INMOVILIZADO INTANGIBLE

The riders of Malekith skirted eastwards before heading south, having circled around Ealith to come at the fortress from the north. Through the gloom, the prince could see the castle in the distance, lit by fires from within so that the walls seemed to glow yellow and red. The keep was upon a great spur of rock that jutted several hundred feet from the surrounding grasslands. Laughter and shrill cries could be heard in the distance and strange shadows danced about the towers.

Upon its highest pinnacle a slender tower reached into the stars, and a strange green light emanated from its narrow windows. Malekith flinched as that light flickered for a moment, filled with the unshakeable belief that he had somehow been seen. Such a thing was impossible though, for the company were as shadows, swathed as they were by the dark cloaks of the raven heralds.

A stand of trees obscured Ealith from view, and Malekith was forced to duck as they rode beneath the boughs into the heart of the copse. Here was almost utter blackness, save for a few glimmers of starlight that broke through the almost solid canopy of leaves. The company dismounted, following the lead of their prince, and walked their steeds further into the trees.

At their centre there rose a great oak, as mighty as a guard tower, and Malekith led his horse between two massive roots and to the others he seemed to disappear. In fact where they thought there was earth and tree was a large opening, as wide and as high as a city gate, the roots of the ancient oak forming a twisting archway. Beyond lay the passageway, walled with grey stone, high enough to mount once more and for three riders to move abreast. At their head, Malekith drew his sword and its blue flame glimmered in the darkness like a beacon. Lanterns were passed down the line and one rider in ten set a glimmering light upon his saddlebags so that those behind could follow. As will-o’-wisps the company wound along the corridor, plunging deeper and deeper beneath the earth.

Soon the cut stone of the entrance gave way to bare rock, carefully but plainly carved by unknown hands. Malekith felt the corridor rising again and it began to turn to the right in a tightening spiral, and narrowed to the point that they had to ride single file for a short while. As the passage levelled out, at the same height as Ealith’s inner walls, it widened again so that five horses could walk side-by-side. Malekith raised a hand to halt the column.

Ahead was a wall of bare rock, with no sign of door or gate. Malekith sat upon his horse in front of the wall and began to chant softly; ancient spell-words whose meanings were lost on the others. As the prince spoke, he traced lines through the air with the tip of his gleaming sword and where it passed a flickering trail of blue fire lingered, sparkling in the darkness. A rune of fire hung in the air, growing in intensity. With a final word, Malekith slashed through the sigil with his blade and a blinding flash filled the corridor. A wide archway now stood where the wall had been, and beyond lay the courtyard of Ealith.

“Ride forth!” shouted Malekith, heeling his mount into a gallop and leaping through the archway.

The company broke into a charge, lowering spears and lances as they thundered from the secret passageway into the castle. Malekith held his blade at the ready, unconsciously ducking slightly as he passed through the portal though it was easily high enough for a rider to pass.

The courtyard was thrown into pandemonium. A dozen fires burned in bronze braziers, giving off an acrid smoke. Vile runes had been daubed in blood upon the white walls, and clusters of wailing prisoners were chained to each other in small groups. The cultists were taken completely unawares; some had been tending the braziers, others tormenting their captives.

Everywhere cultists leapt up with cries of alarm and shouts of terror as the knights crashed across the pale flagstones with a wall of lances and spear tips, striking down all within reach. Malekith bellowed wordlessly as he cut left and right, despatching a cultist with each blow. The ringing of steel echoed from the high walls, mixed with war cries and the screams of the wounded. Malekith singled out a fresh target: an elf with a pair of serrated daggers in his hands, naked but for a brightly patterned cloak and kilt, standing menacingly over a cowering elf maiden. The cultist turned his head as Malekith charged, his face a mask of dread. The prince did not hesitate, and as he raced past, he slashed downwards with his blade, catching the cultist a deadly cut across the neck.

Panting with excitement, Malekith slowed his steed and cast about for another foe. Dozens of bodies littered the ground, pools of blood spreading across the white paving. Everywhere enemies were flinging down their blades and hurling themselves to their knees with shouts of surrender. A few tried to resist further and were swiftly and mercilessly overwhelmed by the knights. Malekith jumped from his saddle and dashed towards the doors of the central citadel, which towered two hundred feet above the courtyard.

“Ellyrians, stand guard!” the prince shouted. “All else, follow me!”

The gate had been barred from the inside, but this proved little barrier to the prince of Nagarythe. His sword blazed with magical energy as he raised it high. He brought the enchanted blade down and struck a mighty blow against the door in an explosion of blue fire that shattered the keep gate into charred planks. Without hesitation, Malekith leapt into the hallway beyond.

Though mere moments had passed since the attack had begun, the cultists were recovering quickly. Inside the citadel was a great staircase that spiralled to the upper levels of the tower. Archways led from the entrance hall to chambers all around, and scores of cultists poured from these rooms in a shrieking wave that engulfed Malekith and his company.

Screeching like a wild cat, a female cultist with red body paint and a shaven head hurled herself at Malekith, spitting and biting. He smashed the back of his hand across her face and sent her hurtling to the ground, where she lay unmoving. He barely parried a dagger aimed for his throat, and cut down the ranting zealot who wielded it.

All around the elves of Malekith fought back to back, as more of their companions tried to press through the splintered doors to aid them.

As the prince swept out with Avanuir there was another detonation of magical fire, and a dozen cultists were launched high through the air, trailing smoke and burnt flesh, to crash against the walls. Malekith raised up his left hand and blue flame danced from his fingertips. With howls of pain and fear the cultists hurled themselves away, some prostrating themselves and gibbering abjectly, others running back through the doorways to escape the wrath of the prince.

“Upwards!” cried Malekith, pointing towards the stairway.

Carathril joined the prince as he leapt up the steps three at a time, followed by a handful of knights. Others led pursuits into the chambers below. The next level of the citadel was devoid of life and they continued upwards until they reached a wide chamber at the top of the tower. The stairs led them into the middle of a circular room that filled the space of the tower. Here lanterns blazed with the green radiance Malekith had seen from outside, and the eerie light showed scores of elves in horrifying acts of torture and debauchery; a plateau of vileness that would be forever etched into Malekith’s memory. All that he heard and all that he had yet seen was not enough to prepare him for the horrors he witnessed in his own lands.

A high priestess, lithe and athletic, presided over the despicable ceremony from a dais littered with corpses and blood. Her white robes were spattered with gore, and a daemonic bronze mask

covered her face. Her eyes glowed with a pale yellow light from within, and her pupils were tiny points of blackness in pools of luminescence.

In one hand, she held a crooked staff, wrought from bones and iron, and tipped with a horned skull with three eye sockets. In the other, she wielded a curved dagger still slick with the blood of many sacrifices.

Malekith charged across the chamber, cutting down any cultist who barred his path. He was but a few steps from the dais when the priestess thrust forwards the tip of her staff, and a bolt of pure blackness leapt out and struck the prince full in the chest. The prince’s heart felt like it would explode. With a cry of pain torn from his lips, Malekith faltered and fell to his knees. He was as much shocked as hurt, for he knew of no wizard who could best the sorcerous abilities granted him by the Circlet of Iron.

He gazed in amazement at the priestess. She stepped down from the dais with languid strides and walked slowly towards the injured prince, the tip of her staff fixed upon him.

“My foolish child,” she sneered.

The priestess let the sacrificial dagger slip from her fingers to clatter in a shower of crimson droplets upon the floor. With her hand thus freed, she pulled off her mask and tossed it aside. Carathril gave a yelp of astonishment. Though caked with blood, the priestess’s lustrous black hair spilled across her bare shoulders. Her face was pristine, the very image of beauty. In her were aristocratic bearing and divine magnificence combined.

Carathril felt himself spellbound. Around him, the other knights gazed dumbly at this apparition of perfection, similarly ensorcelled.

“Mother?” whispered Malekith, his sword slipping from his numb fingers.

“My son,” she replied with a wicked smile that sent a shiver down Carathril’s spine; of lust and fear in equal measure. “It is very rude of you to butcher my servants so callously. Your time amongst the barbarians has robbed you of all manners.”

Malekith said nothing but simply stared up at Morathi, wife of Aenarion, his mother.

“You have been weak, Malekith, and I have been forced to rule in your stead,” she said. “You trot across the world at the bidding of Bel Shanaar, ever eager to risk your life for him, while your lands fall into ruin. You grovel on bended knee to ask this upstart Phoenix King to rule your own realm. You are a cur, happy to eat the scraps from the tables of Tiranoc, Yvresse and Eataine while your people starve. You build cities across the ocean, and navigate the wide world, while your home festers in filth and decay. You are not fit to be a prince, much less a king! Truly your father’s blood does not run in your veins, for no true son of Anlec would allow himself to be so cowed.”

Malekith looked up at his mother, his face twisted with pain. “Kill her,” he managed to spit through gritted teeth.

As if those words had broken a spell, Carathril found himself able to move again. Sheathing his sword, he snatched his bow from the quiver across his back and set an arrow to the string. As he pulled back his arm, Morathi swung her staff towards him and he leapt aside just as a dark bolt cracked the stone of the floor where he had been standing a heartbeat earlier. As if also broken from trances, the cultists lounging around the room leapt to their feet with snarls and shouts. Malekith pushed himself to his feet, but another blast of Morathi’s sorcery hurled him across the floor with a clatter of armour.

This inner coven fought with a feral tenacity, deranged from narcotic vapours and their dedication to Morathi. Carathril tossed aside his bow and drew his sword again as an elf with gem- headed pins piercing her lips and cheeks ran at him with a flaming brand in her hands. Shouts and shrieked curses filled the room and pungent smoke billowed as braziers were knocked over in the struggle. Carathril felt the heat of the brand in the cultist’s hands wash over him as he ducked a sweeping attack.

He struck out at the elf’s naked legs and cut her down at the knee, sending her toppling to the floor. Even lying upon her back, Carathril looming over her, she hurled abuse and thrust the brand at him. He pushed the tip of his blade into her chest and she slumped to the marble flagstones.

“There will be no welcome for you in Anlec,” Morathi snarled above the din, having retreated to the dais. “Go back to that usurper and do not return.”

Malekith gave a roar that nearly deafened Carathril and hacked with wild abandon at the cultists who had surrounded him, dismembering and decapitating with wide, sweeping blows. A gap opened up in the melee between the prince and his mother and he stalked towards her, his sword shining with magical energy. A look of panic swept the sorceress’s face and she began to back away. Even as Malekith’s front foot fell upon the dais, Morathi raised her staff above her head in both hands and a shadow enveloped her, spreading like diaphanous wings to either side. Her body melted and dissipated as those spectral wings beat thrice and swept upwards, and then she was gone.

More knights of Anlec raced up from the stairwell and soon the remaining cultists were slain or pacified. Carathril looked at Malekith, where he still stood upon the dais. Where he had expected to see the prince still in shock or perhaps wrought with grief, instead Malekith was a picture of cold fury. The flame of his blade burned white-hot as he gripped it in both hands before him, and his eyes glittered with barely controlled magic.

The prince’s stare moved across the room until it fell upon Carathril, who flinched at Malekith’s fell gaze. Carathril was locked in that stare, fixed by two raging orbs of hate, and for a long heartbeat the captain thought that the prince would attack him. The moment passed and Malekith slumped, his sword falling from his fingertips to ring upon the stone floor.

“Nagarythe has fallen into darkness,” he whispered, and now his eyes were filled with tears.

At dawn, Malekith stood upon the rampart of Ealith and watched the sun rising over the Annulii. In the light of day, the events of the past night seemed dim, distorted. He could barely bring himself to believe that Morathi had been the architect behind the rise of the cults. Now that he considered it, he realised he should not have been at all surprised. It was just like his mother: a network of spies and agents across all of Ulthuan, power over the weak princes and their armies. He cursed himself for allowing Morathi to spread her dark touch into Athel Toralien and feared what he had left behind in Elthin Arvan.

Yet there was logic to her plan that Malekith could not dispel. Had he not already started to use the cultists to his own end? The army of Nagarythe was but one weapon, an unsubtle one at that; the cults of luxury were a far more insidious force and all the more dangerous for it. Morathi had told him as much on her visit to the colonies. Religion and belief could be exploited for power, he had but to steel himself against his distaste to wield them.

A shadow moved up the road towards the citadel and Malekith saw that it was a swift-moving rider: one of the raven heralds. He watched as the dark figure raced up the causeway and through the gates. It was not long before Elthyrior strode up the steps to the wall and gave the prince a nod of acknowledgement.

“Grave news, Malekith,” said the raven herald. “Ealith is ours, but Nagarythe rises up in support of Morathi.”

“How so?” demanded the prince.

“Some of my company have been corrupted by your mother,” Elthyrior admitted. “It was they who brought us here, to lure you into the clutches of Morathi. We cannot know her intent, but I believe she sought to turn you to her cause.”

“In that she has failed,” said the prince. “I have escaped her trap.”

“Not yet,” warned Elthyrior. “The cults are strong and much of the army is loyal to your mother. Even now they march on Ealith, seeking to surround you and destroy you. There is no sanctuary here.”

“Thank you, Elthyrior,” said Malekith. “If I could ask but another favour of you. Ride forth with those you know to be loyal to me. Gather what warriors and princes you can and send them south to Tiranoc.”

“And you?” asked Elthyrior.

Malekith did not reply for a moment, for what he was about to say pained him more than any physical wound.

“I must retreat,” he said after a long while. “I am not yet ready to challenge Morathi and we cannot be caught here.”

As Malekith ordered, so it was. The army marched westwards with all speed, ever aware that ahead and behind the worshippers of the forbidden gods were gathering in greater numbers. At Thirech Malekith faced a motley army of several thousand, but the cultists were poorly led and easily shattered by the charges of Malekith’s knights, quickly fleeing into the fields and forests around the town.

For four days and five nights Malekith’s host marched onwards without relent, seeking the harbour at Galthyr.

Just after dawn on the fifth day after the battle at Ealith, the army rode into sight of Galthyr. Malekith ordered the army to wait out of bowshot from the walls. On the prince’s orders, Yeasir rode slowly towards the gate, shielding his eyes against the glare of the morning sun reflected from the white walls. Figures moved upon the parapet, with bows drawn. Yeasir reined his horse to a halt less than a stone’s throw from the gate tower.

“I am Yeasir, captain of Malekith!” he called out. “Stand ready to receive the prince of Nagarythe!”

There was no reply for quite some time, until several new figures appeared upon the gatehouse battlement and stared down at the newcomer. There was a brief consultation between the group, and