From behest the day I picked this mere tome from my dusty shelves I blessed it with such bold expectations. I dared not think if it could ever wholly suffice them; the fabled legends of Ulthuan holding a rich significance within me, with the Sundering being the zenith of the bloody, millenia-old, never-ceasing war but lo! Was I wrong with such a base hypothesis.
The story has its foundings barely a handspan after the cataclysmic creation of the Vortex, the magically nulling void centered within Ulthuan to drain magic from the world, and with it the manifestation of the servants of the Dark Gods. Though such significance as to this event, arguabley the greatest battle within the bounds of history, is not spoken of much, or to any particular depth, especially when one considers how the crowing of Bel-Shaanar, is yet a lowly year after the death of both Aenarion and Caledor and their equally triumphant and bereaved victory; Though the reasoning behind the denial of Malekith`s claims are well documented, the false joy expressed by the Prince masking his utter loathing, whilst Morathi shrieks her protestations towards the contempt of her son.
Seeking to abate the glory-hungering song within his tainted blood, Malekith and a host of the Nagarythe sail towards the Old World, to forge themselves their own kingdom, a barb to the pride of the crowned Pheonix King, an insult to his dominance over the true land of the Elves. Through the blood of his warriors, the thrust of gleaming silver tipped spears and arcs of flaming brands, Malekith builds his colony from the ashes of Athel Toralien, the milestone of his fruitful empire.
As the tides of savage Orcs are slain and pushed ever further, the denizens of Chaos routed, driven by the Princes lust for glory and taste for blood, the Naggarothi stumble upon the peculiar folk, so named the Dwarfs. Short where the Elves are tall, stocky where they are gangly, gruff to noble, and gritty to graceful, these two races, upon the wealth-gilded pinnalces of their race, their empires flourishing, as the darkness is ever abated, meet within the vast forests of the Old World, perturbed as one-another, concealing outright disgust with faint amusement and mockery.
Malekith travels towards the mountain holds of the Dwarfs, the jewel-encrusted summit of his ambassadorial trip, to talks within the mighty fortress of Karaz-A-Karak. It is here, admist the descriptive genius that Gav Thorpe paints so truly magnificently, that the underling demeanour of Malekith is revealed. His inferior views of the Dwarfish-folk, and the timely assassination to those who would ursurp his newfound alliance shatters any fictorial pictures we had of the Prince, with the ruthless, single-minded and power-thirsting son of Aenarion, his infamy knows him for.
Years, decades, centuries and even millenia flow away, as trade flourishes between the coastal Kingdoms of Ulthuan and its colonies, their coffers bulging with grain and gold. But as with any empire, it can only flourish so high before waning and floundering within the spoils of excess, depicted here, as the hedonistical Cults of Excess and Pleasure, their figurhead Morathi, Malekiths unholy mother.
Athel Toralien, as beautifully cemented later within the tome that is [B:]Shadow King[/B:] too falls under the excessive shadow of the cults, and rife with disgusts, our Prince heads towards the glacial crown of the world, the warping and magically infused Wastes, poisened by the might of Chaos, yet confined to its pitiful existance by the Vortex. Battling through the evil-worshiping tribes of early humanity, warp-mutated beasts and the fell daemons of Chaos itself, the party descends upon the blighted kingdom of long since vanished halflings, skeletal figures of foul breeds of Elf and Human.
And yet it is here. Upon the grandure of the blasted Wastes, within the warping echoes of the city, does Malekiths destiny finally manifest and abide his whims. Plucking the Circlet of Iron, an arcane crown of power-imbued metal, gifting the young Prince an audience to the lairs of the Chaos Gods themselves. Transversing through the blighted, coalescing, bloody and excessive kingdoms, Malekith, unknowingly condeming his warriors to slaughter, truly grasps the profanity of his birthright.
Whilst her son plys the seas of the world and tempts the wrath of the Chaos Gods, tilling the Wastes for ever greater glorious and foolish deeds, the taint of evil seeps slowly back into the newly freed isle, as cults spring from ever grang city, isolated farmstead and noble port. Bel Shaanar orders the cleansing of such vile practices, beneath of the banner of Malekith and Nagarythe, newly returned, with Ulthuan the ripe fruit for him to pluck from the conquest of war. With the ample and bloody culmination of such a vast campaign the storming of Anlec and the overthrow of the forbidden cults.
Ulthuan is led, blindly into blissful peace, once more, as the Prince of Nagarythe, now unleashes the Cults founded my Morathi, to cause spontaneous anarchy and unrest within the realms of the Elves once again. Malekith grips this feverant degeneration of Bel Shaanars power, forcefully poisening the Phoenix King, making his way upon the Dragon Ship Indraugnir, to the Shrine of Asuryan.
And it is upon this pyramid of white marbled and gold, that the cloying veil of century spun falsity drops: Malekith, his pent up and millenia agression and distrust, nourished by Morathi and provocked by the ignorance to his plea by the remaining Princes, slaughters near all the assembled throng of nobility. Knights of Anlec clash with stoic Phoenix Guard upon the docks, whilst the foul blade of Malekith is swung in magic-spitting arcs, every fiery sweep decapitating yet another Prince, as his hold upon the Pheonix Crown grows ever yet more, his dreams yet closer.
The blasphemous slaughter within the halls of the Creator God ends, alabaster steps stained by tacky rivulets of dripping crimson, as the once gallant and righteous protagonist, now turned blood-stained antagonist, casts his arrogance swaythed form into the fiery chasm as his father did millenia before, not to be blessed by the Allfather but burnt, as his vile body is wracked by white-hot fire, burning his mind and reducing his mortal form to ash, screams bubbling from scorched lips to a soul-gnawing crescendo, as Malekith crawls back towards the dais, away from Asuryans wrath, and so, the Sundering truly begins...
Rated at an impressive 4 stars from a potential of 5, for intoxicating prose, a gloriously weaved character that is Malekith, with substantial development through the read, his heroic and little-known rise and the magnitude of his traitrous and imfamous fall, with action from former page to latter. Though beautifully detailed at times, lacking badly at others, with bristling sieges, yet poor skirmishes, dimishing the perfection made manifest, ever so slightly.
My preconceptions - as majestic and high as the sky-touching towers of Tor Anroc itself - sated perfectly, my love of Elves quelled.