”
Malekith did not reply, perhaps afraid that alone with the daemon his words might betray him. He drove Avanuir into the side of the daemon's head, but not deep enough to kill it. The Lord of Change screeched. “No! Brother!” Malekith gripped his sword and turned, forcing the daemon to look upon the Vortex that churned so close to them. It was no longer blue. That was a mask it work to mislead those who thought that they could claim it...at a distance. It had no color, it had no form, it was simple a place where the worlds intersected. Caledor's masterpiece was as elegant as it was simple, no raging pillar of magic but a point that respected neither time, space, nor the mortal powers. The Vortex was only visible because the door to that place had been pried open, forcing it to plant a foot in the material world. But, as stricken as it was, as damaged and bereaved as the war had made it, it still served its purpose. The Lord of Change's scream caught in its throat as it beheld the engine of its destruction. The daemon shook and began to unravel; its eldritch fibers torn apart by the awful pull of the Vortex. Terror flooded its eye because it saw, for the first time, its promised immortality denied. The daemon disintegrated, never to rise again, as the Vortex devoured every part of it.
Malekith staggered, now alone on the barren plain. Silence, but for the whipping of the agitated wind, descended upon him.
*
Alith Anar's final dance, the rapid and graceful segue between worlds and into the embrace of the Harlot, left him short of his final destination. The same silenced save for the whistling of the tortured wind through the twisted stones and crevasses at the heart of the Isle of the Dead joined him as well. The din of battle and the slavering cries of starved daemons were gone forever. The Everchosen craned his neck and beheld the inscrutable nexus of the worlds, but he didn't fear the Vortex as did the daemons. As he walked forward he understood why no great daemonic champion had ever risen to lead the hosts of Chaos since the time of Aenarion. Caledor's genius continued to astound the Everchosen who regarded his masterwork without even a crease in his face to betray his thoughts. Had the great mage overestimated his people? Did he reason that if the Vortex was anathema to daemons that the elves could keep the weak willed tides of the younger races at bay? Perhaps, Alith Anar reasoned, Caledor had underestimated the sins of Aenarion that would soon come back to haunt him. No, for all his genius and his power Caledor was not perfect.
The Everchosen was not alone. Caledor was already haunted by the outcome of that great battle, handed down through the ages. At first Alith Anar could only see them out of the corner of his eyes but soon the shades of the isle burst into full view. Ghostly figures, the colors all drained from their spectral forms, re-enacted the last battle to take place here. The full picture would never come into view, only snapshots of a violent past; when a captain distinguished himself in front of his men or a young elf's life was cut tragically short. The in between, the main body of the struggle, had failed to leave its mark on the isle's beleaguered fabric. The spirits had no regard for the terrain or the Everchosen among them. Alith Anar realized that there were no souls trapped here, they had long ago been absorbed by the Vortex that loomed over all things from the tiniest rocks to the massive arches that defied gravity. What played out around him was history itself, a pantomimed record of the world's most fateful moment. It was the memory of the mages trapped within, their dreams playing out on the physical landscape so that their minds could remain eternally occupied with their awesome task.
A shadow, not of light but from an otherworldly pressure, passed over the dried out plain. Alith Anar looked up to behold the greatest apparition he had yet seen. The massive dragon moved lazily through the sky, so slowly that it seemed to be a cloud rather than a beast. The Everchosen heard an echo of a cry in answer to the beast's roar, a call that spoke to souls uplifted by its very presence. What elf was left of Alith Anar drew in a breath, and he struggled to see the rider of the beast. The shade of Aenarion was brighter than any other and revealed in greater detail. It spoke to his greatness that he shone a beacon over his final battlefield, his image indelible thousands of years after it had been etched into the Isle of the Dead. But soon the image faded into a horizon brought all too close, and the routine agony and ecstasy of battle resumed. Alith Anar followed in the dragon's wake, passing over the same ground that had once been darkened by the shadow of Indraugnir.
The Everchosen continued to pass through the gallery of shades, convinced that if he followed Aenarion he would reach the invisible barrier of the Vortex and pass into the realm guarded by the ancient mages. They could no longer hide now that the rock beneath Alith Anar's feet had become solid. The isle was here, the Vortex was here, the mages could only wait. The ground began to rise in a gentle slope that crested in a flat ridge. It was the final climb that Alith Anar would have to face, and even the Everchosen could feel apprehension settling into his gut. His third eye could not perceive what awaited him at the top, no mortal had ever been there, and no daemon no matter how powerful could ever draw this close. When he reached the top of the ridge Alith Anar would be staring into the very heart of the Vortex, into the site where it had been born. He did not rush, he could not run; he could only draw closer at the pace he had set for himself years earlier: deliberate, but unstoppable.
Alith Anar drew in a breath when he crested the rise. The plain was empty, nothing more than a stretch of desolation dotted with the occasional rock outcropping. Something cold trickled down his spine and for the first time the Everchosen doubted his mission. He looked up, and the sky was utterly calm. Dark, but clear. Alith Anar was at the center of the isle, and nothing. He could hear Caledor's smug laughter ringing in his ears, and it made his fists clench. He almost didn't take the next step forward, but he had come too far to merely stand still. Something flickered in front of him, the same pale light that he had seen shining from the walking shades. The Everchosen continued forward and the mirage began to fall away until the figure was brought into full relief. An elf looked out across the same plain, his tattered cloak whipping in a long dead wind.
“Aenarion.” Alith Anar breathed. He looked down, as if expecting to see legendary footprints where he was about to tread. “Are you an image, or Caledor's last sentry?” He wondered, grip tightening around his sword. There was no reply. The silence endured, growing towards Alith Anar until he once again felt compelled to speak. “Do I walk in your footsteps, or in spite of them?” He continued to walk forward, slowly, cautiously. “What do you see? Turn; let me see your expression. This both is, and isn't, your work, isn't it?” Alith Anar looked up at the invisible Vortex. “I want to see your face, if you regard all this with satisfaction and are at peace, or if there is something bitter smoldering in your eyes. There is so much I would ask you, if you would but reply.” Of course, the luminous shade was silent. “How did it feel to fall short of revenge? You did, didn't you? After what they did, those who I now serve, to tear down your life...was there anything you believed could stop you? No, I suppose not.” Alith Anar answered his own question and stood at Aenarion's back. He could reach out and touch him if he wished, but the Everchosen declined. “And there was nothing that could. I bet that endless war suited you just fine, at least that part that hungered for revenge. But you were a king as well, a title that none since have been worthy to hold. It must have burned you, deep inside, to know that you could not complete your revenge. You had to look to Caledor to do what you could not. What were you in the end, Aenarion, but a half-measure who fought to ensure the greatest half-measure of them all? This Vortex...” He almost spat the words. “I will complete what you could not. I promise no half-measures.” The Everchosen of Chaos, who had risen from this island to claim the crown of the gods and visit revenge upon the whole of the world, found his steel. “Stand aside.”
“Alith Anar!” The voice, brimming full of command, echoed across the plain. Both the Everchosen and the shade of Aenarion turned at the call. Malekith, the Dread King, stood on the edge of the ridge that Alith Anar had abandoned. Another tone, a mere echo, trailed his words. The apparitions of four daemons, similar to but greater than the four inflicted on the elven defenders by Alith Anar, coalesced around him. The apparition of Aenarion raised his sword to answer their call, the ghostly blade of Khaine mere inches from Alith Anar's cheek. He stepped forward, through the Everchosen, just as the daemons surged towards him. And then, before they could meet, they faded away into nothing. That great duel was long over, a new one prepared to be joined.
“Deep down I had hoped you would come.” Alith Anar told the Dread King after a period of silence had prevailed between them. As he broke it Malekith started forward, his pace no more agitated than an evening stroll.
“Does it speak to the Everchosen's reluctance to carry out the task for which he was appointed?” Malekith asked. Avanuir was free at his side, the daemon's blood long since burned away.
“No.” Alith Anar replied. The tip of his sword soon hovered between himself and his adversary, daring him to come closer. Malekith didn't so much as blink t it. “As fitting an end being torn apart by daemons would be for you it lacks some elements of personal satisfaction.”
“Well, then, what are you waiting for, Alith Anar?”
“For you to come just that close.” Alith Anar replied. “U'zuhl.” The caged daemon leapt from the sword as little more than a skeletal figure composed of multi-colored strands of light. Its claws had all the deadly qualities of its true brothers, however, and Malekith knew it. It defied wind, gravity, and the Vortex itself to cross the distance to the Dread King, who held his ground.
Malekith raised his hand and caught the daemon in an effortless web of magic. “The same tricks again and again...why do you even bother with this mindless...” He trailed off as he saw Alith Anar rushing forward. A burst of speed from the shadows and the Everchosen was on top of the Dread King with only the spectral body of U'zuhl between them. The tip of his sword pierced the daemon in a strike that the Everchosen knew the Dread King could not block because of the daemon's grasping claws. Malekith started to fall back, to avoid the steel that was headed straight for his face. His reflexes saved him because Alith Anar could not adjust the strike. The Dread King escaped with only a deep groove in his left cheek where the lethal blade had just slipped past him. He felt the pain that was soon swept away by the warm curtain of blood that cascaded down to his chin. Soon droplets had fallen onto his purple robes, shaken loose by his stumbling feet. But the Dread King's eyes never left Alith Anar, who, shrouded by his own daemon, was grinning madly on the other side. Malekith's blood lingered on the edge of his sword. For its part in the plan the daemon writhed in agony on its master's blade. It began to collapse, wailing a pathetic cry as its defeated form was once again absorbed by the cold steel. Once he was satisfied that Alith Anar was not going to press his attack Malekith brought his free hand to the wound, and tainted his fingers and palm with the fresh blood. Still, he never let Alith Anar out of his sight. He would not be caught by surprise again.
“With his sacrifice Aenarion opened this age of the world.” Alith Anar began. “It is fitting that his sins will end it. We are the last sins of Aenarion, you and I. Each a product of his weakness and the darkness that had taken root in his heart. What are you but your father's son, the only thing we could expect from an elf who above all worshipped power and could only use it ineffectually. And what am I but the result of his lack of foresight, his disinterest in the justice that must prevail in a people if it is to endure? Aenarion had no sense of time, for him there was only the next battle; how convenient for him that when the war ended he passed on. Why do we celebrate such a man?”
“Do not judge him.” Malekith replied. “You judge only yourself with these words, Alith Anar. Even you realize the madness of your cause.”
“Since when have I said that I should be celebrated? Justice is a cold work. It was Aenarion's duty to see to the world he was building. That world became Malekith's world, and now it has reached its end. The one who comes after me will have the task of building a new world. It is mine to tear this one down.”
“Your greatest flaw is that you cannot forgive him the terrible choices he had to make.” The Dread King replied in an utterly calm tone.
Alith Anar sneered. “And I suppose you, by your example, will teach me this forgiveness? A forgiveness that lets tyrants who can't forgive even the slightest trespass rise from the ashes and resume their thrones?”
“No.” Malekith replied. “I will humble you.” The Dread King swept his sword in front him, channeling the winds of magic into a potent force that like the claws of U'zuhl threatened to tear apart its target. The barren rocks of the Vortex's plateau, rocks that had not been disturbed for thousands of years, were torn from the hard scrabble and cast towards the Everchosen. There was no point in saving any of himself for later, Malekith knew, everything would be left on the field of this battle. The last task appointed to him was to defeat Alith Anar, and after that? Well, he had earned whatever days lay before him. But the Everchosen could not be caged so easily. He slipped away from the attack, born between the fabric of worlds by the gifts of Chaos. There was a long starved hunger in his eyes once his armored feet touched the surface of the isle, a look that he had been saving for Malekith ever since he had left Ulthuan. It was perhaps more desperate, more tinged with madness than he had first intended; but Malekith saw immediately that the look fit. Now he beheld the true Alith Anar.
The Everchosen charged Malekith even as the failed spell collided with the invisible barrier that disguised the heart of the Vortex. There was no spectacular display to draw the attention of the combatants, the magic and the rocks simply blended into a churning force that carried them away as if returning them to the original fabric of the material world. What quiet remained after the battle was joined was shattered by the ringing of steel as Avanuir clashed with Alith Anar's sword. Malekith shrugged the blow aside and then brought his blade down on Alith Anar's head. The Everchosen was more than fast enough to block the potentially fatal strike but its force staggered him, forcing the Everchosen to bring up his free had to shore up his defense. He leapt back, and watched as Malekith moved deliberately to lash at him again. He blocked, but could now see what the Dread King was up to. The magic that had been at his command since he was a young elf was infused into his body and his blade, lending Malekith power beyond what his physical shell could provide. Released from the numbness of the Armor of Midnight the Dread King had recovered his combat prowess from his masterful sorcery. A perfect marriage of his two aspects. It led Alith Anar to smile.
If Malekith was the stronger Alith Anar outclassed him with speed. The Dread King's tactic was not intuitive and it forced his face into a contorted mask of concentration. The Everchosen had adapted to his gifts over countless battles, and once he adjusted to Malekith's power it seemed that the Dread King too would be added to the growing pile of corpses created by Alith Anar's wicked blade. Malekith tried to crush the Everchosen, wielding the fine blade of Avanuir as if it was a barbarian's club seeking the exposed temple of a norseman. Alith Anar stepped up and in, the tip of his blade pointed down at his offhand foot. Malekith's eyes widened as the Everchosen erased the distance between them but showed no other signs of alarm. He knew what was going to happen next, and that meant that he didn't need to worry about it. Alith Anar swept his blade up in a cruel arc that spilled Malekith's blood into the air, casting it onto the rocks. The wound ran from his hip to his shoulder in a deep, ragged line that soon burst forth with even more of his blood. The Dread King staggered and fell to one knee as Alith Anar turned his sword over his head and then dropped the hilt down to his hip. He was going to run Malekith through.
The Dread King exhaled slowly as he watched his doom approach. The wound set off something in him, a surge of excitement and warmth that accompanied the embrace of his own blood. Something inherited from his father awoke again inside of him, perhaps a fragment of the wandering god Khaine in one of his few remaining pure aspects. Malekith's magic joined seamlessly with his muscles and his bones and the pain went away. He had once suffered the unmitigated fires of Asuryan, there was no blade forged on this world that could cause him any more pain. And so for the second time since Alith Anar had set foot on Ulthuan Malekith grabbed his sword and diverted its motion harmlessly over his shoulder. The Dead King found a primal voice and let out a deep war cry that told Alith Anar he was not yet ready to die. Avanuir flashed once in the weak light before, married to the motion of Malekith pushing out of his crouch, it crashed against the Everchosen's armored shoulder. The black plates were crushed by the cleaving blade, but they saved the arm beneath them. From there the merciless blade of the Dread King swept down and if Alith Anar had not moved his leg he would have lost it.
As Malekith found his feet the Everchosen wrenched his blade free from Malekith's grip. Now the blood that appeared on it didn't seem so reassuring. Alith Anar took another step back and then set his stance because Malekith was fully risen and his sword, raised over his head, was hunting for the death blow. Alith Anar again blocked in time but his knees nearly buckled, and when he looked up he saw that Malekith was smiling. The only thing for Alith Anar to do once the Dread King's momentum was spent and his blade was shrugged off was to smile back. For the second time in the great war that had begun with the assassination of the Witch King Alith Anar had been wounded, and it only galvanized him to continue the fight. “I'm glad that it's you. I would have no one else here at the end.”
“You could never fool anyone.” Malekith replied, his smile tilting the tone of his words towards a leering harmony. “If you want your revenge, take it now.”
In the battle that followed the two champions found an equal match. Neither combatant placed any faith in the promise of a tomorrow, and so not even the careful Alith Anar paid too much attention to defense. The stakes in the battle were not just visions of the future, but the right to claim authority over the past. The two blades rang against one another, their clear sound replacing the war cries that two lesser combatants would be trading. The history spoke more than yells or taunts ever could, each had killed the other only to see their opponent rise again, each had stood astride the world. For a while, as each blade cut into its victim, spraying blood or shattering metal, it seemed that they were destined to fight to a standstill; each to collapse and die where he fell. They would each be brought down by the weight of ages and the demands of a lifetime of conflict, neither able to seize the destiny that each so fervently believed was theirs to grasp. But that was the reason the battle had to be fought, because they were not equal, their experiences set them apart, and the gifts they had received and the unrelenting nature of their wills did not guarantee the stalemate that would invite the laughter of the gods.
Malekith knew he had arrived at the limits of his power when an overhead blow could not find the speed to force Alith Anar to defend against it. The nimble Everchosen stepped inside the strike and drew his sword across the Dread King's side. The magic that coursed through him saved his life; it slowed the flow of blood, but for the first time it could not stop the pain. It touched him in the same place the horrific fires of Asuryan had, a primitive part of his mind that calculated that his life was in danger. Malekith did not cry out, but his recovery was slow. Alith Anar stepped in again, driving his knee into Malekith's leg and opening his stance. He caught the sword coming up to take his head and barely managed to parry with Avanuir in time. But he could not control the direction of the sword and it was soon returning towards him, its energy merely redirected. The strength of Malekith's sword arm nearly evaporated as Alith Anar cut into the junction of his shoulder and torso. The weight of Avanuir, that finely balanced sword, was suddenly far too much to handle. He was stumbling, and Alith Anar was coming. The excitement burned in the Everchosen's eyes and was echoed by the faint, hungry glow of the Eye of Sheerian. Confronted with his oncoming doom Malekith raised his good arm, as if to plea for Alith Anar to stop.
The Dread King did all he could do, and voided the magic that had sustained him during the duel. The wave of force threw Alith Anar off of his feet and back across the small battlefield. It was only in tracking the Everchosen's flight did Malekith realize how much of his own blood painted the rocks at their feet. Alith Anar landed heavily on his back, but the Dread King could not will his legs to take advantage of the opening. He merely straightened and felt the dull ache of his numerous wounds begin to seep towards his core. It was a paralyzing feeling similar to a profound numbness. Warm blood trickled down his sword arm, now flowing freely. The appearance of Alith Anar, his armor shattered and rivulets of his blood flowing down it from seeping wounds, was no comfort. Not even the patina of dust settling around him after his fall made him seem any less invincible. He almost dropped his sword but was able to will his fingers to maintain their grip. They complied, but with the heaviness that hinted at incredible damage stemming from the deep cut to his shoulder.
Without being bid Malekith's head rolled back, allowing air to escape from his lungs and chest to fall. He exhaled the thrill of the battle, and could find only weariness inside of him. He forced his half-lidded eyes to open, and the breath he was taking in caught in his throat. The sky around the Vortex had opened up, revealing a blood red canopy. Leering faces began to appear from the shifting mass, monstrous visages that jeered at the world below. Malekith realized that he was looking into the world beyond. The scar that Alith Anar had opened in order to gain the heights above the beach was only a glimpse of what awaited his victory, now the Dread King saw it with every veil removed. He had thought himself an expert on the field of daemons, and believed that the torment of the dark gods held no surprises for him. But even the former Witch King was taken aback at the horrific scene that unfolded above him.
It was truly depthless. The inverted pit went on forever, and its denizens were without end. The whole of the daemonic host turned out to get a glimpse of the fall of the elf who had once defied them, the son of the elf who they could never master. Claws reached across the expanse to try to claim him, hungry and impatient faces straining at the bonds forced upon them thousands of years ago. And behind them Malekith could feel the eyes of even greater beings upon him, beings with a patience to match the endless expanse but who were nevertheless ready to assume their thrones. Slowly Malekith turned his eyes away from the peek he had been given. His legs found the strength to move as his gaze landed on Alith Anar who had in turn found his feet. The Everchosen just watched his staggering steps, sucking in ragged breaths and convinced that the Dread King would topple over of his own accord if left alone. For just a few more moments Malekith felt himself lurch and barely caught his balance before he confirmed Alith Anar's suspicions. He stopped, wobbling as he tried to maintain himself upright. Malekith started to list forward, his shoulders drooping to allow his blood to drip directly onto the stones without his robes acting as a medium. He looked from side to side as if to confirm that the way forward was clear. The Dread King's brow knit as a particular rocky outcropping captured his attention. His focus was rewarded as a lioness, as radiant as the moon and trailing strands of bright, vibrant colors that flowed as if on a gentle breeze, stepped into the gap in the rocks and sat on her haunches as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Why do you insist on pursuing your destiny?” The familiar voice reverberated in Malekith's head. It was for him alone.
He could not find an answer. Had he not been prepared to die?
“You still believe that you can escape death. Would you fight if you knew that the Phoenix King has returned to us? That you have committed the same sins as Aenarion, not only his hubris but also his disregard for the future? Knowing this, could you forgive yourself abandoning him to the daemons, and do what must be done?”
Malekith's breath caught in his throat. It had all unraveled.
“You freeze. You have no resolve. You cling to your destiny as you clung to your life after the flames judged you. You should have perished then, but your pride sustained you. And plunged the world into darkness. What was it worth?”
The Dread King closed his eyes.
“Renounce your destiny.”
When Malekith opened them again he saw Alith Anar and he straightened. His breathing lost all signs of distress, even as he continued to bleed. The Everchosen hesitated upon seeing the Dread King stabilize. But after only a moment's consideration his eyes lit up and a grin split his face from ear to ear.
“I can see you!” Alith Anar declared with unrestrained glee. The Eye of Sheerian projected before him every possible move that Malekith could make, every scenario and tactic to which his remaining power could be applied. And, having seen the ghosts of the Dread King act out a thousand battles, the gifts of Chaos collapsed them all into one, and provided Alith Anar with the course of action that could not be defeated. The Everchosen of Chaos surged towards his last opponent before his labors could be complete, and from his hip drove his sword towards Malekith's chest. It was the killing stroke that had eluded both combatants throughout the duel; now waiting on the thrust of Alith Anar's blade. Malekith didn't even try to avoid it. It found his ribs just below his heart, and drive through his entire torso. At last, as the shock of the blow reverberated through the Dread King, his fingers relinquished their hold on Avanuir and let the sword tumble to the ground.
If Alith Anar saw what Malekith's next move was going to be he had no time to react. The Dread King's good arm lashed out and its fingers grabbed the Everchosen's shoulder. Once his elbow anchored he found the strength to move his injured arm and clapped his palm against the base of Alith Anar's armored ribs. With this hold established Malekith summoned what magic he could control and lifted his opponent off the ground. Then, he started walking forward again.
“No!” Alith Anar screamed as he thrashed in Malekith's arms. He tried to pull his sword free but his arm was pinned. His kicks could only draw blood from the Dread King's legs, not stop them from moving forward. Malekith couldn't even look into his face; he was instead concentrating on Alith Anar's chest, or rather looking through him to the destination he had to reach.
“No! Not like this!” Alith Anar screamed. He could feel the invisible barrier pulsing behind him, the barrier that he understood Malekith meant to cross. His free hand, marked by the glowing star of Chaos, reached out and found the Dread King's face. The gauntlet's armored fingers dug through his flesh down to the bone, drawing forth new springs of blood, as if there was much left. For his part Malekith welcomed the pain, it distracted from the weakness that was seeping into his legs. He had become a machine, his only purpose to hold, and to walk. Beyond that, there was nothing. Nothing but the next step. He could barely hear Alith Anar screaming he was so close to collapse.
They hit the edge of the Vortex and it shuddered all through them. It gave some resistance, but only for a moment before Malekith pushed through. Then it was all around them, the powerful currents of magic swirling over and between them, carrying them with a life of its own.
“He's cheating you again!” Alith Anar screamed to the invisible gods he knew were watching. “Can't you see that he's betraying you again? He can't be trusted! He will betray us all!” At this, as the currents captured both of them, Malekith began to laugh. He laughed at the screaming Everchosen, he laughed with relief now that he could rest. The currents intensified, and no longer respected the boundaries of their bodies. The spell was moving through them, permeating every aspect of their beings. The armor that Alith Anar had worn since assuming the mantle of Everchosen began to disintegrate, chips of the metal disappearing as black dust carried away by the currents. Both of the former combatants were calmed by the passages of the Vortex, and at last they found each other's faces. The Eye of Sheerian cracked silently, its magic poured out but its essence returned to the god who had bestowed it. The mark on Alith Anar's had went cold, and then lost definition altogether. But he saw that he was not alone; burns began to spread over Malekith's body. What had been restored, was being wasted again. What had been granted, was now lost.
“What will become of us?” Alith Anar asked his adversary. The ground disappeared, all points of reference evaporated. They were utterly alone in the Vortex; their only companion the indifferent winds of magic.
Malekith replied with a smile as clumps of his raven black hair were lost to the current. “All illusions will fall away.” The Crown of Domination crumbled to dust. “And then we will either die or be reborn. What other fate could there be?”
*
The great blue funnel that masqueraded as the Vortex grew suddenly calm, and then exploded outward to engulf the whole of the Isle of the Dead. The pulse was transmitted to every point of the great nexus of waystones the entire world over, heralding to all who had the power to hear the fall of Chaos. The pulse, anathema to daemons, wiped out the daemonic legion that had continued to fight during the fateful duel. Ulthuan had exhaled and dislodged from itself all agents of destruction.
And at last the isle began to recede into the between place it had occupied before the invasion, leaving behind only the sword Avanuir to testify to the last battle of the war, the battle that brought to an end the reign of the Dark Empire.
“Release me!” The daemon cried in its multi-tonal voice, screeching at the stubborn Dread King. Malekith had no reply; he was too occupied with the work of his sword. The Dread King gambled and retreated from that other battle, opening himself up for the daemon's deadly counter-attack. Even as he could feel the Lord of Change mustering the power to destroy him Malekith channeled his will into himself and his sword. In the end, he was faster on the draw. Avanuir plunged into the daemon's back, between its shifting wings, and shattered the beast's spine. A twist, and the daemon flesh that kept the great avian aloft was completely ruined. The beast cried in a thousand voices, all expressing anguish. Malekith braced himself on the daemon's useless wings as they plummeted to the rocks below.
Fortunately for the Dread King the Greater Daemon took the brunt of the fall, skipping off of one exposed rock before sliding into the smaller stones that formed the surface of the island. It was nearly torn apart, its blood shining like oil and pooling in the isle's cracks. Malekith crawled forward, picking his way along the beast's sinuous neck until the point of the deadly Avanuir hovered over its eye. The orb widened at the sight, the daemon's beak falling open in mute protest.
“You are a god!” Its discordant voices finally managed. “Why do you reject us, Brother? We are your heralds! We are your allies, your servants! A whole race calls your name, a world lies at your feet...Take your places with us in the heavens! IT is your birthright, the inheritor of Khaine, who sampled Chaos and forged his own way! Brother!”
Malekith did not reply, perhaps afraid that alone with the daemon his words might betray him. He drove Avanuir into the side of the daemon's head, but not deep enough to kill it. The Lord of Change screeched. “No! Brother!” Malekith gripped his sword and turned, forcing the daemon to look upon the Vortex that churned so close to them. It was no longer blue. That was a mask it work to mislead those who thought that they could claim it...at a distance. It had no color, it had no form, it was simple a place where the worlds intersected. Caledor's masterpiece was as elegant as it was simple, no raging pillar of magic but a point that respected neither time, space, nor the mortal powers. The Vortex was only visible because the door to that place had been pried open, forcing it to plant a foot in the material world. But, as stricken as it was, as damaged and bereaved as the war had made it, it still served its purpose. The Lord of Change's scream caught in its throat as it beheld the engine of its destruction. The daemon shook and began to unravel; its eldritch fibers torn apart by the awful pull of the Vortex. Terror flooded its eye because it saw, for the first time, its promised immortality denied. The daemon disintegrated, never to rise again, as the Vortex devoured every part of it.
Malekith staggered, now alone on the barren plain. Silence, but for the whipping of the agitated wind, descended upon him.
*
Alith Anar's final dance, the rapid and graceful segue between worlds and into the embrace of the Harlot, left him short of his final destination. The same silenced save for the whistling of the tortured wind through the twisted stones and crevasses at the heart of the Isle of the Dead joined him as well. The din of battle and the slavering cries of starved daemons were gone forever. The Everchosen craned his neck and beheld the inscrutable nexus of the worlds, but he didn't fear the Vortex as did the daemons. As he walked forward he understood why no great daemonic champion had ever risen to lead the hosts of Chaos since the time of Aenarion. Caledor's genius continued to astound the Everchosen who regarded his masterwork without even a crease in his face to betray his thoughts. Had the great mage overestimated his people? Did he reason that if the Vortex was anathema to daemons that the elves could keep the weak willed tides of the younger races at bay? Perhaps, Alith Anar reasoned, Caledor had underestimated the sins of Aenarion that would soon come back to haunt him. No, for all his genius and his power Caledor was not perfect.
The Everchosen was not alone. Caledor was already haunted by the outcome of that great battle, handed down through the ages. At first Alith Anar could only see them out of the corner of his eyes but soon the shades of the isle burst into full view. Ghostly figures, the colors all drained from their spectral forms, re-enacted the last battle to take place here. The full picture would never come into view, only snapshots of a violent past; when a captain distinguished himself in front of his men or a young elf's life was cut tragically short. The in between, the main body of the struggle, had failed to leave its mark on the isle's beleaguered fabric. The spirits had no regard for the terrain or the Everchosen among them. Alith Anar realized that there were no souls trapped here, they had long ago been absorbed by the Vortex that loomed over all things from the tiniest rocks to the massive arches that defied gravity. What played out around him was history itself, a pantomimed record of the world's most fateful moment. It was the memory of the mages trapped within, their dreams playing out on the physical landscape so that their minds could remain eternally occupied with their awesome task.
A shadow, not of light but from an otherworldly pressure, passed over the dried out plain. Alith Anar looked up to behold the greatest apparition he had yet seen. The massive dragon moved lazily through the sky, so slowly that it seemed to be a cloud rather than a beast. The Everchosen heard an echo of a cry in answer to the beast's roar, a call that spoke to souls uplifted by its very presence. What elf was left of Alith Anar drew in a breath, and he struggled to see the rider of the beast. The shade of Aenarion was brighter than any other and revealed in greater detail. It spoke to his greatness that he shone a beacon over his final battlefield, his image indelible thousands of years after it had been etched into the Isle of the Dead. But soon the image faded into a horizon brought all too close, and the routine agony and ecstasy of battle resumed. Alith Anar followed in the dragon's wake, passing over the same ground that had once been darkened by the shadow of Indraugnir.
The Everchosen continued to pass through the gallery of shades, convinced that if he followed Aenarion he would reach the invisible barrier of the Vortex and pass into the realm guarded by the ancient mages. They could no longer hide now that the rock beneath Alith Anar's feet had become solid. The isle was here, the Vortex was here, the mages could only wait. The ground began to rise in a gentle slope that crested in a flat ridge. It was the final climb that Alith Anar would have to face, and even the Everchosen could feel apprehension settling into his gut. His third eye could not perceive what awaited him at the top, no mortal had ever been there, and no daemon no matter how powerful could ever draw this close. When he reached the top of the ridge Alith Anar would be staring into the very heart of the Vortex, into the site where it had been born. He did not rush, he could not run; he could only draw closer at the pace he had set for himself years earlier: deliberate, but unstoppable.
Alith Anar drew in a breath when he crested the rise. The plain was empty, nothing more than a stretch of desolation dotted with the occasional rock outcropping. Something cold trickled down his spine and for the first time the Everchosen doubted his mission. He looked up, and the sky was utterly calm. Dark, but clear. Alith Anar was at the center of the isle, and nothing. He could hear Caledor's smug laughter ringing in his ears, and it made his fists clench. He almost didn't take the next step forward, but he had come too far to merely stand still. Something flickered in front of him, the same pale light that he had seen shining from the walking shades. The Everchosen continued forward and the mirage began to fall away until the figure was brought into full relief. An elf looked out across the same plain, his tattered cloak whipping in a long dead wind.
“Aenarion.” Alith Anar breathed. He looked down, as if expecting to see legendary footprints where he was about to tread. “Are you an image, or Caledor's last sentry?” He wondered, grip tightening around his sword. There was no reply. The silence endured, growing towards Alith Anar until he once again felt compelled to speak. “Do I walk in your footsteps, or in spite of them?” He continued to walk forward, slowly, cautiously. “What do you see? Turn; let me see your expression. This both is, and isn't, your work, isn't it?” Alith Anar looked up at the invisible Vortex. “I want to see your face, if you regard all this with satisfaction and are at peace, or if there is something bitter smoldering in your eyes. There is so much I would ask you, if you would but reply.” Of course, the luminous shade was silent. “How did it feel to fall short of revenge? You did, didn't you? After what they did, those who I now serve, to tear down your life...was there anything you believed could stop you? No, I suppose not.” Alith Anar answered his own question and stood at Aenarion's back. He could reach out and touch him if he wished, but the Everchosen declined. “And there was nothing that could. I bet that endless war suited you just fine, at least that part that hungered for revenge. But you were a king as well, a title that none since have been worthy to hold. It must have burned you, deep inside, to know that you could not complete your revenge. You had to look to Caledor to do what you could not. What were you in the end, Aenarion, but a half-measure who fought to ensure the greatest half-measure of them all? This Vortex...” He almost spat the words. “I will complete what you could not. I promise no half-measures.” The Everchosen of Chaos, who had risen from this island to claim the crown of the gods and visit revenge upon the whole of the world, found his steel. “Stand aside.”
“Alith Anar!” The voice, brimming full of command, echoed across the plain. Both the Everchosen and the shade of Aenarion turned at the call. Malekith, the Dread King, stood on the edge of the ridge that Alith Anar had abandoned. Another tone, a mere echo, trailed his words. The apparitions of four daemons, similar to but greater than the four inflicted on the elven defenders by Alith Anar, coalesced around him. The apparition of Aenarion raised his sword to answer their call, the ghostly blade of Khaine mere inches from Alith Anar's cheek. He stepped forward, through the Everchosen, just as the daemons surged towards him. And then, before they could meet, they faded away into nothing. That great duel was long over, a new one prepared to be joined.
“Deep down I had hoped you would come.” Alith Anar told the Dread King after a period of silence had prevailed between them. As he broke it Malekith started forward, his pace no more agitated than an evening stroll.
“Does it speak to the Everchosen's reluctance to carry out the task for which he was appointed?” Malekith asked. Avanuir was free at his side, the daemon's blood long since burned away.
“No.” Alith Anar replied. The tip of his sword soon hovered between himself and his adversary, daring him to come closer. Malekith didn't so much as blink t it. “As fitting an end being torn apart by daemons would be for you it lacks some elements of personal satisfaction.”
“Well, then, what are you waiting for, Alith Anar?”
“For you to come just that close.” Alith Anar replied. “U'zuhl.” The caged daemon leapt from the sword as little more than a skeletal figure composed of multi-colored strands of light. Its claws had all the deadly qualities of its true brothers, however, and Malekith knew it. It defied wind, gravity, and the Vortex itself to cross the distance to the Dread King, who held his ground.
Malekith raised his hand and caught the daemon in an effortless web of magic. “The same tricks again and again...why do you even bother with this mindless...” He trailed off as he saw Alith Anar rushing forward. A burst of speed from the shadows and the Everchosen was on top of the Dread King with only the spectral body of U'zuhl between them. The tip of his sword pierced the daemon in a strike that the Everchosen knew the Dread King could not block because of the daemon's grasping claws. Malekith started to fall back, to avoid the steel that was headed straight for his face. His reflexes saved him because Alith Anar could not adjust the strike. The Dread King escaped with only a deep groove in his left cheek where the lethal blade had just slipped past him. He felt the pain that was soon swept away by the warm curtain of blood that cascaded down to his chin. Soon droplets had fallen onto his purple robes, shaken loose by his stumbling feet. But the Dread King's eyes never left Alith Anar, who, shrouded by his own daemon, was grinning madly on the other side. Malekith's blood lingered on the edge of his sword. For its part in the plan the daemon writhed in agony on its master's blade. It began to collapse, wailing a pathetic cry as its defeated form was once again absorbed by the cold steel. Once he was satisfied that Alith Anar was not going to press his attack Malekith brought his free hand to the wound, and tainted his fingers and palm with the fresh blood. Still, he never let Alith Anar out of his sight. He would not be caught by surprise again.
“With his sacrifice Aenarion opened this age of the world.” Alith Anar began. “It is fitting that his sins will end it. We are the last sins of Aenarion, you and I. Each a product of his weakness and the darkness that had taken root in his heart. What are you but your father's son, the only thing we could expect from an elf who above all worshipped power and could only use it ineffectually. And what am I but the result of his lack of foresight, his disinterest in the justice that must prevail in a people if it is to endure? Aenarion had no sense of time, for him there was only the next battle; how convenient for him that when the war ended he passed on. Why do we celebrate such a man?”
“Do not judge him.” Malekith replied. “You judge only yourself with these words, Alith Anar. Even you realize the madness of your cause.”
“Since when have I said that I should be celebrated? Justice is a cold work. It was Aenarion's duty to see to the world he was building. That world became Malekith's world, and now it has reached its end. The one who comes after me will have the task of building a new world. It is mine to tear this one down.”
“Your greatest flaw is that you cannot forgive him the terrible choices he had to make.” The Dread King replied in an utterly calm tone.
Alith Anar sneered. “And I suppose you, by your example, will teach me this forgiveness? A forgiveness that lets tyrants who can't forgive even the slightest trespass rise from the ashes and resume their thrones?”
“No.” Malekith replied. “I will humble you.” The Dread King swept his sword in front him, channeling the winds of magic into a potent force that like the claws of U'zuhl threatened to tear apart its target. The barren rocks of the Vortex's plateau, rocks that had not been disturbed for thousands of years, were torn from the hard scrabble and cast towards the Everchosen. There was no point in saving any of himself for later, Malekith knew, everything would be left on the field of this battle. The last task appointed to him was to defeat Alith Anar, and after that? Well, he had earned whatever days lay before him. But the Everchosen could not be caged so easily. He slipped away from the attack, born between the fabric of worlds by the gifts of Chaos. There was a long starved hunger in his eyes once his armored feet touched the surface of the isle, a look that he had been saving for Malekith ever since he had left Ulthuan. It was perhaps more desperate, more tinged with madness than he had first intended; but Malekith saw immediately that the look fit. Now he beheld the true Alith Anar.
The Everchosen charged Malekith even as the failed spell collided with the invisible barrier that disguised the heart of the Vortex. There was no spectacular display to draw the attention of the combatants, the magic and the rocks simply blended into a churning force that carried them away as if returning them to the original fabric of the material world. What quiet remained after the battle was joined was shattered by the ringing of steel as Avanuir clashed with Alith Anar's sword. Malekith shrugged the blow aside and then brought his blade down on Alith Anar's head. The Everchosen was more than fast enough to block the potentially fatal strike but its force staggered him, forcing the Everchosen to bring up his free had to shore up his defense. He leapt back, and watched as Malekith moved deliberately to lash at him again. He blocked, but could now see what the Dread King was up to. The magic that had been at his command since he was a young elf was infused into his body and his blade, lending Malekith power beyond what his physical shell could provide. Released from the numbness of the Armor of Midnight the Dread King had recovered his combat prowess from his masterful sorcery. A perfect marriage of his two aspects. It led Alith Anar to smile.
If Malekith was the stronger Alith Anar outclassed him with speed. The Dread King's tactic was not intuitive and it forced his face into a contorted mask of concentration. The Everchosen had adapted to his gifts over countless battles, and once he adjusted to Malekith's power it seemed that the Dread King too would be added to the growing pile of corpses created by Alith Anar's wicked blade. Malekith tried to crush the Everchosen, wielding the fine blade of Avanuir as if it was a barbarian's club seeking the exposed temple of a norseman. Alith Anar stepped up and in, the tip of his blade pointed down at his offhand foot. Malekith's eyes widened as the Everchosen erased the distance between them but showed no other signs of alarm. He knew what was going to happen next, and that meant that he didn't need to worry about it. Alith Anar swept his blade up in a cruel arc that spilled Malekith's blood into the air, casting it onto the rocks. The wound ran from his hip to his shoulder in a deep, ragged line that soon burst forth with even more of his blood. The Dread King staggered and fell to one knee as Alith Anar turned his sword over his head and then dropped the hilt down to his hip. He was going to run Malekith through.
The Dread King exhaled slowly as he watched his doom approach. The wound set off something in him, a surge of excitement and warmth that accompanied the embrace of his own blood. Something inherited from his father awoke again inside of him, perhaps a fragment of the wandering god Khaine in one of his few remaining pure aspects. Malekith's magic joined seamlessly with his muscles and his bones and the pain went away. He had once suffered the unmitigated fires of Asuryan, there was no blade forged on this world that could cause him any more pain. And so for the second time since Alith Anar had set foot on Ulthuan Malekith grabbed his sword and diverted its motion harmlessly over his shoulder. The Dead King found a primal voice and let out a deep war cry that told Alith Anar he was not yet ready to die. Avanuir flashed once in the weak light before, married to the motion of Malekith pushing out of his crouch, it crashed against the Everchosen's armored shoulder. The black plates were crushed by the cleaving blade, but they saved the arm beneath them. From there the merciless blade of the Dread King swept down and if Alith Anar had not moved his leg he would have lost it.
As Malekith found his feet the Everchosen wrenched his blade free from Malekith's grip. Now the blood that appeared on it didn't seem so reassuring. Alith Anar took another step back and then set his stance because Malekith was fully risen and his sword, raised over his head, was hunting for the death blow. Alith Anar again blocked in time but his knees nearly buckled, and when he looked up he saw that Malekith was smiling. The only thing for Alith Anar to do once the Dread King's momentum was spent and his blade was shrugged off was to smile back. For the second time in the great war that had begun with the assassination of the Witch King Alith Anar had been wounded, and it only galvanized him to continue the fight. “I'm glad that it's you. I would have no one else here at the end.”
“You could never fool anyone.” Malekith replied, his smile tilting the tone of his words towards a leering harmony. “If you want your revenge, take it now.”
In the battle that followed the two champions found an equal match. Neither combatant placed any faith in the promise of a tomorrow, and so not even the careful Alith Anar paid too much attention to defense. The stakes in the battle were not just visions of the future, but the right to claim authority over the past. The two blades rang against one another, their clear sound replacing the war cries that two lesser combatants would be trading. The history spoke more than yells or taunts ever could, each had killed the other only to see their opponent rise again, each had stood astride the world. For a while, as each blade cut into its victim, spraying blood or shattering metal, it seemed that they were destined to fight to a standstill; each to collapse and die where he fell. They would each be brought down by the weight of ages and the demands of a lifetime of conflict, neither able to seize the destiny that each so fervently believed was theirs to grasp. But that was the reason the battle had to be fought, because they were not equal, their experiences set them apart, and the gifts they had received and the unrelenting nature of their wills did not guarantee the stalemate that would invite the laughter of the gods.
Malekith knew he had arrived at the limits of his power when an overhead blow could not find the speed to force Alith Anar to defend against it. The nimble Everchosen stepped inside the strike and drew his sword across the Dread King's side. The magic that coursed through him saved his life; it slowed the flow of blood, but for the first time it could not stop the pain. It touched him in the same place the horrific fires of Asuryan had, a primitive part of his mind that calculated that his life was in danger. Malekith did not cry out, but his recovery was slow. Alith Anar stepped in again, driving his knee into Malekith's leg and opening his stance. He caught the sword coming up to take his head and barely managed to parry with Avanuir in time. But he could not control the direction of the sword and it was soon returning towards him, its energy merely redirected. The strength of Malekith's sword arm nearly evaporated as Alith Anar cut into the junction of his shoulder and torso. The weight of Avanuir, that finely balanced sword, was suddenly far too much to handle. He was stumbling, and Alith Anar was coming. The excitement burned in the Everchosen's eyes and was echoed by the faint, hungry glow of the Eye of Sheerian. Confronted with his oncoming doom Malekith raised his good arm, as if to plea for Alith Anar to stop.
The Dread King did all he could do, and voided the magic that had sustained him during the duel. The wave of force threw Alith Anar off of his feet and back across the small battlefield. It was only in tracking the Everchosen's flight did Malekith realize how much of his own blood painted the rocks at their feet. Alith Anar landed heavily on his back, but the Dread King could not will his legs to take advantage of the opening. He merely straightened and felt the dull ache of his numerous wounds begin to seep towards his core. It was a paralyzing feeling similar to a profound numbness. Warm blood trickled down his sword arm, now flowing freely. The appearance of Alith Anar, his armor shattered and rivulets of his blood flowing down it from seeping wounds, was no comfort. Not even the patina of dust settling around him after his fall made him seem any less invincible. He almost dropped his sword but was able to will his fingers to maintain their grip. They complied, but with the heaviness that hinted at incredible damage stemming from the deep cut to his shoulder.
Without being bid Malekith's head rolled back, allowing air to escape from his lungs and chest to fall. He exhaled the thrill of the battle, and could find only weariness inside of him. He forced his half-lidded eyes to open, and the breath he was taking in caught in his throat. The sky around the Vortex had opened up, revealing a blood red canopy. Leering faces began to appear from the shifting mass, monstrous visages that jeered at the world below. Malekith realized that he was looking into the world beyond. The scar that Alith Anar had opened in order to gain the heights above the beach was only a glimpse of what awaited his victory, now the Dread King saw it with every veil removed. He had thought himself an expert on the field of daemons, and believed that the torment of the dark gods held no surprises for him. But even the former Witch King was taken aback at the horrific scene that unfolded above him.
It was truly depthless. The inverted pit went on forever, and its denizens were without end. The whole of the daemonic host turned out to get a glimpse of the fall of the elf who had once defied them, the son of the elf who they could never master. Claws reached across the expanse to try to claim him, hungry and impatient faces straining at the bonds forced upon them thousands of years ago. And behind them Malekith could feel the eyes of even greater beings upon him, beings with a patience to match the endless expanse but who were nevertheless ready to assume their thrones. Slowly Malekith turned his eyes away from the peek he had been given. His legs found the strength to move as his gaze landed on Alith Anar who had in turn found his feet. The Everchosen just watched his staggering steps, sucking in ragged breaths and convinced that the Dread King would topple over of his own accord if left alone. For just a few more moments Malekith felt himself lurch and barely caught his balance before he confirmed Alith Anar's suspicions. He stopped, wobbling as he tried to maintain himself upright. Malekith started to list forward, his shoulders drooping to allow his blood to drip directly onto the stones without his robes acting as a medium. He looked from side to side as if to confirm that the way forward was clear. The Dread King's brow knit as a particular rocky outcropping captured his attention. His focus was rewarded as a lioness, as radiant as the moon and trailing strands of bright, vibrant colors that flowed as if on a gentle breeze, stepped into the gap in the rocks and sat on her haunches as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Why do you insist on pursuing your destiny?” The familiar voice reverberated in Malekith's head. It was for him alone.
He could not find an answer. Had he not been prepared to die?
“You still believe that you can escape death. Would you fight if you knew that the Phoenix King has returned to us? That you have committed the same sins as Aenarion, not only his hubris but also his disregard for the future? Knowing this, could you forgive yourself abandoning him to the daemons, and do what must be done?”
Malekith's breath caught in his throat. It had all unraveled.
“You freeze. You have no resolve. You cling to your destiny as you clung to your life after the flames judged you. You should have perished then, but your pride sustained you. And plunged the world into darkness. What was it worth?”
The Dread King closed his eyes.
“Renounce your destiny.”
When Malekith opened them again he saw Alith Anar and he straightened. His breathing lost all signs of distress, even as he continued to bleed. The Everchosen hesitated upon seeing the Dread King stabilize. But after only a moment's consideration his eyes lit up and a grin split his face from ear to ear.
“I can see you!” Alith Anar declared with unrestrained glee. The Eye of Sheerian projected before him every possible move that Malekith could make, every scenario and tactic to which his remaining power could be applied. And, having seen the ghosts of the Dread King act out a thousand battles, the gifts of Chaos collapsed them all into one, and provided Alith Anar with the course of action that could not be defeated. The Everchosen of Chaos surged towards his last opponent before his labors could be complete, and from his hip drove his sword towards Malekith's chest. It was the killing stroke that had eluded both combatants throughout the duel; now waiting on the thrust of Alith Anar's blade. Malekith didn't even try to avoid it. It found his ribs just below his heart, and drive through his entire torso. At last, as the shock of the blow reverberated through the Dread King, his fingers relinquished their hold on Avanuir and let the sword tumble to the ground.
If Alith Anar saw what Malekith's next move was going to be he had no time to react. The Dread King's good arm lashed out and its fingers grabbed the Everchosen's shoulder. Once his elbow anchored he found the strength to move his injured arm and clapped his palm against the base of Alith Anar's armored ribs. With this hold established Malekith summoned what magic he could control and lifted his opponent off the ground. Then, he started walking forward again.
“No!” Alith Anar screamed as he thrashed in Malekith's arms. He tried to pull his sword free but his arm was pinned. His kicks could only draw blood from the Dread King's legs, not stop them from moving forward. Malekith couldn't even look into his face; he was instead concentrating on Alith Anar's chest, or rather looking through him to the destination he had to reach.
“No! Not like this!” Alith Anar screamed. He could feel the invisible barrier pulsing behind him, the barrier that he understood Malekith meant to cross. His free hand, marked by the glowing star of Chaos, reached out and found the Dread King's face. The gauntlet's armored fingers dug through his flesh down to the bone, drawing forth new springs of blood, as if there was much left. For his part Malekith welcomed the pain, it distracted from the weakness that was seeping into his legs. He had become a machine, his only purpose to hold, and to walk. Beyond that, there was nothing. Nothing but the next step. He could barely hear Alith Anar screaming he was so close to collapse.
They hit the edge of the Vortex and it shuddered all through them. It gave some resistance, but only for a moment before Malekith pushed through. Then it was all around them, the powerful currents of magic swirling over and between them, carrying them with a life of its own.
“He's cheating you again!” Alith Anar screamed to the invisible gods he knew were watching. “Can't you see that he's betraying you again? He can't be trusted! He will betray us all!” At this, as the currents captured both of them, Malekith began to laugh. He laughed at the screaming Everchosen, he laughed with relief now that he could rest. The currents intensified, and no longer respected the boundaries of their bodies. The spell was moving through them, permeating every aspect of their beings. The armor that Alith Anar had worn since assuming the mantle of Everchosen began to disintegrate, chips of the metal disappearing as black dust carried away by the currents. Both of the former combatants were calmed by the passages of the Vortex, and at last they found each other's faces. The Eye of Sheerian cracked silently, its magic poured out but its essence returned to the god who had bestowed it. The mark on Alith Anar's had went cold, and then lost definition altogether. But he saw that he was not alone; burns began to spread over Malekith's body. What had been restored, was being wasted again. What had been granted, was now lost.
“What will become of us?” Alith Anar asked his adversary. The ground disappeared, all points of reference evaporated. They were utterly alone in the Vortex; their only companion the indifferent winds of magic.
Malekith replied with a smile as clumps of his raven black hair were lost to the current. “All illusions will fall away.” The Crown of Domination crumbled to dust. “And then we will either die or be reborn. What other fate could there be?”
*
The great blue funnel that masqueraded as the Vortex grew suddenly calm, and then exploded outward to engulf the whole of the Isle of the Dead. The pulse was transmitted to every point of the great nexus of waystones the entire world over, heralding to all who had the power to hear the fall of Chaos. The pulse, anathema to daemons, wiped out the daemonic legion that had continued to fight during the fateful duel. Ulthuan had exhaled and dislodged from itself all agents of destruction.
And at last the isle began to recede into the between place it had occupied before the invasion, leaving behind only the sword Avanuir to testify to the last battle of the war, the battle that brought to an end the reign of the Dark Empire.
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Dudeman328
- Posts: 13
- Joined: Mon Dec 11, 2006 12:24 am
- Location: Preparing to march for war!
- Contact:
Re: The Sins of Aenarion [Final(ish) Campaign Fiction]
That was spectacular Vic! A very good final battle!
[img]http://img161.imageshack.us/img161/9144/b4kz0.gif[/img]
[img]http://tinyurl.com/yqsh2e/HotWFoR.jpg[/img]
Kharmoot, The Scorpion of Khemri
Head of the Nehek Foreign Relations committee!!
UiF Record - 315 Kills
24/5/6
HoTW Record - 287 Kills
30/3/10
[img]http://tinyurl.com/yqsh2e/HotWFoR.jpg[/img]
Kharmoot, The Scorpion of Khemri
Head of the Nehek Foreign Relations committee!!
UiF Record - 315 Kills
24/5/6
HoTW Record - 287 Kills
30/3/10
Re: The Sins of Aenarion [Final(ish) Campaign Fiction]
awesome...
[img]http://www.abload.de/img/afbeelding1b0f4.png[/img]
Nachri, Subcommander of the Vengeance of Vaul
11/15/8 (5 massacres), kills 227
Nachri, Subcommander of the Vengeance of Vaul
11/15/8 (5 massacres), kills 227
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Prince Eldarion
- Posts: 110
- Joined: Wed Mar 08, 2006 8:43 pm
- Location: Love it
Re: The Sins of Aenarion [Final(ish) Campaign Fiction]
Another epic piece of writing which has now been saved on the computer!
Great job Vic!
Great job Vic!
[i][b]LORD COMMANDER ELDARION - WOLVES OF ULTHUAN[/b][/i]
[img]http://i155.photobucket.com/albums/s292/Eldarion_album/medz-7.jpg[/img]
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Re: The Sins of Aenarion [Final(ish) Campaign Fiction]
great ending. but what happened to caledor at the end? there was some talk on our side that the worse we ravaged the place, the worse the fate of the territory. of course, someone could have just pulled that out of their ass...
Excited for TOW
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Gilead Lothian
- Posts: 32
- Joined: Tue Jun 08, 2004 2:51 am
- Location: Tor Anrok (Southern CA)
Re: The Sins of Aenarion [Final(ish) Campaign Fiction]
I am rendered without the necessary words to define how great that piece of fiction was. If I could be a tenth of the writer that you are, all my ambitions and goals will have been met sir. You are a phenomenal writer and this is the best I've seen of your skill so far. Don't ever stop.
[b]Lord Noradil Telrunya, Cult of Asuryan[/b]
[img]http://www.abload.de/img/bg7b4jp.gif[/img][[img]http://www.abload.de/img/cw69lwp.gif[/img][img]http://www.abload.de/img/p4ipaw.gif[/img][img]http://www.abload.de/img/arhav13f.gif[/img]
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Amun-Lothain
- Posts: 245
- Joined: Sun Dec 10, 2006 7:56 pm
- Location: The front lines...
Re: The Sins of Aenarion [Final(ish) Campaign Fiction]
I was hoping some campaign fiction would be here to welcome me back! A spectacular piece of writing Vic! As always, these campaign wrap-ups are well worth the wait. I may not have been here for all the campaigns, but speaking for myself, this seems like a fitting end to this war.
And I was grinning ear-to-ear as I read the beginning, it was an honour to see Setesh included.
I was at a loss for wrapping up ther Heralds fiction, but this has inspired me to get back to it.
And I was grinning ear-to-ear as I read the beginning, it was an honour to see Setesh included.
I was at a loss for wrapping up ther Heralds fiction, but this has inspired me to get back to it.[img]http://img90.imageshack.us/img90/1459/lvl1.jpg[/img]
Setesh Akhen-Isfet, Commander of the Heralds of Oblivion
Setesh Akhen-Isfet, Commander of the Heralds of Oblivion
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little brother
- Posts: 31
- Joined: Tue Feb 10, 2009 10:40 pm
- Location: In a happy place.
Re: The Sins of Aenarion [Final(ish) Campaign Fiction]
That was excellent.
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Obey Orders.
Fight Hard.
Die Well.
The Red Raider - Shadow Lord Valandil Eluch. The Crimson Herald 35/6/6. 499 Skulls
[img]http://img90.imageshack.us/img90/1459/lvl1.jpg[/img]
[img]http://img90.imageshack.us/img90/8072/lvl2.jpg[/img]
Obey Orders.
Fight Hard.
Die Well.
The Red Raider - Shadow Lord Valandil Eluch. The Crimson Herald 35/6/6. 499 Skulls
Re: The Sins of Aenarion [Final(ish) Campaign Fiction]
Well done sir, well written and highly enjoyable, Though I think it is safe to say that Setesh and his Heralds will some how manage to appear again. 
speaking of which shouldn't have we reached Lustria by now? Damn Felmane hand his pet bear Helmsman!
Looking forward to the next war
Bondzy
speaking of which shouldn't have we reached Lustria by now? Damn Felmane hand his pet bear Helmsman!
Looking forward to the next war
Bondzy
[b]Cadwaladr ap Cadwallon
Emissary of Oblivion[/b]
29/7/7
Elves skinned : 325
High Born Skins taken: Way Watcher, Khar, Prince Eldarion
Rivalry with Way Watcher : 5/1/0
Emissary of Oblivion[/b]
29/7/7
Elves skinned : 325
High Born Skins taken: Way Watcher, Khar, Prince Eldarion
Rivalry with Way Watcher : 5/1/0