The Sundered Sister (End Times fluff story)

[Haagrum]

NB: This is a continuation of a story begun in this post. Just working out some plot lines for the Ulthuan.net story competition, and trying to do it in under 1000 words. There is a bit of repetition between the two, plot-wise, but I'm trying to work towards a logical conclusion which doesn't feel forced. Comments welcome.

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The Sundered Sister

As the first fingers of morning spread over Avelorn, a lone figure trudged mechanically on into the shadows of its forests. Gaunt, blood-spattered and barely clothed, the traveller’s golden mask seemed wholly out of place. Behind the grinning daemon’s visage lay an expressionless face and dulled eyes. Scarcely a year ago, she had known power, wealth and fame, and revelled in every vice that they could bring. Now, Malendris was barely a shell of the gladiatrix whose arena performances against traitors, beasts and monsters had thrilled the baying crowds for decades. She had not slept for days, and her movements betrayed the weight of an empty soul, one that had lost all purpose.

It should not have been this way, she thought. The final glorious invasion of Ulthuan had broken through the Eagle Gate, fought through to the Blighted Isle, and the Phoenix King Finubar was dead. This should have been a time of celebration for all druchii, marked by the restoration of the Witch King’s rulership over Elvenkind and the turning of the hated Prince Tyrion to the service of Khaine.

And yet...

Malendris had only vague memories of what had happened after the battle of the Blighted Isle. She had left the battlefield in Morathi’s host, joined her fellow Sisters of Slaughter as they journeyed to Cothique in triumph. She had fought in the arenas for the amusement of Tyrion’s court, delivering artistic and captivating deaths to traitors and Asur captives alike. As the weeks passed, though, Malendris began to realise that something was amiss. Word filtered back that Lord Malekith had been crowned as the new Phoenix King, that he now opposed the chosen of Khaine as they fought to drown Ulthuan in righteous slaughter. Far worse, though, was the change that Malendris began to see in the elves around her. Where they had once gloried in the manner and grace of delivering defeat and death, they now seem consumed with an insatiable blood-lust more becoming of the Witch Elves on Death Night. In the stands, they howled with barely-concealed hunger as her weapons reaped more victims in the arenas. On the battlefield, their finely-honed skills fell away as Elven speed and brute force impelled them to acts of sickening carnage.

Her fellow Sisters were not immune, despite their dedication to Eldrazor, Lord of Blades. Malendris had been forced to slay several of them during one performance. Presiding over the arena, Prince Dalroth had decreed that only the strongest warrior would leave alive, with the blood of the fallen to be a glorious sacrifice in honour of Khaine. It was not long after that Malendris had slipped away from the army’s encampments, joining Tyrion’s bodyguard and a small group of White Lions who had stolen north with Khaine’s blade. Malendris had not known their purpose – indeed, she had not even asked it – but had left to avoid becoming one of the aeskhaine, the degenerate killers that her fellow druchii were becoming in Tyrion’s presence.

When Morathi’s hunters had found them in the woods near Analdar’s Shrine, Malendris used the terrain to her advantage. Springing from tree branches, she slew three of the pursuing dark riders before they could alert the main host of her presence. When the battle was joined, however, Malendris saw that the White Lions’ captain had thrown in his lot with Hellebron, the Crone of Har Ganeth. Having fought the Bloodied Horde in that city’s ruins, Malendris knew that joining Hellebron would only lead to the same fate she had meant to escape. Faced with rejoining the aeskhaine or the Crone, knowing that only madness awaited, Malendris fled the field.

All this felt as though it had happened a lifetime ago. Malendris had brooded on the matter as she wandered south towards Avelorn. She had been caught up in the tide, and was now flotsam being washed ashore by the sea of madness drowning her people. Perhaps there would be others who fought against the bloodlust, who would take her in. Just as likely, they would kill her out of hand for having fought alongside the Aestyrion. Between those two options, Malendris had no preference. As the shadow of Khaine had receded from her, she became aware of a growing emptiness, a lack of purpose swelling into a gnawing void. She was so preoccupied that only a shout alerted her to the figures around her.

“That’s close enough, dark one!”

Malendris snapped out of her reverie to see a cloaked figure aiming a blazing bow at her heart. One of the Everqueen’s watchers, Malendris thought. Her whip and her shield were by her sides – she would never survive long enough to fight. There would be others, too, although Malendris could not see them. The Sisters of Avelorn did not travel alone. Then again, neither did my sisters, she thought bitterly. Malendris stopped, hands moving slowly to the daemon’s face covering her own. Pulling her mask free with both hands, she called out her reply.

“Kill me and be done with it, Ulthuani! I have survived the madness of Tyrion’s court and borne witness to the death of all I cared for. Knowing that I overcame the shadow that claimed your precious princeling is the only satisfaction I have left.”

Malendris let her hands fall by her sides, but the shot she expected never came. Another figure, garlanded with vines and flowers, emerged next to the archer. The newcomer whispered something Malendris did not understand, and a flash of light arced from her hands towards Malendris. She was suddenly overcome by a host of images – memories from the war in Har Ganeth, the flight from Naggaroth, the nightmarish events in the host of the Aestyrion. Surging through all of those, though, was the rune symbolising Eldrazor, and the creed of the Sisters of Slaughter. They burned like a blazing torch in the torrent of death and madness surrounding them, until they had banished the others into darkness.

With an exhausted moan, Malendris fell forward onto her hands and knees. She heard voices whispering above her.

“...of them, sister! I saw it in her stance, her expression!” A hopeful, insistent tone, Malendris noted. Another cut in, bitter and vengeful: “Her kind have none! She asked to die – why debate the matter?” It was probably one of the survivors of the battle of Withelan. Over both of them, a calmer voice spoke, and Malendris heard it clearly despite the growing cloudiness overtaking her mind.

“Take her to the healers. She is not one of Khaine’s, and she has struggled against the darkness longer than you know. She seeks honour through battle, and renewed purpose to fill the void within. She will have more than enough of both under the Phoenix King’s command.”

Hands caught her before Malendris slumped to the ground, gentle but firm. As she surrendered to sleep, Malendris allowed herself a smile. She was with her people once again.

[flatworldsedge]

Great read - love the arc. Nice work!

[CitizenKhaine]

Excellent story thanks, a great way to start the day. I hope you continue her story through the end times!

[flatworldsedge]

@Haagrum - Thanks for the PM! My replies seem stuck in Outbox, and won't move to "sent"... so please shout me if they haven't arrived! Thanks!