The Assassination of Malekith

The Drachau of the Eastern Colonies, Santhil of the House Arhukyl, was forced to wait on the docks of Tor Cynath in the gray early morning hours. The heavy curtain of clouds threatened the small army that had been diverted from the battlefield with rain. Fog covered the ocean, and Santhil couldn’t help but wonder if the elf she was waiting for had altered the weather so that his arrival would be dramatic enough. She folded her arms and looked back at her sisters, annoyance writ clear on her face. Lahnia looked up and past her sister, her eyes narrowing at something in the distance. Santhil turned back to the sea and dropped her arms as a group of black sails began to appear through the fog. They were first part of the black ships to materialize, followed by their iron prows. They drifted towards the Tor Cynath docks in a silence which was broken only when the breeze would snap one of the many banners that proclaimed the ships as being manned by some of the most elite units of the Druchii on land or sea. The massive iron ships blocked out the little light the weather allowed to fall on the Druchii port. A cold shadow was drawn across Santhil and her entourage.

The gangplank from the lead ship crashed onto the dock at Santhil’s feet. She stood her ground and lifted her gaze to the dark interior of the ship. Black Guard, the Druchii elite, stood two by two in full armor. As one a column marched forward, their armored boots ringing against the gangplank until they thudded in low tones against the heavy wood of the dock. The Black Guard fanned out, separating the ship and the water from Santhil’s garrison. The sky began to brighten as more Black Guard poured out of the ship to take up their posts, until finally a ray of soft morning sunshine chased away the fog. Malekith, the Witch King, emerged from the shadows of the iron ship just in time to meet the light. His armor gleamed for a moment, and Santhil no longer had to wonder if the sorcerer king had been manipulating the weather.

Malekith paused at the top of the gangplank before slowly making his way down towards where Santhil was waiting to greet him. His armored frame was wrapped in purple robes, and the mages in the welcoming crowd noted that the iron circlet grafted to his helm no longer buzzed with magical power. No matter how much Malekith wished it he could not simply erase his earlier defeat in the Olde World. Black Guard followed him down, though the king was given enough space to breathe. The Witch Elves who stood behind Santhil looked warily at the Black Guard until their king held up his wicked left hand and revealed the rune of Khaine on the back of his hand. They were satisfied, and settled to let the Witch King pursue his business. He paused at the bottom of the gangplank and eyed Santhil. “Drachau.”

Santhil bowed deeply, and those behind her lowered their heads. “My king.” She spoke to the planks of the dock.

“Do you know why I have come halfway across the world?”

Santhil remained bowed. “To reclaim this land for our glorious empire, my Lord.”

“I can build empires within the halls of Tor Anlec. No, my hand is required when circumstances on the ground surpass the abilities of my commanders. Drachau, this…rebellion threatens my realms. While you may feel that the humans are well within your grasp and it might be sufficient to allow them to expend their anger in a futile struggle against us I cannot allow an underestimation. Do not fear for your post, Drachau. I am satisfied. For now.” Malekith didn’t wait for Santhil to reply. He turned towards Tor Cynath and the Black Guard followed. “I will be inspecting your operations in the countryside tomorrow. When I am finished I will review the disposition of your forces. Be prepared.”

Santhil finally straightened, glaring at Malekith’s back. She and her bodyguard turned to join the train, but she was separated from the king by the Black Guard. “Make arrangements for our Lord.” Santhil told her sister. “Take him to our lumber operations. He can see the humans at work there and judge them for himself. I will need to prepare my papers.”

***

The forests to the south of Tor Cynath had been stripped bare by the accumulated effort of human slaves. A regiment of Black Guard bearing the king’s banner moved down the road from Tor Cynath where a group of Druchii overseers were poised to meet them. The Witch King marched at the front of the column where he seemed more like a general than the body his guards were protecting. The company came to a halt in front of the overseers who bowed deeply. Malekith regarded them with an aloof eye; the barbarism these elves wielded was writ in the scars that ran along their exposed backs and chests. They were useful, but dangerous. “I have heard a great deal about the humans. Tell me.”

The leader overseer, a short stocky elf with black hair and a missing eye straightened and had the audacity to grin at his king. “They lack the strength of the Dwarfs and the diligence, but they are easier to catch and control. Weak minded creatures; they do have their moments of stubbornness. We do not allow these moments to linger.”

“I have fought humans before, overseer.” Malekith reminded his servant. “Slaughtered them, in fact. Perhaps we are to blame for this recent state of affairs, as we cleansed this land of Chaos and gave rise to their tribes. How strange is the fruit that a seed thoughtlessly discarded might bear.”

“Of course, my Lord.” The overseer replied, his smile wavering as he searched for a hidden meaning in the word. “The humans cannot govern themselves…This is why your kings have failed.”

“Failed?” Malekith asked quietly. The overseer felt the hair on the back of his neck prick ad a chill run down his spine. His breathing began to grow more harried and his throat turned dry. He looked from side to side with his good eye, trying to find the source of his unease. It hurt to look at the Witch King. “Have I misunderstood you, my subject? If I am not mistaken you were telling me that I had failed, that my choice for the king of these humans was not the best, and that this upstart in the South outsmarted me.”

“No, my Lord!” The overseer protested.

“Then you are saying I am mistaken?”

“No!” As Malekith flexed his power, the overseers shrank back. “Here…here your will is absolute! The humans do not even dream of revolt, they worship you as a god!”

The wave of power subsided and Malekith was silent for a moment. “Show me.” The overseer nodded and with the rest of his crew walked towards the tree line. It was a few steps before his heart had begun to slow down. The sound of a column of heavily armored elves marching was almost drowned out by the sounds of humans tearing away at the trees with the crude axes the Druchii had given them. Masked overseers stood among them to remind the humans of their servitude and reinforce the barrier that prevented them from turning their axes against their masters.

The small company was right at the edge of the tree line. The overseer was rattling off production numbers and explaining the system of overseers to the Witch King. Malekith was barely paying attention, letting his eyes appraise the operation on their own. He liked what he saw. The humans were in a state of near exhaustion, and none of them met eyes with the others. They were the animals Malekith remembered, the trappings of dignity that they had acquired had once again been stripped away. He would rebuild the east on the backs of these humans. The defeat at the hands of the Dawi still stung, but it was not a defeat that could not be reversed. The Witch King liked to see that the overseers were not being overtly physical towards the humans. It wasn’t necessary; they were wrapped around the Druchii’s finger as long as the master remained. Malekith smiled beneath his stern iron mask. He liked what he saw.

The head overseer gasped and his speech was cut off by a gurgle as blood choked his words. Malekith knew the sound. His withered heart began to pump and he slowly turned back towards the overseer. A finely shaped elven arrowhead, slicked with a thin sheen of elven blood protruded from his chest. The overseer looked up to Malekith’s face, his brows folding down as if asking his King’s impassive face why he was dying. The Witch King turned his gaze down and examined the arrowhead. He frowned. It was a style that was very familiar to him.

The Witch King stood his ground calmly as missile poured out of the forest. He could see each arrow clearly. They were seeking out elves. Before the overseer had collapsed a volley of arrows had found his brethren. The Black Guard rushed forward but the arrows started to catch them too, piercing their heavy armor. A few of his bodyguard managed to get in front of him but they were struck down. The high pitched whine of arrows was met with the whoops and startled cries of human workers as they abandoned their work stations out of fear. The Black Guard started screaming at each other in panic, trying to cover the Witch King who showed no signs of retreat. He stared intently at the forest, even as his elite soldiers died.

The first of the ambushers emerged from the trees. They were elves in full armor, heavier than Malekith had expected the renegade elves of Sarthailor to wear, especially when moving through the forest. More began to emerge as the numbers of the Black Guard dwindled. They wore grey cloaks and were silent as they completed their ambush and moved into the open. “My lord, we must withdraw!” One Black Guard, not the captain, shouted at Malekith. He died a moment later when an arrow pierced his head. The Witch King didn’t see a reason to respond. The elves who were now moving to surround him were a mystery. They didn’t make sense to him, and he would rather figure it out now than be frustrated with it for weeks. He let his bodyguard die.

The last of the Black Guard collapsed. The small regiment had offered no resistance to their attackers, but Malekith wasn’t going to hold it against the dead. Even he was impressed with the ambush. The elven warriors drew back their bows, their arrows pointed at the Witch King. “No.” He murmured, holding the Hand of Khaine aloft. The bowstrings sang as they released the arrows, though not one came close to Malekith. They were suspended in the air, quivering as they struggled to pierce the Witch King’s magic. “Did you really think that you would kill me here?” Malekith asked. “With arrows? I don’t know who sent you but they are a fool. I am the Witch King, Lord of All Elves. Die.” The Witch King brought his arm down. The field of magic he had erected burst outward in a rush of wind and power, shattering the arrows and throwing the elves who had fired them onto their backs. None of them moved. “Nagarythean arrows.” Malekith murmured, looking over the corpses of his assailants. “Crude, but unmistakable.”

Something laughed behind the Witch King. He turned around and narrowed his eyes at the black wolf that sat on its haunches, tongue lolling out over its fangs as it panted out its laughter. “And what trickery is this?” Malekith asked before something pricked at the back of his mind and he turned around, drawing his sword. A familiar taint was in the air, and to taste more of it Malekith released the restraint he kept on his magic and became aware of the world’s secrets once again. The winds of magic contorted around the forest, the threads of life that sustained it crying out in anguish. A familiar feeling emanating from the forest, a taste he had once enjoyed but magnified to the point that it almost overwhelmed him. It was the taste of the fruit, the power of Chaos that had once infused him with life.

The source of the disturbance finally emerged from the tree line and Malekith couldn’t say a word. The bark on the trees curled as he passed. The ground was blighted beneath his feet, the undergrowth shriveling away and the soil itself drying up until it cracked apart. The Witch King could feel more than mortal eyes upon him; a third presence coldly looked through his armor and into his mind. But all of this, even the blinding power that emanated from the figure, was second in the Witch King’s mind to the features of his face. “I had forgotten your face, Alith Anar.” Malekith said calmly. “Your hatred runs deeper than I ever imagined if you have done this to yourself.”

“Your face was never far from my mind, Malekith.” The Everchosen’s words were soft but his eyes were locked on Malekith’s mask. “Justice runs deep in me. Hatred is only the instrument of that justice.”

“You cannot rule by strength alone.” The Witch King replied before raising his hand at Alith Anar and summoning a bolt of power which he unleashed at the Everchosen. Alith Anar closed his eyes, sensing the motion of the magical bolt through the ether. He allowed the ripples to move him, to set into motion his dance that carried him away from danger. To Malekith he simply seemed to disappear from the line of danger and materialize in a safe place. The forest withered further as the bolt of power passed into them.

“Strange words, from a tyrant.” Alith Anar responded as he slowly advanced on Malekith.

“Do you think if I ruled by strength I would be here now? I would have been overthrown a hundred times over. Strength is essential, but it is not enough.” Malekith held his ground and drew his sword. “Alith Anar…I suppose you and your gods believe I betrayed you. If you think you can trust them, you are sorely mistaken. They turned to you only when they were through with me.”

Alith Anar laughed. “I’m giddy, you have no idea. Not only am I about to kill you but I get to correct the lies of your past. You have never been their chosen. None are chosen but they who earn it. You did not, I have. We are nothing alike.”

“The lies we tell ourselves, Alith Anar, are all eventually revealed.” Malekith lunged forward to strike. Alith Anar saw a ghost of the Witch King move forward before Malekith actually moved, and easily sidestepped blow. Malekith’s eyes widened. The Everchosen was inside his reach, and moving closer. He raised the Hand of Khaine to ward off the attack he knew was coming, but was thwarted when one of Alith Anar’s knives batted away his claw with strength the Witch King had not perceived the former Shadow King capable of. He was wide open.

The first of the twin knives was slipped into Malekith’s ribs, shredding the Armor of Midnight with ease. The second followed a split second later and it was driven into his chest. The Witch King gasped at the unfamiliar pain before quickly recovering his breath. Alith Anar did not press his attack. He allowed the Witch King to stumble as his black blood bubbled up from the wounds. Malekith dropped his sword and took hold of the knife planted in his chest. He began to murmur. “What’s that?” Alith Anar said as he moved forward. “No speech before you die, Witch King? I wonder what you’re seeing right now? Your mother? Nairalindel? You said you couldn’t remember my face, can you remember hers? Caledor? Do you remember him? Rythion Pendragon? Arcanaus? Khalir Vraneth, who you sacrificed to save your own skin? Do you remember any of them?” The Everchosen shook his head and Malekith collapsed. “No. The only face you remember is your own. As it is now, scarred and made from iron. You don’t even remember Malekith the Fair. I do. Like the others he is gone for good, never to rise again. Soon the Witch King will join him.” Alith Anar drew his sword. U’zuhl’s eyes stared at Malekith hungrily. “Only one name will be resurrected today. And that is mine. Justice will not be done when you are gone, no. Erasing Malekith means more than burning away the flesh. Erasing Malekith means that I will destroy the foundation of this world.” He leveled his sword at the Witch King. “But first, I will remove the cornerstone. U’zuhl.” The demon lashed out at the Witch King who had spent his breath and could barely scream.

***

When Santhil and the rest of the Black Guard came to the work site Malekith’s armor had been torn asunder. The Shadow Warriors remained where they lay, and the only sign of battle was the Witch King’s fallen sword and the ruined forest. The old symbol of Nagarythean kingship had been burned onto Malekith’s helm. It had been fully enclosed in an eight pointed star. Santhil’s sister Lahnia recognized it at once as belonging to Alith Anar. It was not difficult to put together what had happened. An attempt was made to keep the King’s death a secret in the colonies but it was impossible to silence all the hands who had to prepare the body for a return to Ulthuan. The assassination, and the name of Alith Anar and Chaos, spread throughout the east from every elven garrison down to the Reikland and from there to the Dwarfs and Sarthailor. There was a muted celebration in the streets of Avalaer, the news of the tyrant’s death tainted by the emergence of Alith Anar and Chaos. The Dwarfs offered a sacrifice in the shrine of Karaz-a-Karak and more than once the story of Grombrindal’s duel with Malekith was retold. Silence greeted the arrival of the Witch King at Tor Anlec. Morathi was the only one to cry out in anguish at the sight of her son. She refused a funeral and took the body into her chambers. While priests and princes demanded cremation and burial Morathi would have none of it, her son remained with her.

The Druchii prepared for a new war. Heads had to roll for the failure, and the House Arhukyl took the fall. Santhil was removed from the Colonies, for the moment Ulthuan was united in seeking revenge, and vast fleets of Druchii warriors began to arrive in the Eastern Colonies. The new commander prepared to strike north and hunt for Alith Anar’s head, until a note from Morathi was delivered to her. It was short, only a few lines of elegant script that communicated the will of the Queen.

The Druchii armies turned south against the Reik. More than one officer frowned at the news from Morathi. Malekith’s final plans would not be disturbed. Alith Anar would go unmolested. For the first time in its long history the empire of the Druchii was without a clear leader. Its foundation was gone, but in the fires of war they sought to forge a new one.

Author's Note: I apologize profusely for the tardiness of this piece. I understand that this fundamentally changes the outlook of the campaign for many of you and has the potential to screw with your fluff a bit. I take responsibility for the lateness. The restart was in some ways a god send for me from a fluff perspective because we have a blank slate with which to issue this piece. I hope that you enjoyed it. The writing staff has always tried not to end up in a GW situation where we keep things the same so that our players are comfortable. We want a dynamic story that ultimately you, the players, can feel a part of. The ending depends on you. The body of the story depends on you. This is just the prologue.