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