Final Campaign Fiction ~ That Ruins the Reveal by Eldacar

[Voodoomaster]

This is the Final Campaign Fiction for Ulthuan In Flames, as you can see by its length its has taken a While, enjoy

Only a few short years. It had only been a few short years since the first sign of the Everchosen had appeared on the horizon, but in that time, Ulthuan had been submerged in an entire age’s worth of battle. Of fire, of blood. War, death, destruction. And they had been so woefully unprepared. The empire of Ulthuan, it had been called. A world-spanning civilization that had been under the rule of the Witch King from his black citadel in Anlec. They had been thrown back before, defeated in battle. Of that there was little doubt – their defeat in Elthin Arvan at the hands of the dwarf race stood as a testament to that. But now, they were no longer on the verge of defeat. They were on the verge of complete and utter extinction. Nothing short of total annihilation would satisfy the one who led the armies of the Four against Ulthuan.

Alith Anar, the Shadow King. Alith Anar, the Everchosen of Chaos.

*

“We’re almost there,” he said to the Everqueen as they crested the last rise. Before them was a long plain that gave way to the sea. They had crossed half the world, fighting against Ogres, Orcs, even Dwarfs as they followed Nairalindel in her quest to seek out the gods.

“I know,” she said with an affectionate smile, resting her hand on his shoulder. “But Kasiliath approaches from that same sea even now. We have little time left before his army arrives.” She pointed to the single obelisk, reaching into the sky like a dagger. “That is the key to everything.”

The two turned from their observation as they sensed another approaching - the Captain of the Phoenix Guard. As always, he did not speak, did not utter so much as a sound. He merely cocked his head slightly to one side, the unspoken question hanging in the air.

“Yes, Captain,” the Everqueen answered him. “This is our destination. We have but to reach the obelisk, and-”

“Nairalindel,” the elf said quietly, pointing to the seas, and the black points that were appearing on the horizon, just as the sun lowered below the horizon. “Kasiliath.”

Nairalindel sighed. “Perhaps, then, there is one last battle for us to fight,” she said. “And though I pray that it will be the last, it is one prayer that I know will go unanswered, whether we succeed or not.”

“Nairalindel?”

“This will be an ending,” she said quietly. “But it will also, Isha protect, be a beginning.”

*

The elf swept his sword around in another series of parries and deflections, his feet barely touching the grass as he all but danced through the circle, the blade weaving a dazzling arc, golden runes shining with inner fire.

He often trained in such a fashion, eliminating everything without so as to concentrate on what lay within. There he could face the joy of battle that coursed through his being when he led armies. There, he was alone. He was Auralion, of the line of Morelion.

Today, however, he did not train alone. Standing nearby were other elves – spectators, though he would have wished otherwise. He recognized some of them, loyal Asur from Elithis. Others were of the Druchii, the lost ones who knew little to nothing of Asuryan’s light. They had been gathering at times to observe him, the Asur to watch their general as he trained, and the Druchii… Auralion was unsure.

One of the Asur stepped up, followed shortly by two more. Auralion bowed in acceptance, moving to the middle of the circle. The three encircled him. It was an unspoken tradition, of sorts, one that the High Elf did not mind. It didn’t really interrupt his training, and helped ensure that they saw him as one of them, first and foremost, instead of some distant ruler who merely sent them to die. An elven life was far too precious for such wasteful antics.

The three slowly began to circle, blades held steady. These three were veterans of the war, hardened and tempered like the finest ithilmar, and it didn’t take long for the first two to move in, swords moving at almost impossible speeds. To many of the Asur, even the Swordmasters, they could have ended the fight then and there. A shame, then, that Auralion was no ordinary elf. Moving like quicksilver, he flowed away from the oncoming attackers, Sunfang reaching out to ever-so-lightly tap one of the three on the back of the neck. Unexpected though the move was, the Asur immediately dropped his weapon and went into a crouch. Terrain, for the rest of the duel. Whirling, Auralion was just in time to parry three well-aimed blows, and the sounds of clashing blades rang through the air. Lost in the dance of blades, he did not notice the light of Sunfang’s runes flicker slightly, as if something were drawing power from the weapon. As if magic itself was being drained away.

*

“It isn’t enough,” Athanai said, shaking his head. “See the lines of power here, and here. Not enough energy is being transferred through this stone to maintain the line – it seems to be drying up, and weakening the strength of our magic. Harmonised with the area, perhaps, but there isn’t as much energy present. If there was nothing at all, then there would simply be a hole.”

“You jump to a conclusion too readily, young one.” Belannaer’s tone sounded mildly reproving.

“I know what I see, Loremaster, and what I see is that the energy is being drained, somehow. Transferred elsewhere.”

“Go on.”

“Well, the network functions by the magical energy that is transferred along the lines of power,” Athanai said, knowing that Belannaer was already aware of the facts, but saying it anyway to help his own thought patterns. “If a… magic drain, perhaps, were to be erected on top of a particular nexus of energy, then power could be drawn away from that nexus, and potentially causing an effect like what we see here, as the drain taps into the network and removes energy from it. But there is so much. Anybody with access to that level of power would be, for all intents and purposes, one of the single most powerful beings imaginable, for as long as they were able to draw on that strength.”

A tremor shook the ground, and Belannaer glanced worriedly to the north-east, towards the Isle of the Dead. The Citadel of Ambarloce was strong, he knew, but the tremors were increasing in their intensity. Perhaps they were linked, he thought as he turned back to the problem that Athanai was attempting to explain.

“And you don’t know where the drain is coming from at this point,” he continued, prompting Athanai to keep going with his narrative.

“No, Loremaster. I only know that there is one.”

Belannaer nodded. “Return to the front lines, then, Athanai,” he said, waving a hand in dismissal. “I will inform the Phoenix King and High Loremaster Korhadris. We will see if there are any of us left to spare. I doubt it, though. The war seems to be increasing in scale and destruction even as we speak.”

“Is there…”

“Any news on the Isle of the Dead?” Belannaer shook his head. “No. These beings of light that have appeared – the original creators of the Vortex, as much as it staggers me – cannot be induced to respond to us. All our attempts at contacting them for assistance have been ignored.” His voice softened slightly as he looked towards the waystone. “I fear,” he continued, “that they need all their strength and power just to maintain what little remains of their work.”

Another tremor shook the ground, and his worried expression only deepened.

*

Imrik hurried through the caverns. He had been tending to one of the eldest when he had heard the call.

Not that he would have openly said as much, though. Many believed his claims of hearing just one dragon to be unrealistic at best, let alone a connection with all of them. Even those who had successfully awakened dragons in the past, when the great drakes had flown in defense of Ulthuan, had written of how long it had taken them to truly bond with their battle companions. For a mere acolyte to claim a connection with each and every dragon sleeping in the Hall was madness.

And yet he could hear. And feel.

*

In the dark hours before the dawn, the elves arrayed themselves for war. The silent Phoenix Guard, numbering less than a hundred, had donned their battle armour, and even now readied their halberds. The White Lions, former bodyguard of Caledor, waiting to one side, prepared to seek out and destroy their enemy, he who had doggedly pursued them throughout their entire long journey. Handmaidens readied themselves around Nairalindel, forming a protective shield around the Everqueen of Isha, who herself stood tall, the Star and Stave of Avelorn in clear sight, and the Shieldstone softly glowing. Yet as these elves, and others, underwent their own preparations, they could still see the disembarking soldiers of Malekith, soldiers who moved to encircle the obelisk. Kasiliath knew, the elf realized. He knew how important that stone was to them, and the Paladin of Khaine would never permit them access to it for as long as he lived.

“I tire of this,” Nairalindel said, and he turned to look at her. “War, death. For what? Because of the greed of one elf. One elf who would not be satisfied with what he had been given, and took more. One elf who plunged all of Ulthuan into a civil war that it will never truly recover from.”

“The curse of Aenarion.”

Nairalindel smiled, a sad smile. “Yes,” she murmured, placing one hand on his shoulder in a gesture of gratitude. “I thank you,” she said, and the Winds swirled around her for but a moment, reaching out to the other elves with them. “I thank all of you,” she told them. “For standing by me, even to the very end.”

The two sides began to advance towards each other. On one side, perhaps a hundred and fifty, two hundred ithilmar-clad elves, weary and tired from the long chase. On the other, Kasiliath and his finest warriors. How many were there? Three, four hundred? Five hundred? But no matter their numbers, if the followers of the Everqueen knew one thing, it was hope. They believed in Nairalindel, believed in the message she inspired. Asuryan, Isha, Vaul, Hoeth, all the elven gods. They were watching. They had to be, or all this would be for nothing.

*

“Withdraw the Ar’Sethui,” Thoronthol instructed, frowning at the battle lines scattered before him on the map. “If we can take the western gate to the city and hold it, then we can launch an assault from both the sea in the east and from our own forces here.”

“Prince,” one of the elves said hesitantly, “that would bring us into severe pitched battles throughout the city itself. While we do have regiments that train for such conflict, an ambush would be easy to stage. Our losses will be tremendous, particularly given that we need to capture the gates first to begin with.”

The High Prince of Yvresse frowned as he assessed the words of the general. Nowhere near as skilled as Fluorspar had been, the thought skittered across his consciousness. None of the Gemstone Generals had survived the war – of them all, he was the last survivor. Absently, he traced one finger across the long scar that now passed from above his left eye down around his nose before finally ending below the cheek. He himself had encountered his own share of ‘close’ encounters, and it was sheer luck that he yet lived at all, let alone continued to fight.

“Do our mages possess enough strength to at least collapse the gate?” he asked. “They seem to be an ever-more precious commodity, one that the king cannot spare from the efforts to maintain the power of the waystones, but we must surely have some present.”

“A few, highness. Mostly younger, less-experienced casters. As you yourself have touched on, many of the greatest sorceresses and Elithian mages seem to be concentrating their power on the various waystones scattered around Ulthuan.”

“Can they accomplish what I ask?”

“Perhaps. I will send them your inquiry. They claim that magic is reduced in some fashion, that the Winds are flowing somewhere and gathering.”

“I had heard,” Thoronthol grunted. “The north.”

*

The black citadel was closed, walled off from the world. To any observer with the gift of the magesight, however, it was a seething mass of awesome magical power, virulent storms tracing crackling energy across its surface, skittering sparks dancing from stone to stone. It was like a great whirlpool, the magic flowing from all corners of the world to be funneled into a mighty river that burrowed deep into the heart of Arkhamourath. Deep within, to a chamber that housed a great black shadow. Mystical chains bound his form, engraven with runic sigils that could hold the greatest of daemons captive, yet they were showing the sign of strain. The runes burned unnaturally bright in the pallid, oppressive air, as if there were a sense of a great weight pushing down upon any who entered.

The shadow allowed a feral laugh to echo forth throughout the hallways of the citadel, warped as they were by the twisting power of Chaos into the hellish sub-realm that greeted mortal eyes. Soon, he would escape the chains placed upon him by his ‘master’ – soon, he would escape the destiny that had been laid upon him. Soon, the key would belong to him, and then he would at last be complete. He would bring destruction to this world, bury it within the fires of the damned. He would cast down the idols of weakling spirits, false gods, and raise up images of the True God, the One God.

Yes. Soon, it promised itself. Soon.

*

Nagalath was restive, the Prince knew. She roamed the outskirts of the encampment, hissing spitefully at any who dared approach her. Like all of the riders, he shared an empathic link with the great Star Dragon, feeling the distress that she was under. It was disturbing his meditation. Irritably, he focused his attention onto that part of his mind that felt as the dragon did, subtly receiving the impression that she, too, focused on the part of her mind that was him. The exchange was, as always, brief, and intensely private. None who were not riders would understand, and even then, the Prince knew that they all shared different feelings, different minds.

Ruerl Khan looked back to the axe before him, falling back into his meditative trance. It came easily now, and soon, as the incense began to fill the tent, he felt himself murmuring the chant to Khaine. There would be much bloodshed upon the morrow, and he would ensure that he was ready.

*

The fog that rose to enshroud the plain was an unnatural one, brought on by careful and deft manipulation of the Winds of Magic. And so their final battle began, shrouded by that utter blackness, the pre-dawn light too weak to penetrate the thick mists covering the two remaining forces.

Sounds echoed strangely through the air as the two sides fought. The Phoenix Guard were perhaps the most unnerving of all, for although their weapons sounded out their metallic song as they clashed with the swords, shields and spears of their Druchii opponents, the Phoenix Guard themselves made no sound, no grunt of pain or cry of victory. Only a grim silence, for they already knew the outcome of this battle. They knew who would fall, and how it would happen, and despite that, they did not flee from their fate. They embraced it. As the elf watched, another of the Guard fell, blood spraying from the ragged remains of his throat, only to be avenged by his companion, who swung his halberd with such force that the broken body of the elf was hurled a full ten feet before collapsing to the grass.

Further to the right, beyond the few remaining elven warriors, the White Lions fought their own battle. Unlike the Phoenix Guard or the Handmaidens, who remained in formation, they had split into a more loose group, giving them the room and freedom to swing their monstrous axes with deadly force. To their minds, each slain Druchii was one step closer to a complete reckoning for the deaths of the Phoenix King Caledor and every fellow White Lion that they had lost in the journey here – and they had lost many.

Nairalindel spoke a word of power, and a bright burst of light exploded in the midst of an approaching knot of soldiers. As they fell apart, losing cohesion along with their eyesight, the Handmaidens delivered a volley of arrows that cut them down almost to an elf before the fog once more enclosed them.

“Something will happen,” Nairalindel said, breaking off her spellcasting for a moment, “when we reach the obelisk.”

“Do you know what?”

“No. Only that something will happen. And you will need to reach it, for I cannot.”

“Cannot?”

“Do as I ask,” she told him. “It will be the last order I ever give you. Carry it out.”

“Yes, Everqueen,” he said. Before the Handmaidens, the fog swirled and drifted back slightly, revealing the last obstacle that lay before them.

Kasiliath’s plan had been simple, but effective. He had to have known that above all else, the Everqueen wished to reach the obelisk, to use it for some purpose that he could not divine. And so he had allowed them to advance, encircling the Asur with his larger army while surrounding the obelisk itself with his personal guard. And it was these that the Handmaidens now faced, spears ready. Kasiliath hefted his own spear, a smile crossing his face at the prospect of what now lay before him – the end of the Everqueen.

“Remember,” Nairalindel said softly. And then she was moving, the Handmaidens moving with her as they raced across the ground to engage Kasiliath and his Paladins in battle.

*

The walls of Athel Tamarha were all but collapsed as Thoronthol led a regiment of elven warriors through the breach to match the latest onslaught from Chaos as the horde attempted to protect what they had claimed. Fighting alongside him was Ruerl Khan, the chant of Khaela Mensha Khaine resounding in his ears as he blocked, parried, and riposted. It was almost hypnotic, and he found himself unconsciously falling into step with his fellow Prince. Ruerl joined him in the dance, and together they wove death around them, as though they stood in the eye of the storm while above them Saraith and Nagalath, the great Star Dragons, wheeled and circled, mixing claw and fang with their deadly fire as they visited destruction upon the Chaos army.

They had been fighting since the dawn, several hours ago, and already the skies seemed stained red with blood. Of course, it was entirely possible that they actually were – ever since the Isle of the Dead had appeared, the entire world seemed to be falling apart. Another distant tremor shook the ground as they fought, but the two paid it no mind, the occurrences having become almost natural to them.

It seemed like ages, the continual onslaught of new bodies for the elven attackers to slay, and all the while lightning and fire resonated through the skies above them. Even the very elements themselves seemed to rise up at the command of the Sorceresses, dark bolts of raw fury draining energy from the land itself to lend strength to their assault. In one brief lull, Thoronthol glanced back to see one Sorceress complete her incantation, and the grass around her withered and died in a perfect circle. Yet the blast of dark energy still burst forth, exploding in the middle of a group of barbarians on the wall. Perhaps they might win the war, the High Prince thought to himself, but at what cost?

Then the next wave was on him, and he had no time to wonder. He only had time to fight, and keep up the pressure that they were placing on the breach in the walls.

The wave cleared momentarily, and Thoronthol looked for some sign of the end. All he could see was one of the accursed Anointed of Slaanesh, or so they called themselves. He had killed others before now, in fair combat, but he knew this one. Anarion. There was no reprieve in this fight. No request for a duel. Just the slash and hack of combat, that of two consummate warriors recognizing their glory… or perhaps their doom.

They met in the middle of the breach as the fighting swirled around them. The chant of Khaine that Ruerl kept up seemed like a distant buzzing in Thoronthol’s ears as he dueled with Anarion. The Anointed was fast. Faster than any other that he had yet faced in battle. Faster than he was, if the High Prince was entirely honest with himself. But what Anarion gained in speed, he lost in strategy, in skill.

The champion of Slaanesh came charging in at him once more. That was his style, Thoronthol thought to himself as he desperately began to give ground. He would overwhelm his opponent. There had to be some opening, something that could give, that he could strike through-

He dropped to the ground, sweeping his leg around and forward. His armoured boot smashed into Anarion’s greaves, and the champion went to one knee. Thoronthol was up. He had scant seconds to act, and employing the spinning trick that he himself had invented, his sword and dagger began whirling in a figure eight as he closed the few feet separating them without difficulty, before his sword rammed through Anarion’s throat. He saw a flash of silver at the bottom of his vision, perhaps a reflection from the armour of one of the fallen elves lying around him.

“Not a very original name,” he murmured to himself, then stopped, glancing down as a rush of dizziness overtook him. Where his sword was buried in Anarion’s throat, the Anointed’s blade was – or had been – buried in his stomach, and now blood flowed freely. His blood. Thoronthol felt blackness creeping up on him. He had moved in. In the rush and heat of the moment, Anarion had struck and withdrawn even as he lay bent on one knee. Fast enough that Thoronthol had never even noticed. The flash of silver.

“He was faster,” the High Prince of Yvresse murmured as the blackness overtook him and the last Gemstone fell away into darkness.

*

Ruerl chanted his battle cry as he formed up his phalanx of elven warriors. Thoronthol had perhaps fallen. Or perhaps not. He could not tell, in the fury of combat, only that he dueled another, in his preferred style. Alith Anar was throwing everything he had at this breach, to hurl them back. He would not – could not – let that happen, and so he moved forwards. It was like pushing against the tides themselves, but he would never surrender while there was breath left in him.

Somebody was singing. He looked for it, through the haze and smoke – another side effect of the magic being unleashed; there was so much smoke from the detonations that he could make no sense of anything more than twenty or thirty feet away. What he spied was yet another Chaos Champion – was there no end to them? – who seemed to be singing. He had heard of this one. Called “the Vicious” by his compatriots and by other elves. Steadying his voice, Ruerl began to press forwards again, and Valfrid almost laughed with glee at hearing another voice doing something besides grunting. Or screaming in pain. Or screaming in fear. Or releasing a death rattle.

“Another comes to hear the poetry of Valfrid the Vicious,” the champion laughed. He must be insane, the Prince decided. “My followers listen, and learn, and fight ever so stronger without being burned! Do yours, little elf prince of wars? I think not!”

“Khaela Mensha Khaine,” Ruerl murmured, casually decapitating a human barbarian and watching dispassionately as the blood fountained from the neck left behind.

“Such a silly chant,” Valfrid laughed, drawing his own weapon – a pulsing daemonblade, black steel glittering as faint green swirls drifted along its length – and holding it in one hand as he advanced. “Nothing like the true poetry and song of combat, but it is your rant!”

“Khaela Mensha Khaine,” Ruerl murmured, bringing his axe around. Valfrid blocked and jumped backwards, then charged back in.

“I’ve heard that axe has banished many from this island of yours,” he laughed, launching a flurry of blows that temporarily sent Ruerl into a backstep, breaking his motion. “Will it banish me to lost days of yore? When you axe-ually had one that worked?” Insanity shone in his eyes as he attacked, humming a ridiculous ditty under his breath in between howls of laughter.

“Khaela Mensha Khaine,” Ruerl said once more, feeling his focus tighten. The axe. Valfrid’s useless, jabbering mouth. Two become one. Unfortunately, the reverse was also true.

Even as Valfrid fell to the ground, eyes bright with shock, Ruerl’s body fell backwards to the ground. His head rolled off towards the left. And in the skies above the city, the great dragon Nagalath screamed in anger, pain and rage before charging towards the courtyard, eyes blind with hate as it unleashed a torrent of fire that burned elf, human and daemon alike.

*

Mentheus stood at the prow of the Dragonship, eyes cast to the west as he observed the smoke rising from the city, and the two Star Dragons circling through the air above it.

“And you say that Chaos is massing behind Thoronthol’s army,” he said.

“Yes,” Cyeos replied. Mentheus cast an irritable look in the direction of the Elithian. One of the most powerful ‘Loremasters’ of the Asur – or so he said – Cyeos might be, but working with him grated somewhat. The Cult of Asuryan had worked for millennia to try and find the gods, to regain their favour, and to know that all this time, there was an entire civilization of elves hiding on an island somewhere, protected by the favour of the very gods that the Cult had sought… Mentheus dismissed it for the moment, turning his gaze back to the city.

“Why do they not attack?” he asked.

Cyeos took a moment to answer, and another glance revealed that the Loremaster’s eyes were closed. Using some form of magical scrying, Mentheus assumed. Finally, the Asur opened his eyes, and pointed – away from the city.

“They do not seek to attack Thoronthol,” he explained. “What already attacks is enough to hold the elves here. They move on orders from another, it appears. They travel to the west.”

“This war is almost over,” Mentheus said. “It would make little sense for them to retreat towards the Inner Kingdoms if they have any hope of escaping.”

“They do not retreat,” Cyeos said, shaking his head. “It is an organized – even forced – march. They have a goal.”

“The Isle of the Dead,” Mentheus muttered.

“Yes,” Cyeos nodded. “If they can reach the Isle of the Dead, and defeat the armies Bel-Saarin and Auralion have there, then they might even be able to topple the Vortex once and for all.”

“Alith Anar will be leading them,” the Caledor Prince stated. It was not a question, but Cyeos nodded anyway. “Ensure that the Dread King or those near him know,” Mentheus instructed. “I don’t care how. Perhaps my king can bring an army to reinforce Saarin.”

“Bel-Saarin,” Cyeos corrected him mildly. “But I will do as you ask. Where do you go?”

“To seek allies,” the Prince replied. “Something that many have considered before now, yet were unable to accomplish. In these last days, there may yet be a chance. And as long as such a chance exists, I am honour-bound to attempt it.” Reaching deep into his mind, Mentheus sought out the connection to Nightfang, and soon, the dragon descended from the skies. Leaping easily across to the saddle, the Prince of Caledor motioned to Cyeos, who recited an incantation in the elven language of magic. The Star Lance appearing, transported from the armory belowdecks by the Loremaster’s magic, Mentheus grasped it and sent a mental instruction to Nightfang. The Star Dragon lifted itself into the skies with great beats of its wings, quickly rising high and far as Nightfang carried Mentheus of Caledor to the south-west.

Cyeos turned his eyes back to the distant battle, the faint sound of a dragon’s death cry echoing across the waves to where he stood. And yet another falls to defend this isle, he thought to himself.
*

He fell, shock flooding his mind as he registered the spear in his stomach. Kasiliath withdrew it and nodded for a moment, before moving off to slay a Handmaiden who moved to engage him – the leader of the Handmaidens, it might have been. Asuryan, it hurt. But even that was forgotten as he saw the Everqueen. She lay on the ground, still and unmoving. Her hair, once golden, was spattered with mud, and she bled from both a gash in her skull and a deep wound in her side, lifeblood pouring over the grass. All he could manage was a crawl as he struggled to her side. Her breathing was shallow, and he found himself cursing what had brought them here. All their struggles, their losses, and it would end here. Nairalindel’s eyes were closed, and he knew that she did not have much time left – only minutes remained, if that.

The elf’s eyes drifted to the obelisk, standing tall close by the two of them. Soon to be one, he thought bitterly. But Nairalindel was the Everqueen, and she had given him a command. The first rays of dawn were beginning to lighten the sky as he began to crawl. He felt himself growing cold, black spots swimming across his vision as he tried to move as fast as he could. All around him in the fog he could hear the sounds of conflict, of elves dying. He couldn’t tell who, but if he guessed correctly, Kasiliath had all but destroyed them.

He had reached the steps leading up to the platform that the obelisk rested on, grimly dragging himself up as he went. He felt a tremor echo through the Winds, a sign that the last High Mage among them was dead. He was halfway to the top when, finally, he could go no further. And then it came.

CONTINUE.

“Who,” he mumbled softly, blood flecking his lips.

NO TIME. CONTINUE.

“Why?”

NECESSARY.

Reaching deep within him for strength that he knew was gone, but drew upon anyway, he continued his climb.

*

Caledor was still a scene of conflict, of violent war and death. As Nightfang spiraled down out of the sky towards the courtyard of the citadel housing the Halls of the World Dragon, Mentheus glanced towards the direction of the Citadel of Ambarloce, where some of the most recent fighting had taken place. He could almost imagine that he could make out the glint of bronze on one particular invading army, one that called itself the Bronze Horde. Still, the Dread King's legions, he knew, had departed from Anlec, and even now marched for the Isle of the Dead to defend it against the horde from the eastern side of Ulthuan. Perhaps they would outrace Alith Anar’s forces.

As he dismounted Nightfang, Mentheus glanced in the direction of the great double doors, leading to the shrine before descending into the depths of the mountain range. Hurrying towards him was an elf he knew well – Imrik.

Truth be told, he had always been somewhat uncertain around the young Caledorian, although they were both members of the Cult of Asuryan – Imrik was another part of the same cell to which Mentheus himself belonged. Though he was yet young, only a distant relative of Mentheus' family at best and a commoner besides, Imrik shared some strange bond with the dragons beneath the mountains, a bond that, the youngling claimed, allowed him to share in the dreams of the great dragons themselves. Ridiculous, most of the elder highborn of the realm had scoffed. If the mightiest Dragon Princes could no longer rouse the dragons from their long sleep, there was little chance of one little more than a boy being able to communicate with them.

“Prince Mentheus,” Imrik said, bowing deeply. “Lord Asarnil awaits you – though he requests that you explain why you issued such a peremptory summons to him.”

Mentheus stopped walking towards the entrance, glancing across to the elf in his red robes, emblazoned with the symbol of a blue and gold flame. “Peremptory summons?” he asked, his voice calm but with a faint undertone of anger to it. “Asarnil has designs on becoming High Prince of Caledor. But they are designs. He does not have the authority to deny my request. I have been flying for hours, Imrik, and am in no mood for games. Speak.”

“I have been having the dreams again,” Imrik said hesitantly. “I walk through the Halls and tend to the dragons, and I can hear them, at the edge of my mind. Even the most ancient of them are beginning to stir. Their sleep grows lighter, their dreams fading as they draw closer to consciousness. Prince Mentheus, I both hope and fear for what it could portend.”

“Hope... and fear?”

Imrik nodded. “I hope that once more, the dragons will rise, and all the lords of Caledor will ride into battle once more on the backs of dragons, as it was in the elder times. And I fear that if we do – when we do – it will be our last ride.”

Mentheus resumed walking towards the entrance. “Keep those feelings in mind, Imrik,” he finally said. “And be ready.”

Opening the doors, Mentheus was confronted with the great room that was the shrine. The ceiling towered far above their heads, a great open roof through which one could see the skies. In the middle of the vast room was a pit that led, the Prince knew, down to the largest of the great caverns that honeycombed the range, and where many of the dragons chose to sleep. But for once, he did not stop to admire the grandeur of the place, instead focusing his attention on Asarnil. The self-styled Dragon Lord was pacing back and forth, clearly impatient. As Mentheus strode towards him, he turned and allowed a faint smile – more of a smirk or a sneer, really – to cross his face.

“Mentheus,” he said bluntly. “It is past time.”

“Asarnil,” the Prince replied.

“Prince Asarnil,” the other corrected him.

“Prince Mentheus,” he corrected in turn.

They stood there for a moment, staring into each other's eyes, neither willing to back down from their position. Imrik hovered behind Mentheus, uncertain and clearly expecting something to happen. The seconds ticked by, dragging on into minutes, before Asarnil finally gave a stiff nod. “What is it you want?” he asked. “I dislike being drawn away from the front lines of this war.”

“I am here to request aid of the dragons,” Mentheus said simply.

Asarnil looked at him as though he were insane. “You have tried before,” he said. “I have tried before. All the Dragon Princes have tried before. Highborn nobles from all across Ulthuan have tried before. Even those Elithian Princes were given the chance when they first arrived. The Dread King himself made the attempt. None have succeeded. All that any of them have done has been to wake perhaps a single dragon, often not even that. What in all the world could possibly convince you to try again? Tradition dictates that there be one attempt from a single elf, and one only.”

“I know. I will not break such a tradition.”

Asarnil snorted. “Perhaps the war truly has addled your mind,” he said derisively. “You have tried before, Prince Mentheus, and failed.”

“I will not be the one to make the attempt.”

“No? Then who will?”

Mentheus pointed at Imrik, who kept his diffident posture behind the Prince. “Imrik will,” he said.

Asarnil's eyes were like hard-forged ithilmar. “It cannot be done,” he declared. “A commoner is not a Dragon Prince. Many nobles are not, though the Dread King decreed that the rules were to be... bent... to allow it.”

“When was it a requirement that one be noble to be capable of waking the dragons?” Mentheus challenged. “They bleed the same blood that we do.”

“Commoners do not have the hereditary connection to the great dragons that characterises a Dragon Prince,” Asarnil said, almost as if he was repeating words learned by rote memorisation. “You know this as well as I. It cannot be done.”

“Then why not allow an attempt to be made, if it is so certain to fail?”

“Because it will fail!” Asarnil all but shouted at him. “That stripling will never awaken the dragons of Caledor!”

“He shares a bond with them that I have not seen in all my life, Prince Asarnil,” Mentheus said sharply. “It may be that he will succeed in awakening them where the Dragon Princes cannot.”

“You are mistaken,” Asarnil said icily. “But, out of respect to your family, Prince Mentheus, I will transmit your request to the other Dragon Princes and to the Dread King. It is they who will determine if you are truly as insane as you sound, or are to be given the chance to prove your faith in the boy.”

As Asarnil stalked out of the great chamber, Mentheus turned to Imrik, who looked at him with mingled shock, awe, and fear. “What is it?” he asked the acolyte.

“Prince,” Imrik said slowly, carefully, “I admire your faith in me, but awaken the dragons? Me? I fear that Lord Asarnil is correct. I am no Dragon Prince.”

Mentheus smiled softly. “Somebody once told me that not all is as it seems in this world,” he replied, “nor is all as it should be. Set aside your fear, Imrik. And help me bring the dragons back to a world sorely in need of their strength.”

*

They were divided. On the one side stood Kaas, surrounded by lesser champions and sorcerers. On the other was Setesh Akhen-Isfet, and his own loyal followers, those who remained true to the Everchosen. In his mind, anyway.

In retrospect, the split had been almost inevitable. Alith Anar had grown more and more obsessed as the days had passed, spending long periods of time alone and away from his armies, brooding over the reappearance of Malekith. And in his absence, infighting had begun to occur, for without his overpowering will to guide them, the Chaos horde that had crossed the seas to strike at Ulthuan was falling apart. In the end, they had been polarized into two camps – Setesh, who remained loyal to Alith Anar and his goals, and Kaas, who sought… it was uncertain. He had vanished one night, and then returned the next, filled with new strength and purpose. And though the runes on his armour blazed brightly at all times, he seemed unaffected by them, as if they had become little more than an inconvenience to him, if that.

“You would seek to continue the plan laid down by the Everchosen,” Kaas said softly to Setesh. “That we are to throw away our lives assaulting the Isle of the Dead, when we could instead harness its power in a… different way.”

“Alith Anar is the Chosen of the Four,” Setesh replied coldly. “What you say is madness, for he speaks with their voice. To deny the Chosen of the Four is to deny the Four themselves!”

“Madness?” Kaas’ voice was soft. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it is merely a… perspective. The Fallen One remains chained. Free his bindings, the bindings placed upon him by the Everchosen, and we would have uncounted hordes to draw upon. You can feel the strength of the magic in the air. Think of what could be done with it!”

“I remain loyal to the Everchosen,” Setesh said simply. “If you would betray him, then you betray the Four. And to forsake the Four is to forsake yourself. You struck out against the Everchosen once before, and were punished for it. That you still live is a mercy that was granted you, and yet you spit on it, seek once more to take that which is not yours.” Setesh turned to face a shadowed figure, swathed in a black cowl and robe. “Zaman?” he asked.

The figure stepped forward, leading Kaas to take an involuntary step back. Though the form of the creature was humanoid, within the cowl burned two points of ever-shifting colour. Whatever it was that existed beneath the robe, it was not human. Or elf. An empty sleeve lifted, and a hand of shadow seemed to form from nothingness.

“No,” Kaas whispered. But it was not enough to stay the hand of the executioner, and the violet fire poured forth to consume him utterly. The runes upon his armour flared brightly once more, and then he was gone, leaving only a blackened scorch mark on the ground to signify that he had once stood there.

Setesh smiled, a twisted, dark smile. “Prepare yourselves,” he instructed. “The Everchosen has given his command, and so shall it be. He cannot fail.” But even as he said the words, a seed of doubt knotted in his stomach. Alith Anar had fought these two elven kings before, and the result, though not a defeat, had not truly been a victory either. What if Kaas was right?

No. He dismissed it from his thoughts. Alith Anar was the Everchosen. Kaas had to be wrong. Didn’t he?

*

The being within Arkhamourath smiled, if a creature of shadow and darkness could smile, lacking a mouth as it did. The mystical runes upon its chains were darkened, the chains themselves vanished. It had done it. It was free. Power flooded through its form, all the power of the world itself. No more did the waystone nexus function. All that power now flowed into the shadow being, a continuing flow into and through. So this, then, was power. The strength of the Winds of Magic, the raw essence of Chaos, was his to command.

And it was free of its curse. Free of destiny, free of the Plan, free of everything. It tilted its head back and laughed, a laugh of victory. A laugh of death, first for those who would seek to deny it, and second for the last obstacle to its final triumph, the one who could no longer resist its power. Even as it sent an extension of itself – so easy, it marveled, with such power – to follow the crowned one, its mind quested outwards, seeking knowledge of where it would unleash itself in such a fashion as had not been seen in even the dark birth of Arkhamourath itself.

The Dark Master was free.

*

The Witch Queen trailed her hand through the blackened water of her scrying bowl. Stained with blood and ichor, she felt a shudder run through her body at the mingled pleasure and pain of the contact.

I am here, it seemed to say. Speak.

“I command you, N'Kari,” Morathi said in tones of rising power, her voice carrying the full weight of her magic behind it. “Yield to me in the name of the Dark Prince.”

Almost immediately, she was plunged into a struggle for dominance as the Greater Daemon struggled against her will. It happened each and every time – no daemon would willingly be shackled by what they thought to be a lesser power, and so it was only strength that they respected. And she was one of the pre-eminent magic wielders of all the known world. She would triumph. The silver mask that emulated her features twisted into a snarl as she relentlessly battered away at the defenses of the daemon, calling upon the strength of the bindings she had originally created, and the bindings that had been added since then.

She felt her vitality beginning to slip away, her life force being consumed in order to maintain the flow of power between her and N'Kari. The Witch Queen accepted the loss gladly. Her beauty would remain regardless. Such were the gifts that had been bestowed upon her by the Dark Prince, in whose favour she stood high, above all save the Everchosen himself. There was a scrabbling feeling as she tapped deeper into the flows, could feel them as she pushed further and further into the depths of the Winds of Magic. Black magic flowed into her and through her. Some claimed that this magic was dangerous, corrupting. Since his return, she had not sensed her son attempt to draw on it, instead relying on lesser magics, a single flow at a time. She laughed at their cowardice, and his foolishness. It would not corrupt she who had mastered it by force of will. Clearly, her 'son' lacked such a will.

The magic was puzzling, too, in more recent days. It was as though there was less of it. She had felt the ripples of disturbance, the changes and wild, unpredictable surges. Many had. But that did not explain the lessening that she felt each time she drew deeply, the sense that there was simply less power available to her. Still, though, more than enough for this task.

I am spent, N'Kari replied. Speak your command.

“You are to slay the Phoenix King,” Morathi instructed.

The bowl seemed to tremble – ripples cascaded along its surface. It cannot be done, N'Kari replied. He is yet protected by the Flame and Destiny.

“His magical advisor, then,” she said. Many of her troubles would likely end if that one were to be removed.

No. This time, there was a definite undercurrent of fear. He is beyond me. Beyond you.

The hands of the Witch Queen clenched into fists. Why was it, she wondered, that she was surrounded by incompetent fools? “Then,” she said coldly, biting off each word as she spoke it, “you will destroy the dragons. All of them. Leave none the chance to survive.” Her mouth – metal and flesh – twisted into the beginnings of laughter. “My agent will advise you. You are to obey his commands as if he were me. Can you do that?”

There was silence. Then a sense of acquiescence, and N'Kari was gone. Morathi stood, striding over to the thin, sideless purple robe and cloak she had taken to wearing. Her hands traced the symbol of Slaanesh inlaid into it in golden thread. She fingered it for a moment. The sound of the door opening, however, startled her so much that with a shriek of rage, she hurled a bolt of black, crawling energy that burned the slave to ashes in less than a heartbeat. Breathing heavily, she watched the ash drifting through the air, then gathered her composure. Her hand reached up almost of its own accord to brush across the metal of her face. Burned, it had been. Ravaged. And even as the strands of fate came loose, as destiny itself unraveled, an old, forgotten god still had the gall to protect the one who bore its mark from her!

Forgetting all composure, she donned her robe and stalked out. There were new prisoners, new slaves. Perhaps their deaths could placate her for a time. And if not, she could always obtain more.

*

Tears ran down his face as the pain flooded his body. There was little of him remaining, and even now, forcing his mind to remain on the task at hand took so much strength from him. Strength he didn’t have. Yet he continued his push, reaching out towards the surface of the obelisk. Dawn had become ever brighter in the sky, and he knew that the sun was on the verge of rising.

Blinding pain raced down his spine again, however, as he felt the spear bite deep into his back. Kasiliath laughed softly, withdrawing the weapon and leaving yet another gaping wound.

“You live yet?” he asked. “Your perseverance is admirable, I must admit. But look around you, little mage. Your Everqueen is dead. Barely a handful of your people remain. Why did you come here? What would lead you to this place, this… obelisk? It makes little sense, if any at all.” Kasiliath turned to look at the fog-shrouded battlefield. “You have lost,” he said, and strode away, towards his followers.

The elf ignored his departure, instead reaching once more for the obelisk. Fingers wet with his blood, he began tracing something upon it. A rune. With each stroke, with each trembling line, he felt something begin to grow, building in force and power. Kasiliath turned, frowning, as he too sensed it. His eyes widened.

“No,” he whispered softly. But it was too late. The rune Asur, traced in blood, was upon the pillar. Already it shone with white fire. “No!” Kasiliath screamed as he began racing back towards the obelisk. But it was too late. The first rays of dawn broke across the horizon as the dazzling light from the obelisk shattered the fog that had been lying thickly on the killing field, a pillar of light racing upwards into the sky like a giant signal. And with the dawn, in answer to that signal, came the ships.

They raced across the water as if on wings, heralded by swooping Griffons. The ships beached themselves with consummate ease, and even as Kasiliath rallied his depleted forces to meet this new threat, they emerged. Clad in silver armour, wielding spears, shields and bows with deadly proficiency, these white-clad elves moved in perfect formation, quickly advancing towards the pillar and Kasiliath’s depleted army. Leading the elves was a figure clad in gold, his shield emblazoned with a golden dragon and his sword shining with magical fire. The elves cut into Kasiliath’s ranks like a scythe to wheat, led by the tall golden warrior as he cut a swathe even more impressive. Even the battle-hardened Paladins of Khaine were no match for him, and in short order, he stood before Kasiliath.

There was no exchange of words or pleasantries between enemies. Only a flurry of blows as spear, shield and sword all twined together. And then it was over. The body of one of Malekith’s finest fell to the ground before the victor, while his head flew through the air, bouncing down the steps. The golden warrior moved with quick steps past the obelisk towards where the Everqueen lay upon the ground.

“Was I too late?” he whispered. “Have I failed?”

“No,” a voice echoed from behind him. Turning, the golden warrior first registered, oddly enough, that the obelisk was darkened. There had been power within it, he knew – it was a nexus, part of the great network constructed by the Dragontamer. But all that power was gone. The one who had spoken, a grey-clad elf, stepped up next to him, kneeling to brush back strands of hair from the face of Nairalindel. “You did not fail, Ancelion of the line of Morelion,” he said softly. “This was a necessary part of what will come.” Closing his eyes, he placed one hand on her head and another on her stomach. To Ancelion’s eyes, the Winds blurred and grew in their intensity, swirling around this newcomer with unfathomable strength as he directed the flow inward. Before Ancelion’s eyes, the wounds closed, and her breathing became deeper, more regular. It only took moments.

“She dreams,” the elf said. “Until the coming of the Phoenix King, the Everqueen will sleep.” He frowned then, looking to the east. “There are things I must do,” he said. “Even now, I can feel them calling me. Listen to me, Ancelion. Take the Everqueen to Elithis. Place her body within the Flame of Asuryan. It will preserve her until the Phoenix King arrives.”

“Who are you?” Ancelion asked.

The elf frowned, as if he were trying to think of an answer, and finally shrugged. “I have no name,” he replied.

[Voodoomaster]

They walked through the Halls of the World Dragon, stopping at times beside the great form of a sleeping dragon. All colours were represented here, from the reds and blacks to the comparatively rare gold and silver sheen. All ages, too – the young dragons slept alongside their older brethren, and even the vast bulk of Emperor Dragons, greatest of their race, could be seen in some of the larger caverns. Mentheus and Imrik walked side by side through them, as they had done for three days now while they waited for word to arrive from the council and the Dread King about his plan. Every so often, Mentheus would stop and point to a dragon, at which point Imrik would recite all that he knew of it, from names and ages to their entire histories. Each of the sleeping beasts had more than a story behind it – they had an entire saga.

“Why are we doing this?” Imrik asked at one point, as they passed a slumbering red.

“Why am I asking you the questions I am?” Mentheus considered his answer for a moment. “Because if you are to awaken the dragons, then you will need to know each and every one of them. You will need to connect to them on a very distinct and personal level, deep within their dreams and slumber, in order to draw them out of it. You have read of the connection the riders alive today share with their companions, do you not?”

“Only stories,” Imrik admitted.

“We are connected with those we awaken on a deep level, Imrik,” Mentheus explained. “Take me, for example. There is a part of my mind that is so synonymous with Nightfang that, for all intents and purposes, there is no difference between he or I. That part of my mind is his, and such a connection is echoed in his own thoughts – a part of his mind is mine. There is a bond between us, an empathic connection.” The Prince pointed directly upwards. “I can tell you exactly where he is. I can communicate with him, if I set my mind to it, in thoughts, feelings, emotions, ideas. I share his pain, and he mine. And with such a connection, a... oneness... neither of us is ever truly alone.”

“I don't understand,” Imrik confessed, spreading his hands. “You are trying to have me create such a bond with each and every dragon?”

“No,” Mentheus shook his head. “I merely want you to feel them. Feel the strength that exists within each of their minds, their bodies.”

Imrik hesitated, then sighed. “I am not best suited for this,” he said quietly. “There are others who would be a better choice. Caelith Fireheart, perhaps. Or-”

Mentheus waved a hand, cutting Imrik off mid-sentence. “There is no better choice, Imrik,” he said. “You are the one who must be ready. And then, when the time is right, you will give voice to the songs of awakening, and rouse them from their slumber. And we will lead them into battle once more.”

“The last ride?” Imrik asked softly.

“It will not come to that.”

“But if it does?”

“Then we will die as we have lived,” Mentheus said grimly. “Fighting to the last breath as true sons of Ulthuan, no matter what gods watch over us.”

“I had a slightly different version of that last part in mind,” Imrik murmured.

Their converse was interrupted, then, by the sound of an approaching elf, clad in similar robes to Imrik. “Prince Mentheus,” he said, bowing deeply. “The Dragon Princes and the Dread King have given you permission to proceed with your plan. But you have two weeks. If it cannot be accomplished by then, all the hordes of Chaos will descend upon the Isle of the Dead, and it will be too late for anything.”

The Dragon Prince nodded. It was more than he had expected, truth be told. “Very well,” he said, dismissing the acolyte and turning back to Imrik. “You heard,” he said. “You have two weeks to learn all that must be learned, if we are to accomplish this. I will ask you, just this once: are you willing to do this? To wake the dragons, and lead them to war?”

Imrik paused for a long moment, seemingly lost in thought. Then he nodded. “I am.”

*

“Phoenix King!”

Bel-Saarin turned away from the maps he had been studying to see Korhadris entering the tent and hurrying towards him. “Yes?” he asked. “What is it?”

“There has been a message from Cyeos,” the High Loremaster explained. “The Chaos horde around Athel Tamarha has departed, leaving those within to die. Princes Thoronthol and Ruerl are dead, by all reports, and possibly many more. As far as he can tell from what he has seen, the horde has begun to move towards a final assault upon the Isle of the Dead, he believes on the orders of the Everchosen. Some days have been spent gathering their forces in preparation for the pursuit.”

“It would make sense,” the Phoenix King nodded, suppressing a twinge of pain at the deaths of the two Princes. He had known them as well as could be considered in these times, and he would miss them. “Alith Anar knows that the Isle is the key to everything. He needs to destroy it in order to truly bring down the Vortex.” A tremor shook the ground under their feet as he spoke. “Has Malekith been informed of this?”

“Yes,” Korhadris replied. “He brings an army to help reinforce the Isle even now.”

“What armies do we have that are close enough to aid us?” Bel-Saarin asked the generals surrounding him. It was Jyrus Yenlukhaesrath who replied.

“Precious few. The Wolves of Ulthuan and I believe the Flame in the South are at the Tower of Qualme'lenya, and they are the closest. The Wrath of Nagarythe is still present on the Isle of the Dead itself, but much of our forces are battling in Caledor to hold Chaos back from the Halls of the World Dragon, and around both Athel Tamarha and Tor Urithair. Perhaps with what we have, it would be wise to ensure that we hold our position on the shores of the Inner Sea. Alith Anar may be many things, but I doubt that he can have his entire army swim to the Isle of the Dead.”

“True,” Bel-Saarin agreed. “Nevertheless, we will need to make preparations in the event that we are forced to withdraw to the Isle itself, as a last line of defense.”

“The Druchii will not fail,” Jyrus said harshly. “The Asur should have learned that by now.”

“The Dwarf people would disagree with that,” one general intruded. “As would the histories of Sarthailor and their generals – Prince Elileth, perhaps, or Korian L'Enodel. Or the greatest of their leaders, Prince Anrol. Or-”

“Enough,” Bel-Saarin said, cutting off the Elithian. “Prince Jyrus,” he began.

“High Prince,” the other corrected him. “By decree of the Dread King.”

“Very well, High Prince,” the Phoenix King agreed. “We make these preparations in the event that we are overrun. It has happened before in this war – in many wars – and could well happen again. So we must be ready in case it does. Is that an acceptable course of action?”

Jyrus frowned, then nodded. “It is,” he said. “As long as you remember that it is the people of Ulthuan who will be holding back the tide, not the Elithians.”

“I remember,” Bel-Saarin said quietly. “I was once one of you.”

“Yes,” Jyrus said softly. “Once, you were. Now... who knows?” He raised his voice then, allowing it to carry elsewhere in the tent. “Who is leading the Elithian army on the Isle, then?”

“Prince Auralion will command it,” Bel-Saarin said. “As the last line of defense before the Vortex itself.”

There was a quiet shuffling throughout the gathered generals, as many Dark Elves looked at each other before finally allowing their attention to be drawn back towards Bel-Saarin, and the silent, gold-armoured form who had stepped forward from the ranks of the Asur to stand beside his king. Many of the Druchii had yet to accept the fact, even after many had seen what he was capable of, that Auralion truly was descended from Morelion, and through him, Aenarion the Defender. The politics of Ulthuan being what they were, Bel-Saarin could empathise with them, after a fashion. As a member of Aenarion's line, Auralion was technically either of royal blood, as a descendant of Aenarion like Malekith, or a bastard child, particularly among those who still had sympathies towards the Witch Queen, Morathi. It was Prince Andruillius who spoke up.

“Would not Prince Auralion's... skills... be better used on the mainland, where he could potentially stall the Chaos advance before it could even reach the Isle?” he asked. “There are reports that the advance is led by one Setesh Akhen-Isfet, and both he and his legion have gained a certain measure of notoriety for their actions in this war.”

Bel-Saarin glanced at the tall warrior beside him, and nodded. “My skills would be of use in many places, I am sure, Prince of Ulthuan,” Auralion explained at his king’s bidding. “But the issue then becomes one of which is the best place for them. As our current locales stand, you well know that the majority of those already on the Isle of the Dead are the mages, for it is there that they will be of the most use. Many of the legions now suffer from the lack of magic to aid them, all in furtherance of this gamble. And so, in order to bolster the ranks of the warriors present upon the Isle, I will be standing with them.”

His words hung in the air, an almost unspoken challenge. Nobody took the warrior up on it.

“Then,” the Phoenix King said, “if there are no more queries for the moment, I would ask that Jyrus continue with detailing the plans for defense of the Isle. Since the armies we have near Athel Tamarha and Tor Urithair are now free to give chase to Alith Anar's horde, perhaps they could be included into the fighting somehow?”

“Two more dragonriders would have been useful,” Jyrus murmured thoughtfully, “but Thoronthol and Ruerl are no more. As it stands, I believe we have... three, here, at the present time?”

“Only you and Prince Cadaine,” Bel-Saarin said, “that I am aware of. Prince Mentheus was to join us, but he passed over the encampment some time ago, heading for Caledor. I am told that he plans to awaken the dragons.”

Somebody in the tent snorted, as if they were trying to stifle laughter.

*

The elven army had been drawn up on the plain.

If Bel-Saarin was perfectly honest with himself, it was much less of a force than he had hoped for. Still, all his generals and Auralion had to work with was what they could reliably trust, and this was more of a rearguard force than the true hammer that they were poised to bring crashing down on the horde that approached.

Their plan was simple. Bel-Saarin would lead the elven army out to confront their opponents. While they put up a rearguard action against the approaching force, the bulk of the remaining armies – those that weren't fighting in the east or in Caledor, anyway – would take ship on the Inner Sea. There, they would leave behind a second force, skeletal but hopefully enough to sink any ships that Alith Anar would be able to procure. The elves were, after all, the greatest naval force in the world. And with Malekith bringing his own armies down from Nagarythe to join the rest of those who made it safely to the Isle of the Dead, they should be ideally placed to repel a beach landing. If all went as planned, then they would be able to destroy the horde there, sandwiched between the defenders on the Isle and the armies racing from the east to fall on Chaos from behind. It was a good plan.

“This is a terrible plan,” Tathel remarked from beside Bel-Saarin, the hood of his robe drawn well over his face and concealing even a hint of his condition from any observer.

“I didn't think you were still able to do that,” the Phoenix King replied.

“Not normally with you, no. It is like looking into the sun - too bright to make out words. Unless you shout them, of course, and you were shouting quite loudly.”

“If you believe this to be foolish, then you should have offered your own suggestion.”

“I said it was terrible. That doesn't mean I have a better one.”

“Such confidence.” Bel-Saarin turned back to watch the approaching horde. It wasn't difficult to see. Even the blood-red clouds seemed to gather more darkly around them. Droplets of red began to splash to the ground around them, a steady patter that soon began to find its way within the gaps in the elven armour to run across their clothes and skin, ice cold. The blood rain was more common as one drew closer to the Isle of the Dead, but it seemed particularly ominous today. The Phoenix King would have given a great deal at that point to see a glimpse of blue sky.

*

Narza Scornsong was silent, for the most part, except to give orders. Paladins of Khaine rode side-by-side with scattered Elithian Silver Helms, lances at the ready. These were not the best of the armies, nor were they the worst. Sighing, Narza looked towards the approaching Chaos horde, hand clenching and unclenching around the hilt of the glittering sword that the Prince carried. Just a little bit closer, the Feinaidraich of the Guild of Death decided. And then we can begin. It would not do to destroy our chances before we even have a… chance… to take them, after all.

*

The Everchosen of Chaos looked across his army. “Kaas is dead,” he said in a hollow voice.

“Yes, my lord,” Setesh said, bowing deeply. “He would have betrayed you, and so we felt it best to act as we did.”

“Good,” Alith Anar said softly. One too many failures, he thought to himself. One too many mistakes. An error could be corrected. He was so close now, so near to his goal. Ever fiber of his being ached for more, to draw more into him in preparation for his final strike. He would take the power of that last, elusive waystone, and use it to break the fragile network apart. Then... then his task would be complete.

He knew that he would be opposed, despite his drawing forth champions from across Ulthuan to clear the path for him. Even now, those beings with a great destiny were hidden from his future sight, but it did not take such to know that they would stand against him They always had. He was the last true agent of change, and yet there were those who wished for this world to live forever in such constant... stagnation. It almost disgusted him.

Alith Anar swept his eyes across the pitifully small army arrayed before his oncoming horde. He could see them even at this distance, the slight shifting that betrayed the motions each made before they made them. And then there were the ones that he could not see. Alith Anar's gaze settled on one of them. He did not know this one, yet it was blurred, indistinct. A destiny, then, but not a great one, for he could still see the movements it would make in what was left of the pattern of threads that made up the weave of fate. Or perhaps the threads were so frayed that this destiny was beginning to falter. It was difficult to tell.

More and more such threads frayed with each passing day, with each passing hour. Yet there were threads that remained strong, that drew others to them, that shaped and were shaped by their decisions. These... and then the two at the center of the small army. There was the void, he could see. Looking into that, he felt as though it looked back. Not yet, he promised it. They would have their reckoning. They both knew how it must end. And then there was the other one, the Phoenix King. To his sight, it was no elf, but a mighty firebird, a phoenix forged of blinding white fire that howled a battle cry to the heavens, challenging the Four themselves. The agent of a being who had stood against his own nature, who had struck back against change itself to defend its chosen people. The other one, the reddened bronze fragment of a dying shell. Malekith. He was not here. And if he was not here, then this was not the last of what this isle would confront him with.

“This is not all that they command,” the Everchosen said almost absently. “Skrymerk.” Once, the thought of a walking, talking rat would have repulsed him. Now it was simply another tool for the furtherance of his manifest destiny. “You will join the force that is to overrun this pitiful little band. Setesh. The fleet is yours, under my direction.”

“Are we to begin the summonings, Everchosen?” The question had come from Azazel Fellmane, his voice crackling with dark echoes of blood and death. “Do we call on the hosts of the Dark Gods?”

“No,” he said. “They are to be kept in reserve, for the final assault against the Isle of the Dead. The closer that they are to it, the more – and the more strongly – they can be summoned. Our horde is more than capable of overrunning whatever we should come across. Call forth only what is necessary to extinguish this rabble.”

He looked across to where that tiny force stood like a lone spot of light in the darkness, at the blazing firebird that seemed to look back at him in open challenge. He clenched his fist. It would be enough.

*

“Instruct the left flank to fall back,” Bel-Saarin ordered as he observed the battle. He was no great general, but several of the commanders were either too tied up in their own conflicts around the plains to give instructions, or dead. He grimanced to himself. One Chaos warlord had not only fought and slain one of the dragonriders, but he had also ascended to Daemonhood in the same instant. The resulting detonation as the fabric of reality was rent asunder had slaughtered hundreds, if not thousands, of elves. And marauders, and even discorporated some lesser daemons. But it was a drop in the ocean – the elves were hopelessly outnumbered here, and Auralion had estimated that they would need a five-to-one kill ratio or better if they were to hold long enough to let Malekith bring his own armies down from Anlec and for the fleet to arrive and carry them to the Isle. Right now, they were barely managing a parity of kills, such was the overflow of human, daemon and elf.

“Kurl is out there,” Tathel remarked, and Saarin had to again look at the mage. His face was hidden within the shadows of his hood, but the Phoenix King had become accustomed to seeing the telltale signs that showed how close the mage was to breaking apart and losing his control. He had spoken to one of the Elithian Loremasters about it – Belannaer – and had received little more than a shrug. As far as those from Elithis that he had spoken with knew, Tathel had always existed, and always, they assumed, would continue to exist.

“Is he hurt?” Bel-Saarin chose to answer instead.

“It is difficult to tell at this range, and given... these conditions,” was the reply. The Phoenix King was unsure if Tathel meant his own weaknesses or that which plagued all of the elven mages. Magic was growing wild, uncontrollable, and more than that, several had described what they thought of as a leeching effect, power drained away from the network and channeled elsewhere. Where, they didn't know. In the short term, magical senses were vastly impaired. In the long term... he didn't want to think about it.

“Leave him be,” the Phoenix King decided. “His fate is not mine to decide. How far is Malekith's fleet?”

“An hour,” Tathel replied after a moment. “Two, at the most.”

Bel-Saarin was silent for a moment, mind quickly working through the numbers. It would be close. The elves would need to hold off this horde, then retreat to the ships and make their voyage to the Isle of the Dead. Then they would need to hold until Malekith and whatever he brought with him could join them. The Wrath of Nagarythe, certainly, but would it be enough? He would have much preferred at least four of the legions. Perhaps some few of the roaming bands could be reached and brought to the isle. It might tip the balance.

“Alith Anar summons only a few daemons,” he said finally to Tathel. “Why?”

“Daemons feed on magic,” Tathel said. “I can only surmise that he keeps the legions of his wolf pet in reserve for his final assault on the Vortex. If reality has come far enough undone on the Isle, he might well be able to continue summoning them indefinitely.”

“And have an endless horde with which to overrun whatever we can gather.”

“Yes.”

“Is it possible to dismiss them en masse?”

Tathel hesitated. “No,” he said finally. “If this was correct, then there may have been one capable of doing so, but we are several centuries behind and in the wrong place.” He shook his head as he looked down on the battle. “This was supposed to be at Finuval Plain, not here,” he muttered to himself.

“Tathel?”

“Nothing. Give me time, Phoenix King. I may be able to devise something that will help you solve your problem once you reach the Isle of the Dead.” The mage's head bowed, as if he were in thought. Bel-Saarin turned to one of the apprentices tasked with magical sendings.

“Send a request for Jyrus to withdraw towards the center and left flank,” he instructed. “We are in danger of collapsing there if we do not have an orderly withdrawal, and will need him to rally the troops.” He glanced to the sky. And where were the rest of those damned dragonriders?

*

Narza’s blade flickered out again, taking the arm from a daemon. As it began to blur around the edges, the Guildmaster drove his sword into its throat, and it faded from existence. They just kept on coming. Human, daemon, elf, even rats. Raising his sword high, he signaled the riders, and they began to draw up around him in a circle, the formation often used by knights as a last stand. It was the sort of fight that bards sang of after the fact, waxing poetic on the many brave and glorious deeds accomplished by individuals and making it sound as though they had slain half of the opposing army on their own. The reality, sadly, was very much the opposite.

Narza parried a blow from a particularly irate human, swathed in blood and carrying a flail. Coolly, he ran the fool through, then dispatched a second with a cross-body strike, then found himself flying through the air. Odd, he considered. He hadn’t seen this coming.

Crashing to the ground, he quickly rolled to his feet, seeing another charging bezerker warrior. Cursing, he swept his draich up to parry the first blow, then staggered to one side as the armoured warrior kicked him in the side. This one had no style whatsoever. But neither did an anvil. Stepping into the next strike, Narza attempted a disemboweling sweep that would have left the warrior twitching on the ground trying to pull their insides back… inside, but found his strike merely skidding off the armour his foe wore.

Khornate, he decided as he deflected another attack and took a blow to the side for his trouble. It was a vicious, bloody battle, and he needed to end it. But he couldn’t work out how. Three more blows came at him in quick succession. He blocked one, and slid out of the way of the other, but the third slammed into his arm, crushing the elbow at the joint. His arm spasming, Narza lost his grip on the draich, the weapon falling to the mud as he lashed out with his own fist, earning nothing but a bruised set of knuckles for his attempt. Then the Khornate attacked again, and Narza’s spare blade came out. The armour was weak at the neck, he had found in previous conflicts.

Sliding under the wide, roundhouse swing, Narza used all the speed of his race as he straightened, brought his sword up, and rammed it through the side of his foe’s neck. As the Khornate stiffened, then slowly toppled, he picked up his draich with his good hand. The fighting was not over yet.

*

Imrik stepped towards the raised dais. From here, he would sing the songs of awakening. He could sense them, now. Perhaps it was the walks he had taken with Mentheus that were running through his mind, but it seemed as if the dragons were closer to full waking than they had ever been in thousands of years. He was about to attempt something that had never before succeeded – he was to wake all the dragons at once, and request their aid. A monumental task. Mentheus, for some reason, had requested that he wear armour – the armour of Caledor. At his waist hung the Dragonhorn. On the ground near Mentheus himself was the Star Lance. Whatever happened, there was at least one who was confident that he would succeed. Either that, or the need was so great that there would be no time for Imrik to arm himself in the event that he did succeed.

Asarnil stood to one side, a sneer on his face suggesting that he knew exactly what would happen when Imrik tried to do this. Imrik knew, of course. Asarnil believed he would fail. Mentheus, by contrast, looked thoughtful... and, if anything, even more desperate with each passing minute. He believed that Imrik could do it, the acolyte felt, but more than that, he needed Imrik to do it. If it was not enough, then all the lessons, the learning, the talks, would have been for nothing. Cleansing the uncertainty from his voice, if not his heart, Imrik began to sing.

It was a low key at first, little more than a humming as the ancient words began to echo through the air. It was of the old language, Imrik had been told, the first language that the elves had spoken. The Anoqueyan, it was called. Language of magic, language of a race of beings who had walked the length and breadth of the world before the first of the Everqueens drew breath, before the taint of Chaos fell like a pall across creation.

The words hummed through the air, each one bringing with it a beseeching cry for aid, a request for the ancient beings to discard their dreams and return, if only for a brief time, to the waking world. To where they were needed, if the elves were to truly turn the tide against Chaos. They had little time remaining to them, and so Imrik sang.

And then he felt it. A new element, entering into the pure notes of the song. Imrik sang on, knowing not from where this darkness, this rot of corruption came from, but desperately singing, hoping against hope that it would retreat before the fire of the dreaming dragons.

The roof fell in.

*

Mentheus dove to one side as a boulder struck the ground where he had been standing and shattered. One particularly sharp fragment sliced a deep gash in his cheek, but Imrik sang on, the young acolyte unknowing or uncaring of what took place around him. No boulder struck him – they instead bounced off shielding spells erected hastily by the few mages and priests present at the ceremony. But it was what Mentheus saw when he looked upward that chilled the marrow in his bones.

It descended towards them, and as it passed, the very rocks themselves seemed to shriek in rage and pain, howling at the blood-red skies above. It had four arms, two of which possessed great pincers that snapped open and closed, bending and weaving as it swayed to the music of mortal fear and terror – and pain, and lust – that it inspired in all present. In its left hand moaned a Daemon bound within the form of a skull-tipped whip, songs of blood, pain and pleasure filling the air with a moaning that stirred the dead, and before it, the song of awakening began to falter as Imrik seemed to wilt beneath the sheer presence of the thing. In its right, it clutched a screaming daemonsword that throbbed with the pulses of dark magic, echoed by flashes of lightning in the clouded skies above. Great jewelled eyes contained secrets of pleasure and pain as yet unknown to mortal life, hidden lusts, terrifying impulses. Its head was vaguely human, ringed with a nest of curved horns that glistened with an oily sheen in the light. The tongue of a serpent writhed from a mouth of razor-sharp fangs.

“Behold,” Asarnil said, his voice one of triumph, “the herald of damnation. N'Kari!”

Mentheus rounded on him. “You...” he whispered, frozen in place by the sheer charisman of the unearthly terror even as his mind shuddered away from the darkness it promised. “You betrayed your own people.”

“No, old fool,” Asarnil declared. “I will save them. N'kari.” His voice turned honeylike. “Kill Imrik of Caledor.”

“No!” Mentheus shouted, finally finding the strength. Tearing his sword from its scabbard, he charged Asarnil, who met his charge with his own weapon.

“You will fail, Mentheus,” Asarnil hissed through clenched teeth as they stood frozen, wrestling to overcome each other. “Give up. Surrender.”

Mentheus closed his eyes. It would be so easy. Give up. Not to fight, but instead to merely look upon the beauty that was the Keeper of Secrets and rejoice in what it would bring. He could. So simple. And then he realised something. He could stop, it was true. But there was a problem.

“I don't know how,” he said. And then he was pushing, pushing, overwhelming Asarnil's own strength. Desperately, the traitor prince disengaged, trying to flee towards the safety represented by N'Kari as it stalked around the ring, dispatching the mages and priests as each fought to maintain the shield surrounding Imrik. With each death, it lessened in strength. Imrik's eyes were closed. What was he seeing?

*

There. The slightest of hints, of touches. A response, from the dreams that were beginning to fade. Something was beginning to awaken, he knew. He could sense it happening, muscles long at rest beginning to twitch. Blood pumping ever faster through veins, racing in tune with the magic that flowed through the air. Magic given focus, given strength. Imrik reached out to that elusive presence, the dreaming one.

Help me!

*

Mentheus caught Asarnil quickly. The traitor knew as well as he himself did that there was little time before others would come. Even in these times, a Greater Daemon of Chaos would inspire a response from whatever could be mustered to defend against it. Yet even as Mentheus leaped, thrusting with his sword towards Asarnil, the other whirled, ducked, and rammed a dagger into Mentheus' stomach.

“Die,” Asarnil whispered softly. There was a tearing sensation as the traitor ripped the dagger upward, carving a bloody hole in his stomach and chest, and then Mentheus collapsed to the ground, darkness rising to engulf him.

Something... snapped.

*

Asarnil looked at the corpse on the ground before him, blood flooding from it to pool on the ground. Interesting. He hadn't thought that there was actually that much contained in a body. Of course, he had never taken the time to truly stop and savour the moment before now. Something he would have to remember to take the time for once Chaos was truly ascendant, as Queen Morathi had assured all the members of the Cult would take place in good time. And that time had almost arrived.

He heard a roar, then. Mentheus' dragon, the connection between the two of them severed. He had expected this, and knew that N'Kari would be a match for it. But it was odd. Almost as if there were two dragons. One from above, plummeting from the sky, and one from... within... the cave...

The fire raced from the tunnel and consumed him, travelling towards the Greater Daemon as it turned from its approach towards the weakened shield – Imrik still singing within what remained of it, a warding held in place only by the song now that all the mages and priests were dead – to confront the new threat. A great blue-white dragon, scales rippling and eyes wide open with draconic fury as it crashed into the creature like a battering ram, slamming it into the great walls of the chamber and shaking free another series of chunks from the sides and roof.

*

Imrik was one with the dragon. He saw what it saw, felt what it felt. It was incredible. He had heard stories of the empathic communication that was characteristic of riders, but this... this went beyond that. Like it was a bonding of the soul itself. They worked in harmony, the words of the Anoqueyan echoing through the air around them. He knew the dragon, knew its name and entire history.

Minaithnir. Minaith. Skill. Spirit. The Lost Way. No longer lost. He had found it.

Together, they fought the Keeper of Secrets. It struggled in their grip with hell-born strength, fighting with all its might to throw them back, keep them away from it. But Minaithnir was as old as the very stars in the firmament. Roaring in battle fury, their jaw snapped forwards, tearing one arm free from N'Kari's body. As it screamed in mixed pain and pleasure, Minaithnir grabbed it by the waist, shaking the giant beast as though it were nothing more than a rag doll. Whirling, they bodily hurled it into the air...

... to the exact place where Nightfang, still shrieking in pain and rage, came tearing down out of the sky to strike it with a thundering crack, as though a bolt of lightning had struck. Minaithnir moved to shelter them – them in truth, for as much as Imrik was within the mind of the dragon, so was the dragon's mind within his own – as Nightfang's flaming breath engulfed N'Kari.

A Greater Daemon was powerful. N'Kari even more so than others. Yet even it could not stand up to the punishment that was being inflicted upon it. With one last, forlorn howl, it faded away beneath the slashing, raking, tearing claws of Nightfang, banished back to the Aethyr. Planting its feet, Nightfang tossed back its head and roared, a cry of victory and vengeance echoed by Minaithnir. Through those cries echoed the song, rising with gathered strength. It pulsed into the minds of the dragons like a peal of thunder, and all throughout the caverns, Imrik felt the many minds of the sleeping dragons at last shake off their slumber to answer the call. As the last notes of the song died, and the dragons shuddered into wakefulness, Imrik slowly and steadily strode over to where the Star Lance had fallen. Reaching down, he hefted it in his hands. It was feather-light, glimmering with hidden power. He shook his head as he looked down on Mentheus.

“I am sorry that I could not save you,” he said. “But in your absence, I will do that which you intended for me to do. That which you could not.”

Turning, he strode back to where Minaithnir waited, expectant. There was little time – the dragons were awakening in ever-greater numbers, all throughout the catacombs, and they were needed on the battlefield. Reverently, Imrik took the harness from Nightfang, placing it upon Minaithnir. The great star dragon bowed his head in acceptance, and Imrik clambered up and into the saddle, strapping himself in as he did so.

“Shield,” he said crisply. The two remaining priests stepped forward, carrying a golden shield of dragonscale embossed with the mark of Caledor. Wordlessly, they handed it to him. “Lance.” Again, they passed the Star Lance up to him, and he readied it, strapping it to one side for when he would have need of it. With his free hand, he raised the Dragonhorn of Caledor to his lips. Pausing for a moment, he reached down within himself. He did not have to go far before he melded with Minaithnir, felt the mind of the star dragon mesh with his own. One heart, one mind. No longer were they seperate, no longer did his doubts and fears threaten to reduce his will, for his will was Minaithnir's will, and Minaithnir's will was his own. His thoughts – their thoughts – flashed back to words he had spoken to Mentheus in fear, before the ceremony.

I live in hope and fear. Hope that once more the Lords of Caledor will ride into battle on the backs of dragons as of old. Fear that if we do, when we do, it will be our last ride.

There were no other lords of Caledor present, no time to send for any. Only him. Imrik. Dragon Lord of Caledor. He would have to be enough.

He would make it enough.

*

[Voodoomaster]

The blood-red sky began to shudder, and Bel-Saarin groaned, clutching his chest as the spark of flame that seemed to nest within him flared into brightness. For the briefest of moments, a corona of flame shone about him, and then it was gone, leaving him drained but oddly refreshed. Tathel was gone, space folding about him and carrying the mage away from the field.

Bel-Saarin could feel the frenzy rushing through him, but something held it back. Stopped it. His mind was clear. It was like something whispered to him, bidding him to surrender to the rage within, but he held firm. He was the Phoenix King, the chosen of Asuryan. He felt his eyes turn as if directed towards the center, where a great hulking image rose above the horde. Bel-Saarin's blood would have run cold if the flame had not continued to pulse through him.

It was tall, towering almost ten feet tall. Great batlike wings stretched from its shoulderblades, and it wore blood-red armour. In one hand was an axe that shone with red light even from this distance, and in the other it held a flanged whip. The face of the creature was bestial, like that of a goat, and its mighty horns tapered to wicked points.

The Bloodthirster of Khorne howled to the skies. Bel-Saarin cursed, an oath that made a few of the apprentices jerk their heads around to him in shock. He could see the rage beginning to build behind their eyes as the very nature of the Bloodthirster overlaid their own thoughts. Turning back, he watched with a sickening feeling as the creature began to almost single-handedly cut its way through the elven lines. Nothing seemed able to stand up to it. Elves began to fall back rather than confront it. Auralion was on the Isle of the Dead, far from here. And the Bloodthirster was coming straight for the Phoenix King. He could feel the fire building within him, could almost sense a voice whispering into his ear, telling him what to do. He ignored it, though his hand did stray to the hilt of the Phoenix blade. His White Lion bodyguard surrounded him, axes at the ready and faces grim as the Bloodthirster continued to approach, elves now openly fleeing rather than get near that axe or whip.

All but one. Bel-Saarin frowned as he saw a single elf – young, he thought – standing almost lazily in the path of the creature, twin swords held loosely at his sides. No, not lazily. Confidently, arrogantly. Bel-Saarin knew that he wouldn't last more than a few seconds against that unstoppable juggernaut. The fire whispered to him, pushing him to face it and destroy it, but he held back. He had little choice.

The axe swept up and then back down in a blur of red slaying light, and Bel-Saarin grimanced, closing his eyes. Then one of the White Lions gave a quick intake of breath, and he snapped them back open. The elf was no longer where he had been standing. He was behind the Bloodthirster, and more, the Phoenix King could clearly see the smoking wound across the creature's leg, oozing ichor where the elf had struck it. How could anybody move that fast? He saw no magical aid, nothing beyond the multicoloured light of one of the elf's swords.

The Bloodthirster turned, roaring, and brought the whip around. This time Bel-Saarin could see clearly the seeming blur that was the elf as he twisted his body through some impossible movement, lashed out with the magical blade again, and rolled beneath the daemon's legs before racing up its spine to deliver a pair of deadly blows to the muscles of its wings, crippling them. Leaping backwards, he tucked and rolled in midair before landing on the ground in a ready posture, perfectly balanced. And that was just plain impossible. How was he doing it?

“I recognise that one,” one of the White Lions said, half to himself. “One of the Druchii from Caledor. He was training in Anlec – an incredible amount of raw talent, but he was arrogant. When the Dread King returned, he refused to let him command an army until he brought that arrogance to heel. There was talk that he was to be trained by Malekith's own champion, Urian, but either refused or was refused.”

“His name?” Bel-Saarin asked, not taking his eyes off the blur of speed that was the lone elf.

“Hallar.”

The Bloodthirster screamed, flickering in and out of reality as its hold began to weaken, then exploded into a blur of motion. Finally, it landed a blow on the elf, and Hallar hurled himself backwards, blood beginning to stain the simple white robe he wore on his chest. Hallar paid it little mind, though, merely keeping his distance as if to catch his breath. Mockingly, the blademaster – Bel-Saarin could think of him as nothing less – extended one sword, then made a 'come and get me' motion that brought the Bloodthirster towards him in a rush of speed, axe and whip scything through the air. Hallar ran to meet it, and in one last blur of weapons, the creature faded, leaving nothing more than a pop of displaced air as he vanished.

Both armies had all but stopped fighting in the near vicinity, observing the battle between the two. That abruptly came to a stop when Hallar immediately rushed towards the closest group of marauders, and as if a spark had become a wildfire, within seconds, they were all once more at each other's throats.

“That boy might live long enough to become the greatest blademaster Ulthuan has ever known,” the Phoenix King heard one of the White Lions say. “If he doesn't get himself killed first.”

*

Athanai Cadaine swooped through the skies on dragonback, watching the battle below. Occasionally, he could spare the power to hurl a volley of golden bolts or blue-white mystic flame towards them, but by and large, his attentions were occupied by the Furies that howled and screeched in the air around him, each one doing its best to tear the flesh from his bones, and from that of his dragon. He sensed a presence approaching, one that he had felt before. But he couldn't sense from where-

The impact hurled him from the back of his dragon, and as he hit the ground – thankfully, he had been close – he howled in agony as he felt his ribs and several bones break under the strain. As he lay there, dazed, Ahrtuz Khan walked almost nonchalantly towards him. The arm that had been severed by Athanai's dragon was not only replaced, it seemed forged of a bronze-coloured metal that rippled and shifted in the light.

“Hello, little one,” he said calmly. “I was hoping to find you.”

Dragon. Where was the dragon? Athanai reached out, but sensed only that his friend was locked in combat with something strong enough to give it pause, prevent it from helping him. And he lay paralyzed upon the ground, incapable of so much as moving an inch. The barest trickle of power was left within him, and he knew it would not be enough to escape. Ahrtuz leaned over him, and Athanai had the odd feeling that the Chaos champion was smiling at him.

“Last time we met,” the leader of the Bronze Horde said almost conversationally, “you visited an indignity on me. My arm has been replaced, but I think it only proper that I return the favour, no?” Reaching down, he placed one boot on Athanai's chest. “Left or right?” he asked. “Wait, no. Never mind.” With an icy calm, Ahrtuz grasped Athanai's left arm and tugged. Then he tore. Then he yanked. And in an explosion of blood and pure agony, Athanai's arm was ripped free of his body. He would have arched his back if he could have. He would have screamed. But he just lay there in the muddy ground, unable to so much as twitch.

Blood continued to pump, and Ahrtuz frowned. Then he placed his metallic arm on the wound, and clenched. The skin... stretched, to cover the gaping hole, leaving smooth skin and cutting off the flow of blood. But the agony remained.

“Now,” Ahrtuz continued, “Your dragon took my arm. Now I take yours in return. But you also visited an indignity on me, for I was somewhat put out with the way you treated me on that day. Now, what shall I do to you?” He paused for a moment, then reached out and pressed down on Athanai's chest. “This will hurt,” he said flatly. Pain exploded in the mage's head, and purely on reflex, he grasped that trickle of power and threw his thought towards somebody – anybody – who might be able to help. He felt a shift and then as though he was sinking into the ground, and suddenly he was back safely – somewhat – behind the elven lines, with Korhadris looking down at him.
Darkness lifted to engulf the mage, and he seemed to be falling into endless blackness, with only agony to accompany him.

*

Ahrtuz Khan frowned for a moment, then dismissed it from his mind. So the mage had escaped. He had his arm, and it was unlikely that the weakling would ever walk again. Not after that. He turned his mind back to the battle. The dragon had escaped as well, but without its master, it would be confused, distracted. Time to win this war.

*

The line was collapsing. Piece by piece, Bel-Saarin was withdrawing as many elves as he could spare – precious few, but enough – while others continued to hold back the advance of the horde. They had slowed it to a crawl at first, but the momentum of the vast numberless army could not be held back forever, and they slowly began to pick up speed again. There were other battles, Bel-Saarin knew. He saw some of them, champions of either side fighting for their lives against their opposites. Sometimes the elves won. Sometimes Chaos won. Sometimes neither won, and both died. Or both lived. He just had no time to stop and observe.

They raced for the ships at Rommena. There were a few still there. Precious few, but. Alith Anar's army pursued them the entire way. The Phoenix King was one of the first to board – not by choice, but by necessity. Glancing around, he frowned as he saw the young mage Athanai Cadaine being carried onto the ship by Korhadris on a bed of magic. There was hardly space for the wounded – or dead – but he saw little point in arguing. If the mage could be healed enough to hurl magic on the Isle of the Dead, then it would be worth the cost.

With a grim heart, he watched as the space on the ship rapidly began to fill, and finally he nodded to the crew, who removed the boarding ramps. Other ships were doing the same. And yet those left on the docks of Rommena were not angry. Well, not all of them. They understood the price that had to be paid. They also knew that they were not what would help most on the Isle of the Dead, and so they willingly sacrificed themselves. For Malekith, their king, and for Ulthuan, their home.

Not his home, Bel-Saarin knew. Had known for some time now. But he would still fight to defend it nonetheless. There was too much at stake to simply stand by and watch, as Elithis had done for generations. The ships began to pull away from the docks. Some could not. Even as the precious few survivors began the voyage to the Isle, the Phoenix King could see Alith Anar's horde overrunning some of the ships, capturing them. No doubt Akhen-Isfet had ordered it, since he could no longer sense the presence of the Everchosen of Chaos in the army. There was another fleet approaching them, though. Why take these ones? He put it from his mind. Let others work out the reason and method to Alith Anar's madness. He just had to get these elves to the Isle of the Dead before all was lost.

***

Auralion sat astride his charger, hand occasionally flickering towards Sunfang. He could feel the building frenzy within, the battle madness that, despite his best efforts, had taken him over in the past. It was the same here. Worse. Perhaps he might even stand here now where the Defender himself had trod, committed to defend the Isle of the Dead and Caledor Dragontamer while the archmage completed his plan to stop Chaos.

He could see Bel-Saarin nearby. The Phoenix King had spoken to Malekith – Auralion had heard, even from such a distance. His ears were supernaturally sharp. His senses filled with sights and sounds and smells and tastes as he looked across the army that he had under his command. It wasn't much, yet these elves were the hardened elite. Forged in blood and battle on the plains of the Southern Wasteland as they defended Elithis, made like the finest ithilmar by their struggles in Ulthuan.

Scattered throughout the army were mages of every rank and skill level. It was a plan, of sorts. Here on the Isle, magic infused the very air around them with such power and potency that it shimmered at the corners of one's vision. Even the most magic-weak elven apprentice was capable of unleashing powerful arcane force here. Here, those apprentices were archmages. And archmages were like unto forces of nature in their own right, hurricanes of destructive power and potency not seen since the time of the First Incursion. And then, the truly great... he stopped thinking about it. His mind had to be on the battle ahead, not musing on the strength of the magic. Sunfang twitched. It sensed the approach of daemons, and Auralion felt cool white flame rush from the scabbarded sword into his body.

Alith Anar was coming. Even now, fireballs, bolts of lightning, golden volleys of force, and all manner of magic was being unleashed, hurled from the fingertips of all from apprentice to archmage in devastating arcs of power that consumed entire ships of the Everchosen's horde. He saw one Daemon Prince – Ra’They, perhaps – falter and fall back slightly before the rain of power that battered at its body, but it was not slain, only forced to ground, where it would fight and slay the elves fighting to defend the Isle. And where it could be fought and banished back to the ether. Auralion would have dearly loved to test his skill against the leader of this army – Alith Anar – but Malekith had insisted that he and he alone could defeat the Shadow King. Privately, Auralion had disagreed. Malekith was good, he knew, but he was better. Yet that thrice-damned Tathel had told him in no uncertain terms to not interfere. Auralion's destiny was not to confront Alith Anar, he had been told. That was Malekith's task, and it had to be completed, one way or another.

It was then that they began to appear. Manifesting from the very air itself in a shimmer of light, daemons poured into the world by the score. They were all breeds of all the Four, and as one, they charged, running across the top of the water itself. He blinked once, sure that he had seen a tall human running with them along the beach in an odd flower-pattern pair of short pants, but had no more time to think of absurdities. The battle for the Isle of the Dead had begun, and before he knew it, he was fighting for his life.

*

Bel-Saarin watched as the horde began its assault. Tathel was beside him once more, having given no explanation for where he had been. He never did. The eyes of the Phoenix King were drawn to the sky. The Everchosen would battle Malekith, he had been told, but the Dark Master was something else.

“He is coming,” Tathel whispered.

The sky darkened as elf fought daemon upon the Isle of the Dead. Back and forth they struggled, and it was as if the First Incursion had come again to the world. Fire and ice, lightning and thunder and all manner of mystic force was hurled almost indiscriminately by the magic-wielders, for no matter which way they aimed, they were almost assured to strike a daemon. Or several. Yet they kept on coming, shimmering into existence and throwing themselves into battle with wild abandon. Slowly but surely, the elves were being forced back.

“Can you do nothing, Tathel?” Bel-Saarin accused his advisor. “Will you let them all die needlessly?”

“What would you have me do, Phoenix King?” Tathel didn't sound mocking, or even overly questioning. Just tired. As if waiting for the end. For a chance to rest. It was like he didn't care who won. He had already accepted the outcome of this battle, and dimly, the Phoenix King began to perceive a sense of Tathel's essence, his augmented vision pushed to new heights by the magic that pulsed through his very bones. The archmage was a font of power, glowing to burst with arcane force held in check only by the web of lines that seemed to spring from the Moon Staff he carried. Yet he was also a void, an abyss. A chasm of total and utter blackness devoid of thought, emotion... no. He thought, he felt. Will?

“You have no free will,” Bel-Saarin said. “You are a void. So what can you do? What will you do?”

Tathel closed his eyes. He stayed that way for a long moment, as if seeking a choice. Then he opened them. With the butt end of the Moon Staff, he inscribed a sigil in the ground. It was not elven. If Bel-Saarin had been forced to make a guess, he would have said it to be of dwarf origin. Standing next to it, he could feel the crackle of power that it exuded just through the inscription in the earth as the ground within and without oozed forth blood. Then Tathel brought his hand down upon it, and the web of lines retracted ever so slightly.

A torrent of power raced from his arm into the sigil, disintegrating the fingers on his hand as it passed and causing the rune to light up as more and more magic poured into it, an endless torrent that did not end. It could not end until either the source was exhausted, or it did what it had been created to do. As it turned out, it was the latter.

*

The old dwarf took his eyes from the blood-red sky as he felt a tugging, subtly different to what he had felt before. Frowning, he looked towards the source. West. Ulthuan. It insisted that he come, that he was needed, a need that surpassed all other purpose. Only one could be responsible.

“Well, it's about time,” he said as he reached for his axe and surrendered to the flow of magic.

*

They came from the air. There was no shimmer to their arrival. Like shadows they walked among the elves, standing firm alongside them as they had not in the First Incursion. Even daemons paused momentarily. Ghosts of dwarfs long past, spectres of ancient times. Had there been historians present, they might have named a few of them. Runelord Dumac Thunderbrow, vanished at the end of the War of the Beard. Hullin Hwellin. Barafo Steelfounder. Firgul Hindour. High King Durgan Bloodbeard, who had been slain by Iamagra Vedigger all those centuries ago. All and more appeared from the ether, called back by necessity and Tathel's magic. Entire legions of ghostly dwarfs marched from the shadows of the battlefield, called to fight in defense of the world that they had called their home one last time. Azul Ungdrom, Dal-Undim and Khazrik-Undim. The Durzhan Dammaki. All and more stepped forward, axes and hammers at the ready.

And at the forefront of the battle line, stepping forth alongside Auralion, was a warrior clad in shimmering armour. This was no spectre, but a fully armed and armoured warrior clad in the fashion of the dwarf kings of old, a purple cloak rustling about him as if in a phantom wind. In his hands, he held a mighty rune axe that burned bright with killing magic. His hair and beard were completely white. Daemons even took a step back when they saw him, something in his unearthly nature and the dread power of that axe instilling an emotion in them that they had rarely felt – fear. It was not banishment they feared, but death itself.

Grombrindal turned to Auralion and nodded. Auralion lifted Sunfang in salute, and the White Dwarf returned the gesture with the Axe of Grimnir. Then, as one, the elves and dwarfs charged towards the Daemonic Legion of Be'lakor.

*

Varindal Makolus charged the plague-ridden daemons, shouting a cry of battle as he attacked. Then he slowed, and frowned. His legs no longer worked. Looking down, he blinked at the sight of pustules beginning to rise all across his body. He tried to move, to say something, but all he could do was collapse into the mud as the Furies descended upon him.

*

Auralion grabbed one of the giant rats by the scruff of its neck. The things were like a plague, he decided. For every one that he killed, two or three more seemed to appear from the side or behind him, as if they honestly believed he could be surprised by such... vermin.

Effortlessly, he lifted it high off the ground, and grabbing it by the tail, began wielding the thing like a club as he fought. It howled in pain and agony for the first minute or so, and then fell quiet. More likely it was dead. Auralion didn’t really care – he was lost in the combat, the desperate struggle of life and death that decided who would live to fight another day and who would fall. Rat-tail in one hand and Sunfang in the other, he closed in on one of the Skaven in particular, a ratman who looked like a leader of some sort.

“Should have stayed under the ground where you belong,” he snarled as he attacked, Sunfang slicing clean through whatever defenses it might have possessed and splitting it in twain. Spinning his other hand, he hurled the sodden lump of dead flesh towards another approaching Chaos worshipper, then unstrapped his golden shield once more in a motion so fluid that no mortal could possibly have duplicated the feat. Steadily, he moved towards his next victim.

*

“He is coming,” Tathel said softly.

The sky darkened even further, clouds becoming inky-black as drops of black, viscous ichor and bile began to rain down upon the elves and dwarfs. Red lightning flashed through those clouds, yet forked down to strike elves where they stood, turning them to ash without rhyme or reason. Sunlight was long since gone, yet the elves could still see. The Winds of Magic themselves brought forth light, so powerful were the energies suffusing the area. The air was almost liquid.

Those black clouds seemed to shift, forming black smoke that spiraled down into a great mass. It gathered, shifting to take on shapes and forms. The image of a wolf. Then a human. Then it began to form the image of something that was strangely similar to an elf, and yet at the same time strangely not. Bel-Saarin could only watch, and despair.

He was tall, taller than any elf, yet not vast in size. His skin was of deepest black, as though it swallowed the very light itself, and his eyes a terrible green. The fingers of his hands were too long, and his arms, while not bulging, were corded with fine muscle. Face shifting into something that approximated an elf, he hovered in the sky. Then two great black wings sprouted from his shoulder blades as similarly black armour exuded itself from his skin to encompass his form. Finally, his form seemed to harden, the smoke becoming solid.

A horrible sense of completion descended upon the Phoenix King as he felt the solidarity of the form manifest itself, a torrent of pure raw magic being sucked past him and from him into the depths of the creature almost as an afterthought. The fire rose to shield him, cutting off the flow, but Bel-Saarin still went down to one knee at the force of the drain. The ghosts of the dwarfs were immune to it. Auralion ignored it, and the Phoenix King sensed that for whatever reason, the drain did not touch Tathel. Yet other elves stumbled, strength fading from their limbs and daemons shrieking in glee as they tore them apart.

“The Dark Master is come,” Tathel whispered, seeming to wilt under some sort of strain. “Be'lakor.”

At last. It was not speech as any elf or dwarf might no, but all understood it. The world is mine to walk once more[/i].

“What has he done, Tathel?” Bel-Saarin could not take his eyes from the being as he asked the question.

“Be'lakor was sealed away, cursed to forever crown the Everchosen but never to be the Everchosen, as a punishment from the Four.” Tathel's voice was devoid of emotion as he spoke the words, but there was incredible strain in his voice nonetheless. Bel-Saarin could see the lines of magic encasing him beginning to stretch and bulge as the trapped power within sought a means of escape. “By stealing the power of the waystones, he has regained that which he lost – not just physical form, but true power, unrivalled by any living creature.”

“Can't you stop him?”

“No. His very existence is anathema to me.” Tathel closed his eyes and bowed his head, shuddering and grasping tightly to the Moon Staff for support. Be'lakor approached. Elf, dwarf and daemon fell back before him. Even ghosts of times long past were not invulnerable to his touch, for his merest touch could – and did – slay. The torrent of power flowing into the creature was immense. Why did he continue to draw upon it?

Further thought was impossible, however, for Be'lakor was moving towards Tathel, and the mage did not shift from his position. Bel-Saarin could feel the void that was his teacher beginning to fray as destiny continued to unravel, and felt the flame whisper in his ear once more. He knew what he had to do. Stepping forward, he moved into Be'lakor's path and surrendered to the fire. Malekith's battle was with Alith Anar. His was here, and he knew what he had to do.

You challenge me.

“I do,” the Phoenix King said.

Stand aside, mortal, or you will die.

“I doubt it.” Bel-Saarin knew now the source of – and weakness to – the power of this daemon. For that was all it was. A daemon. Powerful, but not invincible. “You hold your form only by virtue of the power you steal. You need something else to make it permanent, to escape your curse and supplant Alith Anar. You need him.” Bel-Saarin pointed to Tathel. “And you will not have him.”

It is the end for you. Be'lakor's voice was mocking. There are none left to save you from your fate.

And then the Phoenix King heard a sound. It was a horn, as if from a great distance, but there was something in it that struck a chord deep within his heart and soul. Then he heard a roar. Then more than one. Then the horn sounded once more, clear and true. There was only one thing in all the world that such a sound could portend.

They came from the west, from above the clouds, diving through the chaos and death into the skies above the battlefield. Green, red, blue, white, gold, silver, black, bronze, and so many more, all the colours that could be imagined. The dragons had come. And leading them, bright lance shining and shield bearing the crest of Caledor, was not Mentheus, but another, one who bore around him – to those with eyes to see it – the image of a raging dragon. Lifting the Dragonhorn of Caledor once more, the Dragon Lord sounded the charge. They struck like the lance that their leader bore, driving a wedge deep into the oncoming daemon hordes. None were spared their wrath as they cut ever deeper, some flying low and raking fire across the surface of the water, others flying high to battle against those that could meet them on their own ground.

This changes nothing, the Dark Master snarled. You still cannot stop me.

“He cannot,” Bel-Saarin said in a voice that was not his own. “I can.” Then the firebird was rising, surrounding the Phoenix King with white-hot fire. He embraced it, took up the power, and hurled it at the Dark Master. “This world is not yours,” the Phoenix said. “I have judged you, plaything of the gods, and find you wanting.”

Fate seemed to shudder, the threads of destiny shifting. It was as if the battle, the war, the world itself hovered within a knife edge of finally, eternally, ending. And yet it did not. Bel-Saarin was aware, as he had once been before, of great, faceless entities, acting – or perhaps reacting – to the disintegration of the pattern and plan. He floated within a riot of colours, sparks of every shade and hue, as he saw... he did not know, did not understand. Perhaps he never would. All he knew was that in that instant, a blow was struck. By him or through him, he was not sure, but it had happened. And a connection was severed.

Be'lakor screamed, reaching towards the motionless figure of Tathel as if to grasp his last hope at escape. Then, with a despairing howl, he began to fade, his form losing cohesion, robbed of the power necessary to hold himself present. Madness overcame him, and the last words he gasped out before fading away were gibberish born of fear, loathing, and insanity.

*

Tathel blinked into existence near the circle of figures at the heart of the Isle of the Dead. Swathed in light, they paid him little mind. He hadn't expected them to respond, truth be told. The whiplash from Be'lakor's defeat would strike soon, and Dragontamer had to do all he could to mitigate its effects, and such an act would take much of his concentration. Tathel would have wished that something more could be done, but it would be pointless.

Settling himself upon a nearby rock, and feeling the strain upon him begin to grow once more as the whiplash drew closer, he watched Alith Anar and Malekith as they dueled. All of the buildup that was beginning to take place within him and around him could only be resolved with the conclusion of the battle between Malekith and Alith Anar, whoever the victor would be. This would decide the fate of the world. If Malekith faltered, if he was slain, then Alith Anar would end everything. Everything Bel-Saarin, Auralion, that Tathel himself had worked for hinged on Malekith now.

And then, just like that, it was over. He saw Malekith strike, heard the words that were spoken between the two of them. They had won. But the force that had been building still wanted – needed – an outlet, to release all the pent-up force within. And soon, it found one. There was just one thing left for him to do, now that Alith Anar was gone, and then all of this could end.

Slowly, he stood, limping through the circle of light to stand in the center, alongside another amorphous light-being who he could only identify with dragons. Thought was difficult now – only purpose existed. Energy poured through him in waves, as though the mother of all storms itself was tearing a path for itself out through his skin. Trembling with the exertion, he raised both hands above his head, crossing his wrists and letting the power gather, concentrating itself at the point of connection. He could feel his skin beginning to crack apart, the frayed threads of magic holding him together finally falling away. He could hear, then, the choral songs of the magi as they constantly wove their magic, attempting to bleed off what had steadily built up over too many years.

Though Tathel himself could not see it, a sphere of white light – magic, pure energy given form and substance – had formed within the circle. From his crossed wrists came a vibration, and then, as what remained of his skin began to fall away, cracking apart to reveal the energies within, a blinding pillar of light flowed forth, shooting upwards into the sky over the Isle of the Dead like a giant signal, woven about with the soft threads of the circle as they directed it upward and away. The clouds split apart around the pillar, revealing the night sky above, and as Tathel watched, the column changed, spiderwebbing outwards into smaller threads of magic that began to rain down upon the Isle like a comet shower, the clouds falling apart where they fell as the web continued to grow outward, spreading further and further as the skies reflected the lines of power within the earth. And all the while, he held himself upright at the center of the circle, power bleeding out into the Isle and putting back into balance what Be'lakor had ripped out. There had been great damage done, and only now that the Dark Master was gone could it begin to heal itself. He only hoped that the world could survive returning towards how things were supposed to be.

Surrendering to the flow of light, he finally closed his eyes, and thought slipped away as he fell into the song.

*

Bel-Saarin picked himself up from the ground. The fire had died, gone quiescent within him once more. Had he asked those nearby, he would have been told that he had vanished within the form of a great firebird formed of white-hot flame. But he didn't. Be'lakor was one thing, a scheme foiled, a plan stopped. Yet the daemons continued to come. They poured from the air as power began to build once more, no longer being drawn in by the Dark Master. As the size of the daemons – and the horde itself – continued to grow, the Phoenix King was at a loss for what to do.

“Did we win?” Bel-Saarin asked of himself, wincing in pain. Half of the bones in his body felt broken, and the other half felt as though they were shattered. “Auralion? Tathel?”

“The mage is gone, Phoenix King,” Auralion replied from where he stood. There was a lull in the fighting, and Auralion had fought his way to the side of his king. Bel-Saarin nodded in acknowledgement.

A pure white light began to shine from somewhere over his shoulder. Looking up, he watched the shower of light as it began, splitting the skies apart as a great web of lines and magic spread across the firmament as far as the eye could see. Where the magic fell, daemons faded away like a mist that broke apart as the light struck, continuing down into the earth to vanish deep within the world. Awestruck, the Phoenix King lifted his hand, watching as one of the sparks passed through his palm, leaving a tingling feeling behind as it continued its journey. All across the battlefield, elf and dwarf alike lifted their heads to watch as the rain of magic continued. As difficult as it seemed to be to even think of it, all that Bel-Saarin could realise was that it was over. They had won.

But as he turned to look towards the pillar that was the source of the rain, the ground in front of them exploded.

*

Even after the passing of centuries in which to reflect, none upon the Isle of the Dead would be able to accurately describe the sheer force of the detonation that they had experienced. Nobody could have possibly maintained their footing within such a conflagration, and daemons continued to wink out of existence by the hundred as the natural magic of the network began to reassert itself. Power flooded from place to place, searching for something to tie itself against, for what had built up as a result of the scheming of the Dark Master could not be removed from the world before destruction. It had been twisted, tied into knots, and now a deep wrenching began from far within the earth as those knots struggled to unweave themselves. The sparks coalesced together upon those kinks, burrs in what was otherwise smooth, and worked upon them, freeing the tied flow to snap back into their proper order. Violently.

And so it happened. All agreed on one thing: that beings seemingly formed of pure light had risen into the sky, maintaining their circle yet growing ever brighter around the sphere of impossibly bright magic that they contained, directing the crackling and expanding flows of energies into the sky and then to the ground itself, earthing it. Ulthuan shuddered under the force that was exerted upon it as the flood of magic continued to strike at the woven knots in the lines of power. First as sparks, then as lines, then threads, then cables, growing ever thicker as the flow increased all the more rapidly.

The rock of the seafloor first vibrated, then shuddered, and then finally tore itself free with such force that the tidal waves of pure, unadulterated devastation ravaged coastlines as far away as Elthin Arvan and Lustria, wreaking death and havoc upon anything that they found. Great earthquakes rent asunder the halls of the dwarf folk as the very continents themselves shifted under the weight of power being exerted, and Lustrian Temple-Cities shuddered as the points of power they rested upon began to disgorge more energy, hurling it towards the Vortex upon Ulthuan. On Albion, the air became as soup, reality faltering almost to a halt as the magic echoing across the island thickened. In the Empire, humans who would never know more than the smallest spark of magic gasped as uncontrolled destructive energy flooded from their hands with the merest thought, and in the north, the few who had remained behind when the Everchosen had marched south gloried in the power being unleashed.

The arcs of light streaked across the skies, cables of pure magic warring with one another as their frayed ends re-knit, and in places of damage hurled death down upon those below. That same web of magic cradled Ulthuan in its grasp, weaving new lines to replace the old and adjust itself to the new order even as hell on earth was wreaked upon the Isle. It was an end. It was death. It was destruction, and after it had passed, nothing would ever again be the same.

It was the Sundering.

*

Morathi watched as the skies above her coterie were split, as though creation had been rent asunder and now reasserted itself, magic warring with magic as some measure of stability was sought. She had taken a small band of loyal followers, some few thousand strong, and retreated, knowing that the battle was long lost, at least for Alith Anar. Their new home would give them a place to gather their strength. Naggaroth was a cold land, an icy land, and living would be hard. But her people were strong. The Cult of Slaanesh was strong. They would hide, and recover, and rebuild their strength. And then, when the time was right, they would return, and the world would fear them.

Alith Anar had been a misguided fool. Powerful, yes, one with the blessing of the Chaos Gods. But she was elder than he, wiser than he. She would not fall prey to his mistakes.

Morathi was dead. The Witch Queen she was, and she lifted her hand to the mask that concealed the damage wrought to her face. And she would revenge herself upon those who had done this to her. She sensed that her son was dead. Or if not dead, then in a place beyond the power of perhaps any living being to reach, which amounted to the same thing. But the Asur and Druchii... they would know her wrath. One day, when she was strong once more.

*

The dwarf sat quietly on the mountain trail, his legs dangling over the edge of the cliff face. He was unafraid of the fall. In fact, there was little if anything on this earth that could inspire fear in him. His purpose here was something else. He waited for somebody, and he could feel that person approaching.

Tathel settled in beside the dwarf, letting his own legs hang freely over the edge as well. Gone was the strain, the damage that had been done to his physical form. Even his hand had returned, recreated with but a thought.

“So,” the dwarf said to the elf by way of greeting, “you are well once more. Stable, I take it.”

“Yes,” Tathel agreed. “It is a good feeling. Truth be told, I have not felt this well in decades. If I see Dragontamer, I will have to thank him.”

“Will you?”

The mage was silent for a moment before answering. “Perhaps,” he said. “Possibility opens before me once more, and I can see the paths I might take more clearly. And the paths that I might not. Even the illusion of choice is better than knowing there is no true choice, I suppose.”

“I would have thought that your time of final rest was near,” Grombrindal said thoughtfully. “Was this not the crisis that you were created for?”

“Created?”

“You know what I mean. Call it blending, forging, or whatever word you choose.”

“I thought it was,” Tathel admitted. “I had looked forward to resting. But much like you, I seem to have become something of a fixture in this world.”

“It was a nice touch, calling forth ghosts of the past.”

“I thought so too. It was my belief that while I could not use my own magic and directly tap its power, I could channel that power into something else – a rune, perhaps. And it worked.”

“That it did. It called us to you, to the fight against Chaos. I suspect that many had unfinished business that they took pleasure in settling. But what will happen now?”

“Honestly?” Tathel looked amused. “I don't know. Once more, my sight is limited to possibilities and necessary action, not certainties. Or nothing, as was beginning to occur towards the end there.”

“Yes,” Grombrindal agreed thoughtfully. “There being no destiny or fate might have put blinders on you. I never really thought of it that way. A pity that the First Servants never helped.”

“I think,” the mage said with a smile, “that if you look back, you might see touches of them in all this. Or perhaps evidence of their presence was just an elaborate prank by those who direct us in what we do. Who can tell?”

“It would have been a good prank, though,” Grombrindal laughed. “Fooled more than a few people. What of your Phoenix King?”

“Arguing with some of the Malekith loyalists, last I heard,” Tathel said with a shrug. “They are willing to accept him as spokesman for Asuryan, but there are many who are uncertain about him as a king – Malekith ruled them for millennia, after all. The Asur and Druchii took their paths long ago, and now they are truly separate people.”

“Was that what you wanted? Arguments?”

“I wanted an alliance – even just an agreement would have been enough – that would last until the end of the war,” the mage sighed. “I was selfish, perhaps. I wanted to rest. For thousands of years, I have been moving behind the scenes, manipulating, organising as best I can, even fighting when it was necessary. After that long, a rest would have been nice.”

“We are what we are,” Grombrindal said. “Bound to this world by oaths and agreements that can perhaps never be fulfilled. Will you return to Ulthuan? Or Elithis and the Asur?”

Tathel smiled. “For now,” he said, “I wouldn't mind a taste of that pipe you carry.”

Grombrindal blinked at him, confused momentarily, then chuckled as he reached into one of the pouches he carried. Drawing forth an old pipe he lit it and took a long draw before passing it to the elf. The mage took a similar draw, then passed it back. He took it well, the White Dwarf decided. For an elf, of course.

“Did you ever tell him the truth?” Grombrindal was curious. “Your Phoenix King, I mean.”

“He asked me once,” Tathel said. “I didn't have the heart.”

“Perhaps it was for the best.”

“I hope so, Snorri.”

“As do I, El. As do I.” Grombrindal puffed on his pipe for a moment, as if he were considering something. “Does it really have to end here, you think?” he finally asked.

“Stories have to end. It’s what gives them meaning.”

The two didn't speak after that, merely sitting on the edge of the cliff face and watching the sun rise over the lands of Sigmar's empire. There would be other tales to tell, perhaps, other battles to be fought and days to be won, but this one, here and now, was finished.


END.

[Voodoomaster]

EPILOGUE

They waited near the shore, watching for that which had been promised. Magnus was quiet, but his bay roan was somewhat restive, as if the horse knew that something approached. It was necessary, he thought to himself. Chaos was building once more in the north under a new leader. The histories spoke of the last time that the hordes of Chaos had descended upon the lands of men, when the man-god Sigmar had been born. They also spoke of the ones who had been present to fight back against them. The dwarfs were well-known to the Empire, of course. Yet it had always been the elves that were little-known. Some of them yet remained, but beyond those who were said to dwell in the forest, Magnus had been at a loss for how to find them, particularly the High Elves. The location of Ulthuan was known, but the Asur, as the legends called them, were mysterious at the best of times.

The Council of Jarls had objected to Magnus making this request for assistance without their consent, but the young leader thought it well worth the risk of alienating them. The founding members of the council had been great men, powerful leaders of the Reikland empire, and it had taken several generations for the power struggle between Emperor and Council to finally be – after a fashion – resolved. Only a few faithful retainers stood with him now as he waited for the approach of what many were beginning to deem a legend. But they had been in Etan Aven – as it was known in the Old Tongue – during the last incursion, of that he had been sure, and his patience had been borne out when the mysterious grey stranger had given him instructions on how to reach them.

They came from the darkness before the dawn. Some ships were pale in colour, some darker, but all moved across the waves with almost no sound, sails blowing against the wind. It was uncanny. Magnus found his hands beginning to shake from nervousness, and with and effort, stilled them.

The ships drew to a halt just before the shore, and a small group disembarked via a boat that moved smoothly to the shore. Magic, most likely. There were five from one of the white ships and five from one of the black ships, and they strode towards Magnus with an unearthly grace. They were tall and slender, clad in finery greater than anything he had seen even at the Imperial court.

“What do we do?” one of his retainers muttered. “They outnumber us two to one.”

“Be silent, Archaon,” Magnus said calmly. “I doubt that they would come all this way to attack us.”

“Yes, my Prince,” the young squire said, abashed. Magnus suppressed an urge to shake his head in exasperation. Archaon had potential as a knight, but he needed to learn when to think with his head and not his sword. Truth be told, he was one of the best young recruits that the Empire had found, skilled in combat, theology, and with a keen grasp of logic... at times. He didn't just have potential – he had the makings of a truly great knight, one who would be remembered throughout the ages.

The leader of the dark-haired elves came to a halt, examining Magnus. “We had expected to see another here to greet us, given the manner of the sending,” he said flatly.

“It was I who bid that the message be sent, upon the advice of another,” Magnus said, deciding that honesty would be the best and simplest course of action when dealing with these strange, fey warriors from across the sea. He addressed both groups, unsure about which one was dominant here. “I am Prince Magnus, son of Emperor Sigismund II, heir to the Empire of the deified Sigmar the Great. Chaos once again masses in the north, and I have come to request your aid. My father holds in the capital of the Empire, at the Fauschlag Citadel, but with his blessing, I have come to attempt to forge an alliance between our peoples.”

The two groups glanced at each other, speaking in a musical language that Magnus could not understand. Whatever it was, it sounded unimaginably complex – he counted himself an intelligent man, something of a scholar, and yet the speed and complexity at which they spoke was nigh-impossible to follow. Finally, one of the pale-haired elves stepped forwards.

“I am Prince Tyrion of Elithis,” he said, “son of Prince Arathion, grandson of War-Prince Aurelion, he who was the only child of High Lord Ancelion, last Steward of Tor Elithis. This,” he said, directing Magnus' attention towards another elf, a mirror image of him, “is my twin brother, Prince Teclis. We have been sent here by the order of the Phoenix King Bel-Saarin of Elithis to offer you our aid, as well as that of Elithis and Ulthuan as a whole. By agreement with Steward Jyrus Yenlukhaesrath of the High Council of Ulthuan, and in accordance with the agreement forged between the Phoenix King and Steward of Ulthuan, we are to assist you as one rather than as two.”

Magnus was stunned. He hadn't expected such a willing agreement to any sort of alliance from even one of the two mythical elven nations, and yet here it was, handed to him on a silver platter by not just one, but both together.

“You seem surprised,” one of the dark haired elves observed. This one was paler-skinned than most, and was clad in some sort of black leather that all but swallowed the pre-dawn light. “We are here, and we are willing to fight alongside your race in battle once more.”

“Yes,” one of the pale haired elves agreed. “It has been many centuries since I set foot upon the shores of Sarthailor or the Reikland. I have no wish to waste time, Prince Tyrion.”

“Elileth,” Tyrion said firmly, “there will be time enough once our task in Elthin Arvan is complete. You knew this when you agreed to join the expeditionary force. Prince Magnus,” he said then, turning to look at the human with those unsettling eyes, “perhaps you could tell us more of this invasion.”

“At present, we know little,” Magnus said somewhat uncomfortably. “What little I can tell you is that it has been building for some years, and that at its head is a Champion of Chaos by the name, it is thought, of Setesh Akhen-Isfet. His name is a Nehekharan name, yet the Dead Land is far to the south, and this one is very much alive.”

“Setesh,” Tyrion said, nodding half to himself. “We had thought him dead, truth be told. It is surprising that he survived.” He glanced around at the other elves – there seemed to be some unspoken communication that passed between them. “Come then, Prince Magnus,” he said, turning back once more. “There seems to be much for us to do. We had best get started.”




I hope you enjoyed the show guys, a final gift from me at the end here, the High Cartographer had but one final task at the end of the campaign and this is it.
Thanks for the memories
on behalf of the Campaign Team
Voodoomaster

[Uther Di Asturien]

Finished with the first post, and I gotta say that that is some damn fine writing!!
I don't think i'll be changing my opinion for the worst when I read the rest, so i'll just say congratulations Eldacar

Also, the Campaign is *finally* over!

[Prince_Asuryan]

Wow.

A brilliant piece of writing, and a wonderful ending - makes it all worth while ya know! I was thinking about the campaign the other day - exactly this time last year, EXACTLY, I was sitting in a war council with the other loyalists. In a slightly sad way, fond memories.

So, Well done Eldacar, thank you for making the ending worth the wait, and I still remain hopeful of future campaigns for me to take part in.

[NoOoDLe]

Wow.

A brilliant piece of writing, and a wonderful ending - makes it all worth while ya know! I was thinking about the campaign the other day - exactly this time last year, EXACTLY, I was sitting in a war council with the other loyalists. In a slightly sad way, fond memories.

So, Well done Eldacar, thank you for making the ending worth the wait, and I still remain hopeful of future campaigns for me to take part in.

Lately I've been finding that PA always gets it right... End up quoting him all the time.. Well.. ^That.

[Giladis]

A truly masterful ending and the best part is that Harald the Slaughterer survived

[Ramesesis]

So it ends. Well, I must say it feels a bit sad, really. I also feel that I failed to bring my character in this last campaign to life, unlike the others. As I sit here, I think about hallowed Mathi Alfblut, who gave it all to help found the glorious Empire of Sigmar, of Caerntharn and Caintal...

Lovely writing and nice wrap-up. Damn, I miss my heroes already... Shame I failed to have my last old grumbling greystained elf the same carisma. Still, I believe he will die happily now, being buried by the ruins of his ancestors Tor Caeln, finally bringing an end to the tragic story of House Caeln.

Ah... I miss it all... But nourish a small hope for what the future may harbour.

[cidracin]

Awesome conclusion story I can see why it took so long to complete and it was very well written. Way to go Eldacar Leaves one wanting another campaign cause it was quite fun and everyone was so enthusiastic and creative. Heres to hoping for another campaign

[fireblade]

Yeah, the campaigns were a great series...
Nice ending of the story line, still not sure if I get who/what tathel is...

[Allerion]

posting before i read... OH YEAH, ITS HERE

[Paraicj]

All round a good read,
Excellent work by you guys,
Here's to the next one

[Allerion]

im really sad that that was the last campaign, and I was only around for 1 of them



absolutely magnificent piece of writing

[Bob of Beleriand]

im really sad that that was the last campaign, and I was only around for 1 of them



absolutely magnificent piece of writing, VM

Eldacar.

[Andruillius]

I'll just throw in another "Wow". Admittedly I haven't actually read much of the other campaign pieces, but this was well worth a read. You know Eldy, you could probably make a good fantasy author. Pity that GW wouldn't let you make any money of this.

And I'm in there! I thought my whole Going Rogue business would exclude me from any official fluff, but there he is, Prince Andruillius. Thanks for that

[Elaithnir]

And that's it. The end of an era her on Ulthuan. What a ride guys. Thanks to all the people who offered up time, blood, sweat and tears to make it happen!

[Lord Marixis]

Didn't catch this until now, but very nicely done. Kaas got punked, just as it should be.

[NightKnight]

Slow as I am, I've finally read this, and all I have to say is WOW. Amazing ending to all of it, really fun to relive the whole alternate story (I've recently read a lot of the old stories), to four awesome campaigns.

Valfrid may be dead,
But Ruerl has no head!

[Alfginnar Oakenshield]

Having been away from the hobby pretty much since the end of UiF, I didn't catch this ending, and I just wanted to say "wow". Entertaining and clever. Very well done Eldacar. Brings back memories from the good campaign times. Ahh, the battles, the late night tactics sessions, the bickering...

One question: When's the next?

ps. Perusing the archives I found this
.
All the fun we had