Blood of Aenarion

chapter TWENTY-seven



By the light of the two moons, through the curtain of pouring rain, N’Kari looked upon the Shrine of Asuryan and gloated. The portal shimmered closed behind him as the last of his followers emerged from its glowing surface. Ahead of him, the misty outlines of a huge ziggurat were visible through the gloom.

N’Kari studied the walls with eyes that saw more than light. He inspected the great patterns of magic swirling around the shrine. Potent spells woven by great mages in the days of high magic were there, but they were old. There were areas where Time’s endless entropy had frayed them. There were places where the physical foci had gone and the spells were worn so thin that they were vulnerable.

He looked at them, seeing the patterns of magic superimposed on his vision of the world. He saw the souls of his own army, purple and sickly green cultists, bright blood-red Khornate daemons, lilac and lime for the Slaanesh daemons. He saw the sun-gold souls of the elven defenders.

His current force numbered in thousands with scores of daemons. They would have troubles of their own on the sacred soil within the shrine. Its very purity would make it difficult for them to maintain their present forms in the material world. Still, what was that to him. They would serve his purposes anyway. He knew he could maintain his own form even down there. He was still imbued with the energy he had stolen in the Vortex.

He gestured with his great claw. His followers responded. Sticks of bone thrashed drums skinned with elf flesh. Flutes carved from the thighbones of still-living maidens wailed dire tunes. Brazen war-horns sounded cacophonously. The stormy weather did not trouble his force. They revelled in it.

He was going to need all of his magic and all his followers to achieve his goal. The Shrine of Asuryan was a place where something akin to his kind and yet opposed to them made contact with this world, communicating with its followers, feeding off their worship, touching this plane with its magic. It was a mighty enemy.

It would oppose him every step of the way once he stepped on its sacred ground. More to the point it had the strength to oppose him, could cause him great pain, banish his daemon followers, twist the minds and destroy the bodies of his mortal worshippers. The core of this place was protected by spell walls that would make it difficult to work magic until he was within them.

But the shrine was not without weaknesses. Spell walls would be useless without warriors to protect them. The stones in which their magic was embedded could be battered down, swarmed over, destroyed in a dozen physical ways. Destruction of their physical housing would disrupt the spells themselves.

There had been a time when there had been enough elves to hold a place like this, but their numbers were fewer now than in Aenarion’s time. There were weak points where he would concentrate his attacks, forcing the elves to defend them and throw away life after life, giving the elves the choice of guarding their outer defences or retreating within the Inner Shrine.

Either suited N’Kari’s purposes. If they stayed he could use magic more easily against them. If they withdrew, they surrendered access to their inner defences without a fight.

Elrion looked up at him with mad, adoring eyes, his rain-soaked clothes clinging to his skin. He was like a hound now; he lived only for N’Kari’s approval. It would be amusing to teach him hatred, so that he adored and resented at the same time. N’Kari resolved to do it when he had the time.

‘Once I give the signal, order all the forces forwards. Attack the point where the walls are weakest. Draw the elves into combat at every point.’

‘Yes beloved master.’

‘We shall devour these elves.’

‘The Dark Feast will be celebrated.’

Saliva dripped from the corner of Elrion’s mouth and vanished amid the raindrops running down his face.

Thunder boomed overhead.

Teclis woke from a nightmare with the sense that something was terribly wrong. He looked around at the rough stone walls of his small cell. They seemed to be closing in on him. Tyrion looked up from the book he was reading. He sat cross-legged near the door. The last thing Teclis could remember was talking to him before he collapsed. His brother must have carried him back here.

‘You are awake then,’ Tyrion said. ‘That’s good. I thought you would sleep forever.’

‘There is something wrong. Can’t you feel it?’ Teclis said.

Tyrion looked serious. ‘Feel what?’

‘There is something very powerful and very evil very close.’

‘The daemon?’ Tyrion asked.

Bells began to sound, stridently.

‘He’s here,’ said Teclis.

‘Then let us go and take a look,’ said Tyrion. ‘You can get a fine view from the top of the temple.

Teclis shook his head. ‘I do not have the energy. I will remain here.’

Tyrion shrugged and departed.

Banners bearing the rune of Slaanesh and the symbol of N’Kari unfurled. Beneath them demented cultists cavorted deliriously. Lust-maddened elves paused to steal a kiss from dancing, lascivious daemonettes. Gargoyles took wing through the buffeting winds. Mutated berserkers raced towards the walls bearing ropes and grapnels and makeshift ladders made from magically fused bones.

Arrows darkened the sky in response, descending on the oncoming horde in a shower of death. Deadly spells woven into their tips allowed them to pierce the magical flesh of daemons almost as easily as they parted the armour of cultist and skin of mutant. It seemed that there were more elves left alive within than he had thought and their mages had somehow managed to shield their essence even from N’Kari’s magical vision.

Good, N’Kari thought. It would be more stimulating this way. It would lend a little piquancy to the conflict. Opposition would provide a little relish.

Things were going well. Vengeance would soon be his.

The elves were proving troublesome. A storm of arrows had descended on N’Kari’s troops, along with a hail of spells. His warriors had been thrown back again and again. The greater daemons in his retinue, loath to be the first forward in case it was a trap, were holding off from the attack. The lesser ones were not powerful eough to clear the walls on their own. It was time for another tactic. He called his army back and ordered them to cease attacking, to give their foes an hour to rest, to snatch sleep, to dream...

He breathed deeply and exhaled, emptying his lungs in a cloud of narcotic perfume that all but stunned Elrion and the other cultists who watched him with bright, mad eyes. He extended one of his claws and inscribed runes in the dirt. He indicated to a cultist that she should bow her head, and took it off with one clean sweep. He breathed in again as the huge jet of blood spouted into the air. All of the crimson fluid was sucked into his chest, bringing with it the faint taste of its supplier’s tainted soul.

Swiftly N’Kari worked his spell, changing the blood within him, adding some of his own eternal essence, drawing corrupt phantasms from the Chaotic netherworlds. He added visions of sin from his extensive memories and lustful dreams taken over the centuries from the souls he had devoured.

He breathed in again through his nostrils, drawing on the winds of magic and adding power to the witch’s brew he exhaled through his mouth. An army of phantoms emerged in his breath, beautiful elf maidens and boys, translucent, dancing seductively.

His worshippers reached out and tried to embrace them but N’Kari shooed them away. These things were not for them. These wraiths were half-formed, malleable, responsive to dreams and whims. He did not want them shaped by the demented drives of his worshippers. These were meant for other beings. They would offer temptation to the guardians of the wall.

N’Kari aimed a coruscating bolt of energy at the weakest point in the spell walls. Even weakened the defences were still powerful. It took effort to blast even the smallest chink in them, but that small gap was all he needed to create. The wraiths flowed through the gap like water seeping in through a small hole in a ship’s hull, carrying within them a freight of dreams, desire and demented horror.