Blood of Aenarion Page 3

  It stretched out its taloned hands and ravening streamers of multi-coloured light flashed towards Aenarion. Whatever they touched, living or unliving, warped and changed. Beastmen devolved into protoplasm, hardened stone ran like water. Aenarion raised his blade in front of him and the ribbons of light parted on either side of him. He pushed forward, like a swimmer against a strong tide.

  The Lord of Change bellowed its rage and fury and invoked another spell, but by the time it was complete Aenarion was upon it, and the black blade bit home into its flesh. Where the weapon struck, chunks were hacked away and ectoplasm swirled forth in a choking cloud. The daemon screamed, unable to believe that anything could cause it so much pain. Its mighty taloned hands reached out to grip Aenarion.

  Such a feast, whispered the voices in his head. More.

  Sparks flickered where the daemon’s grip bit into Aenarion’s breastplate. The Lord of Change was a being of awful magical energies and not even the potent spells woven into the elf’s armour could completely resist it. The talons bit flesh and drew blood as they sought out the Phoenix King’s heart.

  Aenarion stifled his own cry of pain, and, knowing he had only one chance to live, struck a blow with the black blade, piercing the daemon’s head and striking its jewelled brain. It exploded into a thousand pieces. The force of the blast hurled him through the air to land sprawling on the steps of the temple. He felt ribs break on impact.

  Behind him the Vortex surged, and a high-pitched keening roar filled his ears. The air stank of ozone. A thousand voices screamed in unison as death overtook them. Another archmage had fallen. Who could it be, Aenarion wondered? Rhianos Silverfawn? Dorian Starbright? Undoubtedly it was someone he had known and now did not have the time to mourn.

  He glanced around him dazedly and caught sight of another gigantic figure slaying the last guardians of the doorway beyond which Caledor and his mages still struggled to maintain their spell. The warding spells could not stop it. The guardians were not even trying to. They were throwing themselves willingly onto the monster’s claws, and greeting death as they would a newfound lover. There was something obscene about the way they went to meet their doom.

  Aenarion’s heart sank. He knew this four-armed creature. It had taken all his strength to kill it once and now here it was again. This was N’Kari, the Keeper of Secrets, one of the deadliest of all the servants of the Gods of Chaos, the leader of the forces of Slaanesh, Lord of Pleasure.

  ‘I see I must slay you again,’ Aenarion shouted to get the daemon’s attention. ‘Or will you escape your just doom by some new trick as you appear to have done in the ruins of Ellyrion?’

  N’Kari laughed its beautiful woman’s laugh, and the wind bore its pungent erotic aroma to Aenarion’s nostrils. Normal mortals would have been bemused, but Aenarion was hardened against any temptation it might have borne.

  ‘Arrogant mortal, I let you live once so I might experience the sensation of defeat. Now I am gorged on ten thousand souls and I am invincible. Be honoured! Your soul will learn agony and ecstasy under the lash of the Dark Prince of Pleasure once I send it to meet him.’

  N’Kari sprang, and its huge crab-like claw snapped together where Aenarion had been standing a moment before. It was a feint, and it caught Aenarion with its other hand. Aphrodisiac poisons poured from its nails. Its cloying perfumed breath filled Aenarion’s nostrils. For a moment, he was dizzy and his legs threatened to give way beneath him.

  ‘Now is the moment of ultimate pleasure,’ said the Keeper of Secrets. ‘You will fall to your knees and adore me before you die, Phoenix King.’

  Aenarion lashed out with his blade, slashing the creature’s chest. Such was the daemon’s power that the flesh tried to knit behind the blade as it passed, but nothing could resist the fatal power of the Sword, and after a moment, N’Kari’s flesh smoked and burned.

  ‘I do not fear you or that blade you carry,’ said N’Kari, but there was an odd strain in its voice.

  ‘I will teach you to do so before this day is much older,’ said Aenarion. Rage filled the daemon’s eyes at his mockery. The massive claw swung round and gripped Aenarion’s chest. It closed. Aenarion felt the weakened armour buckle and his ribs snap.

  ‘You will not defeat me again, mortal.’

  Aenarion reached out with his hand into the cavity the black blade had made. He pulled forth the daemon’s still pulsing heart and raised it before him.

  ‘No,’ bellowed N’Kari. Aenarion closed his fist, crushing the heart. The daemon spasmed as if the organ being pulped were still within its chest. Poisonous blood dripped over Aenarion’s mailed fist, burning through the armour and threatening to make his hand useless. Aenarion forced its own blood into the daemon’s eyes, blinding it, then he raised the blade once more and drove it into N’Kari’s shattered chest.

  Ectoplasm poured forth as the daemon sought to evade the killing power of the sword. Tiny fragments of its essence flickered through the air towards the Vortex and vanished. As they did so, some of the chanting sorcerers moaned in ecstasy and died.

  Aenarion reeled. His left hand was burned and useless now. His chest was a fiery cauldron of agony. The pain mingled with an odd pleasure caused by the effects of the daemon’s blood.

  More. More. More. The voices in his head were crazed with demented passion now. The Sword was feasting on essences stronger than any it had known in a long time and it was enjoying its meal.

  A monstrous giggling form loomed over him. The smell of excrement and rotting flesh overcame the scent of everything else. He looked up to see the towering figure of a Great Unclean One, mightiest of the servants of the plague lord, Nurgle. It was the largest of the daemon princes by far. It loomed over him like a living mountain of filth, its vast flabby belly rippling in time to its idiot laughter.

  ‘Two of my peers have fallen to you, Phoenix King, and I would not have thought that possible.’ The daemon’s voice was deep and rich and humorous. Its tone was conversational. The cruelty of its gaze belied the warmth of its manner. ‘Still I, the Most Amiable Throttle Gurglespew, shall do my humble best to claim the victory.’

  The Great Unclean One vomited forth a mass of maggots and bile onto him. The creatures began to burrow their way into Aenarion’s flesh through the gaps in his armour, and force themselves into his eyes and mouth through the open visor of his helmet. He tried to keep his mouth closed but they wriggled up his nostrils and into his ears. They found gaps in his armour and squirmed across his flesh.

  Each of the maggots had a tiny face that was a perfect copy of the features of the massive daemon that had belched it forth. All of them tittered with an insane mirth that was a high-pitched echo of the greater daemon’s. They bit and gnawed at him and every bite was infected. He felt even the fires of the Phoenix within him gutter as his life force was drained away.

  A wave of fire passed over him, hotter than the heart of a volcano, brighter than the sun. The tiny daemons vaporised under the incandescent barrage. Aenarion, who had passed through the Flame of Asuryan, remained standing. Through the blaze he saw Indraugnir blast the greater daemon of Nurgle with flames and then rend its putrid flesh asunder with its mighty talons.

  Aenarion cheered his companion on as it tore its foe to pieces, reducing the greater daemon to a foul-smelling stinking pool of sewage on the ground. Indraugnir raised its head to the sky and let out a long bellow of triumph.

  An explosion of dragon flesh and dragon blood smashed into Aenarion’s face. An enormous gash appeared in the dragon’s side and a burning axe emerged from it. Indraugnir toppled backwards, a huge hole carved in its flank. Its triumphant cry died in its throat.

  Aenarion’s heart sank. Before him was a Bloodthirster, a greater daemon of Khorne, perhaps the deadliest creature in all creation save for the Blood God himself. It was a massive thing with mighty wings and a monstrous animal head. Its eyes blazed like falling meteors. Its huge form was encased in runic armour of bronze and black iron. It radiated an aura of power
greater than that possessed by any living creature Aenarion had ever faced.

  The Bloodthirster struck again, with the force of a thousand thunderbolts, and Indraugnir bellowed and was still. Only its tail gave one last reflexive twitch and all life seemed to go out of it. Aenarion’s awareness narrowed until it contained only himself and the daemon. They were like the last two living things moving in the ruins of a dead world.

  Kill it. Kill it. The voices chorused in his head. They sounded even more demented than ever as they advised him to use his waning strength against this all but invincible opponent.

  Limping painfully Aenarion forced himself to confront the last and mightiest of his foes.

  It tossed back its head and laughed at the sight of him. He understood its mirth. His body was broken, his armour shattered, his flesh seared by the dragon’s cleansing flame. Poisons and disease spores raced through his bloodstream. It was a race between them and loss of blood to see which killed him first. That was if the final greater daemon did not do their work for them.

  He staggered towards it, holding his blade at the ready with both hands. The daemon sprang forward in a cloud of fire and brimstone. Its weapons lashed out and Aenarion twisted to avoid the blow. It caught Aenarion in his already wounded arm, breaking armour, shattering bone, sending the Phoenix King flying through the doorway of the temple to land amid the last few surviving wizards who still chanted the spell.

  Aenarion looked around, appalled. So few mages were left. They had given up their lives to create the Vortex. At the centre of the chamber, near that towering whirlwind of unleashed magical power, only a few of the archmages remained, with Caledor standing on the central rune frantically trying to complete his spell even as the effort killed him.

  The greater daemon roared with triumph. ‘I am victorious,’ it said in a voice like the blast of a thousand brazen trumpets. ‘Only I remain and soon this world will be mine to do with as I will. I will take this power you have so conveniently collected and use it to reshape the face of this creation.’

  Aenarion forced his broken body to move and staggered between the Bloodthirster and its prey. It stared at him with burning eyes. ‘You cannot live through this, Phoenix King.’

  ‘I do not need to live,’ Aenarion said quietly. ‘I only need to kill you.’

  ‘That is not possible, mortal. I am Hargrim Dreadaxe and I am invincible. Never have I known defeat.’ The Bloodthirster pounced like a tiger leaping on a deer. Its speed was almost too fast for mortal eye to follow. Its power was all but irresistible.

  Aenarion unleashed the last of his carefully husbanded strength. A mighty blow arced downwards. The Sword howled in triumph as it smashed through eldritch armour, bit into unearthly flesh, shattered bone and ribs and cleft the daemon from head to groin. It fell to earth chopped almost in two, leaving Aenarion standing over its swiftly evaporating form.

  ‘There is a first time for everything,’ Aenarion said.

  The Phoenix King turned to stare at the wizards. He was near the end of his strength and he remembered Morathi’s prophesy. Once again his wife’s predictions had proven to be correct. He would die soon.

  Only Caledor stood now, his form incandescent with power.

  Thunder boomed. Lightning jumped from peak to peak. The great towers of light blazed brighter than the sun. Caledor’s flesh shrivelled and turned black until only something like a mummified corpse stood there, still chanting. Then even that desiccated husk blew apart, turning to ashes on the howling wind, leaving only the afterglow of the mage’s spirit, standing there, imprinted on Aenarion’s retina like the image of the sun seen through closed eyes.

  Aenarion leaned on his sword, unable to move his broken body. Pain burned every nerve ending. His ragged breathing rasped through broken lips. Something gurgled deep within his chest as his lungs filled with blood. He had taken more punishment than even his mighty frame could endure. He had been smashed, poisoned, blasted with fire and magic. He had defeated four of the mightiest daemons ever to blight creation. His army was all but dead. His friends were dead. And still the spell was not complete.

  They had rolled the dice and they had lost. The last gamble of the elves was over and all that remained was to pay the price of failure. He threw back his head and laughed.

  They had tried and there would be none left to witness their failure. He considered throwing himself into the still half-formed Vortex and offering himself up as a sacrifice as he had once done before the Flame of Asuryan but he knew that this time it would not work. There was nothing left to be done, except to return to the fray and slay what he could until he was pulled down into death.

  Yes, whispered the voices. Go! Kill until the world itself ends.

  A moment of awful silence came. The Vortex spun and danced before him, about to fall like a child’s top that had run out of energy. Aenarion watched fascinated and horrified as it began to collapse. Then the fading image of Caledor stabilised. The ghost turned to the Vortex and continued its spell. Shimmering figures appeared around him as if summoned by his will. Aenarion recognised them as the ghosts of the dead archmages. Somehow, something of them still survived in this place. Even in death something now bound them to it.

  The spirits of the other archmages joined in the ritual, walking one by one into the Vortex and vanishing. Aenarion peered at them through fast dimming eyes. He could see them becoming frozen, trapped in the awful centre of the spell as they continued the ritual. Something within him told him what was happening, that the ghosts were giving themselves up for all eternity to hold together the spell they had woven.

  No! The voices in his head shrieked. He felt the chorus of mad hatred build up in his head, threatening to overpower his will. Destroy it! Destroy them all! Destroy the world!

  The chant was seductive. He wanted to obey it. Why should anyone else live when he was dying? What did he care whether the world went on, if he could not be in it, ruling it?

  He walked slowly towards the centre of the Vortex. The ghost of Caledor stood before him and made a gesture for him to stop. The archmage shook his head, and pointed at the blade. It howled within Aenarion’s grasp, urging him to cut down Caledor and then leap into the Vortex, slashing all around him. By doing so, he would undo everything, slay the entire world by unleashing all the pent up magic the mages had struggled so long and so hard to control.

  He was tempted. He could end everything, kill everyone, and the blade could feast upon the death of an entire planet. Part of him wanted to do it, to end all life even as his own life ended. If he was to die, why not take everything else with him?

  He stood there, gazing at the ghost of the elf who had once been his friend. Caledor’s spirit sensed the struggle within him but there was nothing it could do to either aid or hinder. The decision was Aenarion’s own, or it was the Sword’s.

  That thought at last made Aenarion stir. He was his own master. He had always gone his own way. He had not bowed to his people, to Chaos, to the gods of the elves. In the end he would not bow to the Sword. It howled in frustration as if it sensed his decision and fought against it.

  Caledor smiled and waved farewell, and turned and walked into the place where he would be trapped for all that remained of eternity.

  Slowly, Aenarion turned his back on Caledor and the Vortex and walked away. The Sword fought him every step of the way.

  Outside, all was howling madness. Lightning lashed down from the sky. Time flowed strangely within the range of the Vortex’s influence. The daemons were vanishing, turning back into the stuff of Chaos that had formed them. Their worshippers aged before his eyes, years passing in seconds, putrefying flesh falling away from corpses even as they fell. Piles of bones formed everywhere.

  Aenarion stood and watched. Even the elves caught within the range of the newborn Vortex were ageing. He gestured for the survivors to flee and they obeyed.

  Aenarion knew he was dying from the wounds and the poisons burning in his veins. He knew he had to leave, to r
eturn the Sword to the place from whence it came. He could not risk it falling into the hands of anyone else. Not so near the heart of the Vortex. Not with the possibility of some daemon or creature of evil finding it. He knew now why the gods had not wanted any to wield it.

  He looked upon the corpse of Indraugnir. ‘It is a pity you cannot help me now, old friend,’ he said.

  One great eye opened, and the dragon tried to bellow. Instead of its usual proud roar, its voice was a mere hiss, but it forced itself upright on weakened legs, and stood there tottering as its heart’s blood pumped forth.

  ‘One last flight then,’ said Aenarion and the dragon nodded as if in agreement. ‘We take the blade back to the Blighted Isle and drive it so deeply into the altar that no one will ever be able to take it out again.’

  Aenarion forced himself into the saddle on the dying dragon’s back and strapped himself in. He took one last look about him at this place of destruction. Strange magic flowed all around him. The shadowy outlines of ghosts were visible in the ruins of the temple working on some great mystical pattern, performing the rites of some vast incomprehensible ritual. He tugged on the reins and the dragon leapt into the sky, soaring through the swirling clouds, climbing towards the sun.

  The winds of magic howled beneath Indraugnir’s wings as he and his dying rider flew into legend.

  N’Kari the Keeper of Secrets looked out from within the newly born Vortex and watched Aenarion depart. He was lucky to be alive and he knew it. The weapon the Phoenix King had carried was potent even beyond the imagining of daemons.

  Never in all his aeons-long existence had N’Kari experienced anything like this. He was reduced to the barest nub of sentience, a thing little greater than a maggot or a human, barely aware of its own existence. He had only just managed to escape from Aenarion by casting himself within the roaring magical energies summoned by the elven archmages and hiding there. And he was barely a shadow of what he had been. The Sword had weakened him greatly, in some way he still did not quite understand.