The End Times | The Curse of Khaine

Twenty-Four Painful Memories

The impudent mage had natural flair and unparalleled concentration, but Malekith had been a master of sorcery for more than five thousand years and had learned at the hand of Morathi, the greatest sorceress in history. It was inevitable that the Witch King’s spells would eventually break down the Sapherian’s counter-incantations and shimmering protective barriers.

Malekith hardly paid any attention to the military situation. It mattered not that his champion, Urian Poisonblade, greatest blade-wielder of Naggaroth, had fallen to the sword of the asur’s own hero. The armies of the Naggarothi were too numerous, too strong for the defenders of Ulthuan, and like the duel between Malekith and the mage of the White Tower it was simply a matter of time.

The last resistance of the asur would be crushed and Malekith would finally claim the Phoenix Throne, and ever after would be lauded the day he triumphed on Finuval Plain.

The winds of magic churned, telling their own tale of curse and counter-spell, enchantment and hex. Malekith’s dark magic was a tornado of energy, whirling, destructive, a storm of all eight winds forced together into an unstoppable mass.

The Sapherian mage, the one whose wit and will had thwarted every advantage Malekith had gained on this long campaign, wielded a far subtler force. High magic was the careful distillation and blending of the opposing forces inherent in the winds of magic, like a smith smelting iron and charcoal for the perfect steel, or a chef perfecting a recipe with the smallest hint of spices and herbs.

As swordmasters crashed into the druchii spearwall and griffons tore at manticores overhead, Malekith hurled blast after blast of dark lightning at the emissary from Hoeth, trying to overcome his foe’s defences with base fury. The Sapherian redoubled his efforts, ascending into the sky upon a pillar of magic to draw in the whirling winds of power gathered high above the battlefield.

From a magic-blasted hilltop Malekith summoned forth a storm of titanic proportion, torturing the air with dark energy until it gave vent to crashes of thunder and streaked the sky with blue and purple lightning. The mage manipulated Ghyran and Azyr, turning the tempest into tatters of cloud broken by golden rays of the sun.

Malekith cared nothing for the delay. Every elf that fell beneath blade and arrow that day fed the deathly Wind of Shyish, and from this pool of lethal energy he drew the greatest strength. The druchii could afford to lose two warriors for every asur slain and the elves of Ulthuan knew it to be true.

A sudden void in the winds disturbed Malekith’s concentration. The Witch King was shocked by the rapid cessation of energy, an utter stillness in the winds of magic. Not since the likes of Caledor Dragontamer had he seen such a spell. A secret lost to history when Caledor had been swallowed by the vortex he had created.

The Sapherian soared over Malekith, clutching tight to his staff. It was as though the young, gaunt elf was listening to his magical rod, head tilted to one side in concentration. He then looked down at Malekith, and the image of the mage’s face was etched forever in the Witch King’s memories.

He saw nothing in the mage’s eyes, none of the passion and life that ruled the minds of the asur. Instead the Sapherian looked down at Malekith with all the feeling of a shark, his gaze a predatory blank stare that the Witch King had only seen before from one individual – the eyes of his father before he had set out to return the Sword of Khaine, knowing he would not return. It was the look of a person that knew the world was about to end.

The winds of magic suddenly erupted into life once more, catching Malekith totally unawares, so entranced had he been by the mage’s appearance. Only the first syllables of a counter-spell had left his ragged lips when the wave of high magic engulfed him.

At first it felt cool, like a waterfall in reverse, numbing him from foot to head, but then the heat followed. It grew from his heart, and with it brought back the memories of Asuryan’s temple and the curse of the All-king.

Agony flared, as powerful now as it had been the first moment Malekith had set foot into the sacred fires. Renewed, invigorated, the fires burned, the dulling of six thousand years wiped away.

There was triumph, cruel victory, in the eyes of the mage as he glowered down at Malekith.

The pain was too much, the damage ravaging his body too brutal and all-consuming to bear. There was no spell or balm or talisman that could save him. In half a dozen heartbeats he would be dead, consumed as if he had stayed in the flame of Asuryan. There was only one way to escape and a moment to open the portal.

With a wordless shriek, Malekith ripped open the veil between worlds and hurled himself into the beyond, abandoning his mortal shell for survival in the Realm of Chaos.

Malekith awoke alone. The touch of Ghyran lay heavily upon his body, the Wind of Life mixed weightily, ironically, with the Wind of Metal, Chamon. He raised a hand but pain lanced into him, from his chest and gut, his shoulder and arm. The memory of what had happened at the end of his confrontation with Tyrion blurred with the disaster at Finuval Plain, but it seemed a wonder he was in one piece.

He opened iron-lidded eyes and saw the dulled gaze of Teclis looking down at him. The glow of the mage’s desperate teleportation faded around them. There was white stone, walls and ceiling, and he assumed the hard floor beneath was the same. Something dark and bulky blocked out the light to the left – the barely-living Seraphon. Malekith glimpsed another figure on the edge of vision and recognised Caradryan.

‘Rest,’ said the mage, while Caradryan looked around, as amazed as Malekith to be alive.

Malekith could not argue. His wounds were many, the assassin’s poison like acid in his body. Unconsciousness was welcome.

‘Welcome back.’ The voice was sudden, jerking Malekith’s head around. In the corner sat a silver-armoured figure, his halberd held across his knees, helm laid on the white marble floor. Caradryan had spoken softly, but even his whisper seemed incredibly loud in this place, echoing from the beautifully crafted stone. ‘Teclis’s ministrations have had some effect, I see.’

‘I thought your order was sworn to silence?’

‘For their term of service,’ said Caradryan, nodding. ‘But my life was meant to have ended at the Blighted Isle.’

‘It is written on the walls, is it not? The future of everything?’

‘Not everything,’ Caradryan confessed, ‘but much that happens now has come before. You are one of the few people that witnessed the start as well as the end.’

‘I am not sure how I am alive. Tyrion…?’

‘Lives, unfortunately. Teclis tried his best to steer events along the path foretold by Lileath, but he was only partially successful.’

‘Goddesses of fate can be terribly tricksome, I am told,’ growled Malekith. ‘I thought I was dead three-ways over.’

‘Our companion’s spell deflected Anar’s arrow a fraction’, Caradryan explained, standing up. ‘It struck Tyrion in the chest, knocking him away from the altar though it did not pierce his armour. His blow fell wide of you, and in the next moment Teclis called upon Lileath to spare us and we were transported here.’

Light footsteps drew their attention to the archway, where Teclis appeared a moment later looking worried.

‘You need to rest,’ Caradryan said, pointing at the blood that oozed from Malekith’s wounds, coating cracked armour plates. The Phoenix Guard captain left with the mage and Malekith fell back into a pain-wracked sleep.

In time Malekith, aided in part by the attention of Teclis, recovered sufficient strength to leave the shrine of Lileath where they had arrived. The mage had disappeared a few days earlier, and sent a ship to bear the Witch King and Caradryan to the Island of Flame, home to the Shrine of Asuryan. Seeing the huge temple brought back one of Malekith’s oldest and bitterest memories.

The shrine itself was a high pyramid in form, built above the burning flame of the king of the gods. The flame danced and flickered at the heart of the temple, thrice the height of an elf, burning without noise or heat. Runes of gold were inlaid into the marble tiles of the floor around the central fire, and these blazed with a light that was not wholly reflected from the flame. Upon the white walls were hung braziers wrought in the shape of phoenixes with their wings furled and more magical fire burned within them, filling the temple with a golden glow.

All the princes of Ulthuan were there, resplendent in their cloaks and gowns, with high helms and tall crowns of silver and gold studded with gemstones from every colour of the rainbow. Only the Naggarothi stood out amongst this feast of colour, taciturn and sombre in their black and purple robes. Morathi stood with Malekith and his followers, the seeress eyeing proceedings with suspicion.

Astromancers were present too, seven of them, who had determined that this day was the most auspicious to crown the new Phoenix King. They wore robes of deep blues patterned with glistening diamonds in the constellations of the stars, linked by the finest lines of silver and platinum.

The astrologers stood next to the chanting priests of Asuryan, who weaved their prayers around Bel Shanaar so that he might pass through the flames unscathed. Behind the priests sat the oracles of Asuryan: three elven maidens of pale skin and blonde hair, garbed in raiment of silver that shimmered in the dazzling light.

Yvraine and her maiden guard had journeyed from Avelorn to join the ascension of her ceremonial husband. These warrior-women wore skirts of silvered scale edged with green cloth, and carried garlands of flowers in place of their spears and bows, for no weapon was allowed to pass the threshold of Asuryan’s temple.

Bel Shanaar stood with the high priest before the flame, and about his shoulders was hung a cloak of white and black feathers, a newly woven symbol of his power and authority.

‘As did Aenarion the Defender, so too shall I submit myself to the judgement of the greatest power,’ Bel Shanaar solemnly intoned. ‘My purity proven by this ordeal, I shall ascend to the throne of the Phoenix King, to rule wisely and justly in the name of the king of gods.’

‘Your father needed no spells of protection,’ muttered Morathi. ‘This is a fraud, of no more legitimacy than the sham wedding to Yvraine.’

As the priests burned incense and made offerings to Asuryan, the oracles began to sing quietly, their verses almost identical but for a few words here and there, which rose into a joyful harmony as Bel Shanaar was ushered towards the flame of Asuryan. The Phoenix King-to-be turned and looked back towards the princes, with no sign of trepidation or exultation.

With a respectful nod Bel Shanaar faced towards the centre of the shrine and walked forwards, slowly ascending the shallow steps that led up to the dais over which the god’s cleansing fires gleamed. All present then fell hushed in anticipation as Bel Shanaar stepped within the flame, which turned to a glaring white and forced the onlookers to cast their gazes away lest they be blinded by its intensity.

As their eyes grew accustomed to the bright burning of the flame, they could see the vague shape of Bel Shanaar within, arms upraised as he offered fealty to Asuryan. Then the Phoenix King turned slowly and stepped back out of the flames unharmed. There was a sighing of exhalation as the princes expressed their relief that all went well. The Naggarothi remained silent.

The entourage left, laughing and chattering, save for Malekith, who stayed for a long while gazing at the flame and pondering his fate. The sacred fire had returned to its shifting colours, now seeming dim after its dazzling eruption. To Malekith it seemed as if they had been diminished, tainted by the presence of Bel Shanaar.

Unaware of anything but that burning shrine, Malekith walked slowly forwards, his mind a swirl of conflicting emotions. If he but dared the flame and survived, without the spells of the priests to protect him, then surely it was the will of Asuryan that he succeed his father. Yet what if he was not strong enough? Would the burning of the flames devour him? What then would be left of his hopes and dreams for Nagarythe?

Without realisation Malekith stood directly before the fires, mesmerised by their shifting patterns. The urge to reach out gripped him and he was about to place his hand into the flame when he heard the footsteps of the priests re-entering the temple. Snatching his hand away, Malekith turned from the sacred fire and strode quickly from the shrine, ignoring the priests’ inquiring glances.

There were to be many days feasting and celebration, but Malekith left as soon as the ceremony was complete, his duty having been fulfilled. He felt no urge to linger here, where his father had first thrown himself upon the mercy of the greatest god and been reborn as the saviour of his people. If Bel Shanaar wished to be Phoenix King, then Malekith was satisfied to acquiesce. There were more than enough challenges ahead for him to overcome, Malekith knew, without inciting rivalry and discord. Content for the moment, he journeyed back to Anlec to take up his rule.

As he strode down the plank of their barque, every sinew, muscle, plate and rivet of his body screamed pain but Malekith ignored it, drawing on the immense willpower that had sustained him against such hurt for so long.

The sea surrounding the Shrine of Asuryan was thick with warships, but Teclis’s spells had shrouded their arrival. The Dragon of Lothern blazoned upon every sail. Their crews pounded the ancient walls with every spell and siege engine at their command. These were Lord Aislinn’s vessels, high admiral of the harbour city, the finest ships in Ulthuan. Another section of the shrine’s outer walls collapsed into the sea under the bombardment.

The Shrine of Asuryan was not entirely defenceless. A chorus of screeches split the air as a flock of phoenixes winged across the water. Flames billowed in their wake and washed over a dragonship, timbers and sails catching light almost immediately. The fires spread hungrily, outstripping the crew’s ability to quench them. Archers on neighbouring vessels loosed their volleys skyward, but the swirling phoenixes broke apart, reformed and dived against the next vessel in line.

Caradryan winced as the whine and crack of another volley struck the walls. Teclis hurried out from the depths of the temple, robes and cloak billowing around him.

‘Well, this is glorious,’ Malekith declared. The shrine shuddered, and he reached out to steady himself on a wall lining the road.

‘It is insanity,’ Teclis countered, his irritation palpable. Caradryan said nothing, though the worry on his face was plain enough.

‘Come,’ said the mage. ‘We have no time to waste.’

Progress through the shrine was painfully slow, and every step was punctuated by the strike of an artillery bolt upon the walls, or the bellow of distant merwyrm. By the time Malekith and his companions had reached the entrance corridor’s far end, the clamour of steel upon steel had joined the cacophony outside as Phoenix Guard vied with Aislinn’s marines for control of the island beyond the temple walls. Malekith read in Teclis’s concerned features a sorry conclusion – that the Island of the Flame would soon be overrun.

‘Your plan seems to be failing, mage,’ Malekith mocked as they passed through into the inner sanctum. Two-score Phoenix Guard marched past them and back through the closing gates.

‘I had planned to bring you here at once,’ Teclis reminded him, reliving the bitterness of that particular failure. ‘But you would not be swayed, were determined to follow your pride. Who knows how many have died needlessly because of that hubris?’

The Sapherian took a deep breath. ‘Now we shall both have to hope you are strong enough, despite your injuries. My brother has become Khaine, or something very like him. You know the legends. Only Asuryan can defeat Khaine – Asuryan, or his chosen vessel.’

‘The flame rejected me once,’ Malekith said. ‘Why should it not do so again?’

‘There was no rejection. You simply weren’t strong enough. Asuryan always intended for you to succeed your father. Think on it. Why do you suppose every Phoenix King was shielded by mages in their passage through the fire? Even then, they all passed into madness of one kind or another. It was not just Aethis and Morvael – even those my people revere were consumed by the power or the guilt of a stolen throne.’

‘And what proof have you of this?’ Malekith demanded.

‘Finubar told me,’ he said. ‘Why do you suppose he hardly fought you at the end? He, at least, was good-hearted, but the guilt ate away at him. That is why he so rarely led his people to war. He knew he was but the continuance of a subverted tradition. He was glad to die.’

Without warning, a new sound joined the battle outside: the deep, primal roar of dragons. Teclis gave a small smile. ‘Imrik has come,’ he said quietly. ‘You owe him much, though I doubt you will ever accept that.’

‘Even now, when you know I have no other choice, still you attempt to manipulate me,’ said Malekith.

‘It is my right to be Phoenix King,’ growled Malekith. ‘It is not yours to give, so I will gladly take it.’

‘Traitor!’ screamed Elodhir, leaping across the table in front of him, scattering goblets and plates. There was uproar as princes and priests shouted and shrieked.

Elodhir dashed across the shrine, and was halfway upon Malekith when Bathinair intercepted him, sending both of them tumbling down in a welter of robes and rugs. Elodhir punched the Yvressian prince, who reeled back. With a snarl, Bathinair reached into his robes and pulled out a curved blade, no longer than a finger, and slashed at Elodhir. Its blade caught the prince’s throat and his lifeblood fountained across the exposed flagstones.

As Bathinair crouched panting over the body of Elodhir, figures appeared at the archway behind Malekith: black-armoured knights of Anlec. The priests and princes who had been running for the arch slipped and collided with each other in their haste to stop their flight. The knights had blood-slicked blades in their hands and advanced with sinister purpose.

At last they came to the chamber of the flame. At Caradryan’s nod, the chamber’s guards stepped aside and opened the heavy brass-bound doors. They, like the rest of the Phoenix Guard within the shrine, seemed to think nothing odd of the Witch King’s presence. On the other side of the doors, a broad marble stair led upwards. The chamber was far grander than when Malekith had last been here. At the top burned the flames of Asuryan.

They seemed dimmed to Malekith’s eye, from what he remembered. Did that bode good or ill?

‘Why do you think that Imrik fights for you?’ Teclis asked as the doors slammed closed behind them. ‘Why do you think that the Phoenix Guard have allowed you within these walls? Why was Caradryan ready to die for you? Imrik has learned the truth of things, and the Phoenix Guard have always known it.’

‘Then why do so many of them march under Tyrion’s banner?’ Malekith demanded. Now that he was standing before the flame his uncertainties grew. Why after all this time were his dreams suddenly shared by so many others?

‘They have fallen under Khaine’s sway, like so many others. They knew that if they followed Tyrion, they would join his madness. But they knew also that it was their fate, and so went anyway.’

‘A pathetic excuse.’

‘No, it is an honourable sacrifice,’ Teclis argued. ‘To pledge yourself to the Phoenix Guard is to be haunted, every day, with the knowledge of how you will fail, no matter how flawless your service.’ Teclis closed his eyes briefly. ‘It is not a path I could have chosen. I need hope, and the Phoenix Guard know only certainty.’

‘Weakness.’ As he said the word Malekith felt blood bubbling up in his throat and he degenerated into a terrible, wracking cough. Bloody spittle oozed out through his helm’s mouthpiece to drip to the floor. The Witch King stumbled, and would have fallen had Caradryan not moved to support him. Malekith pulled free. He took three staggering steps towards the flame, then stopped.

‘If I pass into the fire,’ he said without turning, ‘my every striving has been a lie.’

Teclis waited for a moment before speaking, then chose his words carefully. ‘Does that cause you to regret your deeds?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Malekith softly, without thought, but then his voice grew harder. ‘No. I would do it all again.’

‘Then nothing about you was ever a lie,’ said Teclis, ‘and by your words you prove yourself no better than those who stole the throne.’ He sighed. ‘But you are Asuryan’s choice nonetheless. All that is left of our creator waits for you in the fire. If you can withstand the pain, there is perhaps a chance for us all.’

‘And if I cannot?’ Malekith asked.

‘Then the last spark of Asuryan will fade, and those of our people who survive Tyrion’s madness will be consumed by the Dark Gods.’

Malekith was serene; all trace of his earlier anger had disappeared. He walked slowly forward as his knights cut and hacked at the princes around him, his eyes never leaving the sacred flame in the centre of the chamber. Screams and howls echoed from the walls but the prince was oblivious to all but the fires.

Out of the melee, Haradrin ran towards Malekith, a captured sword raised above his head. With a contemptuous sneer, the prince of Nagarythe stepped aside from Haradrin’s wild swing and thrust his own sword into Haradrin’s gut. He stood there a moment, the princes staring deep into each other’s eyes, until a trickle of blood spilled from Haradrin’s lips and he collapsed to the floor.

Malekith let the sword fall from his fingers with the body rather than wrench it free, and continued his pacing towards the sacred fires.

‘Asuryan will not accept you!’ cried Mianderin, falling to his knees in front of Malekith, his hands clasped in pleading. ‘You have spilt blood in his sacred temple! We have not cast the proper enchantments to protect you from the flames. You cannot do this!’

‘So?’ spat the prince. ‘I am Aenarion’s heir. I do not need your witchery to protect me.’

Mianderin snatched at Malekith’s hand but the prince tore his fingers from the haruspex’s grasp.

‘I no longer listen to the protestations of priests,’ said Malekith and kicked Mianderin aside.

His hands held out, palms upwards in supplication, Malekith walked forwards and stepped into the flames.

Prince, priest and knight alike were tossed around by a great heaving. Chairs were flung across the floor and tables toppled. Plaster cracked upon the walls and fell in large slabs from the ceiling. Wide cracks tore through the tiles underfoot and a rift three paces wide opened up along the eastern wall, sending up a choking spume of dust and rock.

The flame of Asuryan burned paler and paler, moving from a deep blue to a brilliant white. At its heart could be seen the silhouette of Malekith, his arms still outstretched.

With a thunderous clap, the holy flame blazed, filling the room with white light. Within, Malekith collapsed to his knees and grabbed at his face.

He was burning.

He flung back his head and screamed as the flames consumed him; his howl of anguish reverberated around the shrine, echoing and growing in volume with every passing moment. The withering figure silhouetted within the flames pushed himself slowly to his feet and hurled himself from their depths.

Malekith’s smoking and charred body crashed to the ground, igniting a rug and sending ashen dust billowing. Blackened flesh fell away in lumps amidst cooling droplets of molten armour. He reached outwards with a hand, and then collapsed. His clothes had been burned away and his flesh eaten down to the bone in places. His face was a mask of black and red, his dark eyes lidless and staring. Steam rose from burst veins as the prince of Nagarythe shuddered and then fell still, laid to ruin by the judgement of Asuryan.

He looked at Teclis. There was concern on the face of the mage, and sympathy too, for it was plain which event plagued Malekith’s thoughts at that moment.

‘Courage,’ said the mage. ‘The courage of your convictions. See through that which you began so long ago, and do not be afraid.’

Malekith hesitated a moment longer and gazed levelly at the loremaster. Now that Tyrion had drawn the Widowmaker, what use did the mage have for Malekith in his schemes? Malekith’s thoughts moved to Imrik. His forefather had been a usurper – perhaps it was the intent to replace Malekith again with the accursed line of the Dragontamer.

‘If Lileath desired you dead your corpse would be an ornament for the Shrine of Khaine,’ said Teclis, guessing Malekith’s line of thought. ‘I could easily have allowed my brother to kill you to seal his pact with the God of Murder. We need a Phoenix King, and you are Aenarion’s heir.’

‘What about the blessings of the priests? The enchantments of the mages?’ If it had served the usurpers well enough, it would serve now. Every fibre of Malekith warned against stepping into the flames.

‘You were right – one of Aenarion’s true lineage needs no protective spells to survive the flame.’ Teclis moved to lay a hand upon Malekith’s arm as the king-to-be took a step towards the flame, and flinched back from the gesture at the last moment, feeling the heat that emanated from Malekith’s armour. ‘You must be ready. Asuryan demands sacrifice and your rebirth is not without pain.’

‘Tell me of pain?’ sneered Malekith. Fire flared between the plates of his armour. ‘It was you that awoke the burning of Asuryan’s curse at Finuval Plain, so tell me, Teclis, what you know of pain?’

Malekith remembered a battle long before Finuval Plain when the nature of Asuryan’s touch had become clear to him, a time when rule of Ulthuan had been moments away from his grasp.

Sulekh’s body slammed into Malekith, crushing him into the ground. Pinned by her massive weight, he heaved at her mass, trying to free himself, letting out a bellow of frustration. He dropped Avanuir to the ground so that he could use both hands to push at the massive corpse that lay on top of his legs and waist.

A prickle of sensation shuddered through Malekith: the touch of magic. He turned his head to the left seeking the source.

A wave of white fire poured towards him. It was beautiful, glittering like moonlight on the sea, flecked with gold and silver. He recognised the flames. He had stood within them to receive Asuryan’s blessing. Now the lord of gods had come again to aid Malekith, as he had Aenarion.

With a surge of power, Malekith heaved free the body of Sulekh. He stood up and faced the oncoming fire, arms spread wide to receive Asuryan’s blessing. The white flames crackled closer and closer, a chill wind against his red-hot armour. He closed his eyes as the fire engulfed him, waiting for the release from the agony that had been his companion for more than two decades.

Fresh pain seared through his chest and arms. Malekith gave a cry and opened his eyes.

It was not the flames of Asuryan that surrounded him, but the halberds of the Phoenix Guard. Each blade burned with the white fires of Asuryan, every blow they landed upon the Witch King igniting the flame that had been set within his flesh by the lord of gods.

The physical pain was as nothing compared to the pain of betrayal. As his iron flesh was rent and ripped by the swinging halberds of the Phoenix Guard Malekith realised he had not received Asuryan’s blessing. His father had not endured the agony he had endured.

The Witch King’s delusion fell away and he saw his punishment for what it was. Asuryan had shunned him, cursed him with everlasting torment. The shock of it brought Malekith to his knees as more blows rained down upon him, carving furrows in his black armour.

‘You must endure,’ Teclis insisted, ignoring Malekith’s barbed words. ‘You will be destroyed and renewed. When you last stepped into the flame you were almost destroyed, and if you had but remained for a few more moments the rebirth would have begun.’

Malekith looked down at the mage, head tilted to one side.

‘I was not cursed?’ He said the words quietly, slowly, trying to digest the importance of Teclis’s message. ‘Though I profaned Asuryan’s temple with blood and sought dominion over my kin? Though I killed Bel Shanaar with my own hands, the Lord of the Cadai would have blessed me if I had endured for a few heartbeats longer? This… This pain… The wars… Six thousand years of grief, because…’

He could not bring himself to voice what he thought, but the mage knew exactly that which vexed him and spoke the concern out loud.

‘Because you were weak, Malekith.’

Hundreds had died agonising deaths simply because they had thought such a sentiment and it shook the Witch King to hear it plainly spoken, but in that moment he felt no anger for Teclis, only a sensation he had not felt for more than six millennia: shame.

‘Then let us be at it,’ said Malekith and he stepped into the sacred fire of Asuryan.

Twenty-Five The Flame of Asuryan

He was burning, the scream wrenched from his throat fuelled by raw agony and despair. It was every moment of six thousand years relived, the pain of six thousand years welled up into one single instant coursing through his body.

The urge to flee, to throw himself clear, to escape again to the Realm of Chaos, was almost overwhelming. What did it matter if his people were destroyed – he would survive, he was the greatest of them, they existed to be sacrificed for his continued life.

But he denied the urge, listening instead to the beat of his heart rather than the fear of his mind. He remembered that he was Aenarion’s son and held firm to the resolution that he would be reborn if he could but endure for a few heartbeats longer. Teclis had promised him as much, and if the mage sought to play him false it was better now to end his life knowing the truth than continue for another pain-wracked age beset by the doubt that he had been offered that which he desired the most and refused it.

It was not the physical pain that caused such torture. The mortal pain was only a memory of the spiritual pain. He had known in that moment he had stepped into the flames the first time that he was not worthy. The blood on his hands, metaphorical and literal, had been his guilt and he had carried it with him.

There had been no judgement laid upon him by Asuryan. The only punishment he suffered was self-inflicted.

In acknowledging that, he accepted his fate, remembering that his father had been willing to die for the protection of Ulthuan. To rule as Phoenix King one had to be raised up from the ashes of death. There was no other way.

As the fires consumed him, Malekith laughed.

The flames burned through him, touching every part of his body and spirit. There was no pain, no sensation at all. Malekith felt like a ghost, apart from the mortal world. He swore that a thousand voices were now chanting.

Malekith could see nothing but multicoloured fire. He was made of it. He lifted a hand in front of his face and saw nothing save the dancing flames.

Malekith wondered if he was dead.

His body felt as though it had wings, lifting him up, borne aloft by the flames like the phoenixes of the flamespyre. He closed his eyes but nothing changed; still the flames filled his vision. A gentle breeze washed over him, its touch smoothing away metal skin and charred flesh and broken bone, reducing him to delicate ash, all without the slightest hint of discomfort.

Sensation returned, the fire coalescing again into his form, creating body and limbs and head and fingers and every part of him from its essence. Opening his eyes, he turned and stepped out of the flames.

‘I am ready.’

The priest nodded and signalled to his attendants. Each of them carried a piece of blackened metal, curved and rune-encrusted. Some were recognisable: breastplate, vambraces, gorget, gauntlets. Others seemed utterly alien, strangely shaped, trailing sheets of black mail or fixed with awkwardly angled hinges.

The first piece was put into the furnace. The slaves were whipped to increase their labours at the bellows. Muttering prayers to Vaul, Hotek fanned the flames with magic, until they burned white-hot. Reaching his bare hand into the fires, he retrieved the piece of armour. Impervious to the heat, he carried it to Malekith, who watched the proceedings with the remains of his brow knotted in concentration.

‘This will burn,’ said Hotek.

Malekith’s reply was a shrill laugh, tinged with madness.

‘I can burn no more,’ whispered the prince. ‘Do it!’

An acolyte brought forward a smoking rivet in a pair of tongs. Hotek and his assistant crouched, the priest placing the hot piece of metal against Malekith’s flesh with a hiss of vapour. Malekith giggled.

‘Now,’ said Hotek.

The acolyte pushed the rivet into place. With a few whispered words of enchantment, Hotek struck lightly with the Hammer of Vaul, tapping the hot rivet through its prepared hole and into the bone of Malekith.

The prince snarled with pain, and swayed for a moment. He wished he could close his eyes. Instead he set his mind aside, going to the place he had created for himself in the cold depths of his thoughts.

With a start, Malekith was dragged back to reality. Two bodies lay at his feet. His body burned with fresh fire, but it was no more than he had grown used to. Acolytes moved around him, painting blood from the sacrifices into the runes carved upon the pieces of armour put in place, following each curl and line with brushes made of elven hair.

His lower legs and feet were clad in the smoking black iron. He did not remember lifting his feet, but realised he must have done so. He could feel the rivets hammered into heel and toe and laughed at the thought of being shod like a warhorse.

There was chanting. His mother looked on silently, but her adepts’ words swished around the chamber, verses overlapping, creating an arrhythmic harmony of magic. More rivets were driven into the scrawny flesh of his thighs, and links were riveted into place through the sides of his knees.

When next he perceived clearly what was happening, he was clad from foot to neck in the armour. Every part of him trembled. He could feel the energy of the spirit he had consumed slipping away.

‘Too soon,’ he muttered. ‘I am falling.’

Morathi hurriedly beckoned to an adept, who sacrificed another captive and brought the blood to Malekith in a cup of ancient silver. Malekith took the cup and then stopped. He realised he had not held a thing for more than a decade. He examined the fingers of his new hand, each perfectly articulated. He recognised the dwarf-work that inspired the design and smiled to himself. Even now, his great adventures of the past were still bearing fruit.

The fires flared anew and Malekith was brought back to the present. A film of red covered his vision. His own blood, he realised.

He blinked.

The simple motion caused him immeasurable joy. The thinnest slivers of black metal had been fashioned into eyelids. Malekith blinked again, and then closed his eyes. He enjoyed the darkness and more time passed.

‘It is done,’ announced Hotek.

Malekith flexed his arms and bent his legs, trying out his new body. It felt like his own flesh, though the burning had not lessened. Half a dozen dead elves lay sprawled at his feet, throats slit, their blood anointed upon his forged form. He could feel their spirits sliding around him, trapped within the runes of the armour.

‘Not finished,’ he said. ‘My crown.’

Hotek looked confused and turned to Morathi for explanation. She summoned an acolyte who brought forth a velvet cushion on which was placed a circlet of dull grey metal, spikes jutting at strange angles like a crown conceived by a lunatic.

Morathi reached a hand towards it, but Malekith grabbed her wrist. She howled in pain and tore free from his grip, backing away. There were burns on her flesh.

‘You cannot touch it,’ said Malekith. ‘It is not yours, it is mine.’

He took up the Circlet of Iron. It felt icy cold to his touch. While Morathi fussed over her burned wrist, Malekith raised the strange crown to his head and placed it on his brow.

‘Weld it,’ said the prince. ‘Make it a piece of the helm.’

Hotek did as he was bid, striking more rivets into Malekith’s skull before securing the circlet in place with molten metal. Malekith reached up and tugged at the circlet, assuring himself that it could not be removed.

Satisfied, he closed his eyes again. He let his thoughts free from his body, tasting the dark magic seething around the dungeon chamber. He felt the inrushing of power and rode the wave of energy, spearing up through the roof of the chamber, passing through the many floors of his father’s palace like a meteor called back to the stars. Anlec dwindled below him and he shifted from the plane of mortals into a realm of pure magic.

As at the first time he had worn the circlet, he looked at the Realm of Chaos, the domain of the Chaos Gods. On this occasion he had no fear. He materialised in his armoured form, burning white-hot, his presence blazing across the dominions of the Chaos Gods as a challenge.

Sentiences not of any mortal recognition stirred. Malekith felt their attention slowly drawn towards him.

‘I am Malekith!’ he declared. A flaming sword appeared in his hand. ‘Son of Aenarion, the daemons’ bane. Hear my name and know me, the rightful king of the elves!’

As a comet of power, he plunged back to his body. The runes of his armour exploded with dark flames as he re-entered his artificial form. He opened his metal eyelids, revealing orbs of black fire.

He looked down at the elves around him. They seemed small and insignificant. His voice echoed strangely from the mask of his helm, filling the room.

‘I have returned,’ he declared. ‘Pay homage to me.’

All present fell to their knees, instantly obedient to his words; save one, who fixed him with an expression of utter happiness.

‘Hail Malekith!’ cried Morathi, golden tears streaming down her face. ‘Hail the Witch King of Ulthuan!’

The flame guttered and died behind Malekith, leaving the inner sanctum in darkness.

The ground trembled, and not from the bombardment, but from a movement deep below. With a loud snap, a crack appeared in the pyramidal roof, a shaft of light breaking through to illuminate the newly-blessed Phoenix King.

‘Hail the Phoenix King,’ Caradryan said, tone uncertain, lifting his halberd in salute. Malekith stopped, shocked by the similarity to Kouran, as though he were the light from which came the shadow that was the captain of the Black Guard.

Malekith noticed Caradryan’s confused look and gazed down at himself, expecting to see pale skin, living muscle. Instead there was the same fractured and pitted metal, though the blood had stopped leaking from his wounds.

‘You said I would be reborn!’ bellowed Malekith rounding on Teclis. The mage back-stepped as the Phoenix King stalked towards him, one finger pointed in accusation. ‘Look at me. Look at me!’

‘In spirit,’ the mage replied, stopping when he was beside Caradryan. ‘Spiritually reborn.’

‘This is a mockery,’ growled Malekith, fighting the urge to fall to his knees and weep. He swayed, a hand across his face. ‘Six thousand years encased in this prison…’

The temple bucked again, a sound like thunder reverberating from below. A chunk of masonry larger than Malekith fell from the roof to crash on the tiles close to the flame, shattering into white splinters. Another piece fell a moment later, just a few paces from the Phoenix King. The steps split, letting immense blocks of marble fall to the sanctum floor. Shards like immense icicles fell from the roof around the elves.

The sunlight flickered as the silhouettes of dragons passed over, their roars mingled with the shouts of clashing warriors and the crackle of flames.

‘We should hurry,’ said Teclis, another tremor causing him to flinch and stumble as he turned towards the doorway. ‘Even if we escape the shrine, Aislinn’s forces are all over the island by now.’

‘Not that way,’ said Caradryan, pointing across the inner shrine. ‘There is another exit, known only to the Phoenix Guard.’

The former captain started across the sanctum at a run, Teclis on his heel. Malekith followed with a leisurely stride, ignoring the pieces of stone falling around him.

‘Why do you tarry?’ demanded Teclis, stopping to look back. ‘The temple is about to collapse!’

‘I do not think Asuryan invested me with his last power only to have me squashed by wayward masonry,’ Malekith replied with a laugh. It was quite overwhelming, the mixture of elation and disappointment. He held out a hand and let his essence flow. The fire inside him burned white and he laughed again, delighted by this revelation. ‘I have become the sacred flame.’

‘I would prefer it that the flame was not extinguished quite so soon,’ Teclis said, tapping his staff on the floor in impatient agitation.

‘Do you not think I look magnificent?’ Malekith said, stopping also, confounding the desires of the mage for a little more amusement. It was pleasing to see the Sapherian so uncertain for a change, after so much time dancing to the tune he called. A thought occurred to Malekith. ‘You have not yet properly welcomed me back to the land of the living, nephew.’

‘What?’ Teclis shook his head and moved to continue his retreat.

‘Teclis!’ The Phoenix King’s shout rebounded from the breaking walls, echoing in a strange way, its metallic intonation changing as it faded. The archmage stopped in his tracks, unable to ignore the call. Malekith pointed to the floor at his feet. ‘Pay proper homage, nephew.’

‘Now?’

‘Now.’

Muttering, Teclis returned to Malekith, casting frightened glances about him as more masonry continued to crash down from above. The sound of shouts was close at hand, dulled only by the doors of the inner sanctum. Metal crashed against metal just outside.

‘Hail the Phoenix King,’ the mage said hurriedly, bowing his head.

‘I am unconvinced by your display. Try harder, with more sincerity.’

Teclis glared at Malekith and the Phoenix King looked back, burning white eyes in the slit of his helm. Nodding, suddenly humbled, the mage dropped to one knee, his staff proffered before him.

‘Praise Malekith, heir to Aenarion, rightful Phoenix King of Ulthuan.’ Teclis looked up again, earnestness written across his features. ‘Saviour of elvenkind. The Defender.’

The title cut through Malekith’s cloud of self-satisfaction. He had been so obsessed with taking up his birthright it had never occurred to him what he would do as king. Now that his ascension had been achieved, he was unsure what to do next, but Teclis’s tone made it clear what was expected.

‘It is one thing to become Asuryan’s incarnation, it is another to rule,’ said the Phoenix King, gesturing for Teclis to stand. The thud of blades on the doors to the inner sanctum lent fresh urgency to Malekith’s thoughts. ‘Better that our foes do not learn yet of what has happened here. Caradryan, lead on!’

They followed the leader of the Phoenix Guard between two columns at the back of the shrine. Pausing at the wall, he ran his hand over the stone, his fingers tracing an intricate pattern while he whispered an incantation. He stepped back when he was done and the wall shimmered into a golden field, revealing a corridor beyond.

They stepped through and Caradryan restored the wall so that none would be able to follow. At the end of the passageway was a winding stair, which led further down into the island. Another corridor brought them out onto a broad loggia looking south across the Sea of Dreams. There were a handful of ships in view, but they were sailing west to the landing grounds.

Arranged along the balcony were a number of skycutters, their empty traces lying on the bare rock. Caradryan let out a shrill whistle and waited. It was not long before the flap of immense wings preceded the arrival of a mighty frostheart phoenix, the same one that had borne Caradryan into battle over the Blighted Isle.

‘Ashtari,’ said Caradryan, smoothing the feathers of the great bird’s neck as it perched on the edge of the loggia. ‘We have need to be far away and soon, and must not be seen.’

The phoenix stalked across to the nearest skycutter, claws leaving ice-rimed scratches in the floor. With Teclis’s aid, Caradryan harnessed up the bird and all three elves stepped into the skycutter’s platform. Caradryan spoke a word and the magic of the skycutter billowed into life, surrounding Malekith with a warm aura of Azyr.

‘Go,’ he commanded and Ashtari obeyed, leaping out over the waters, the skycutter lurching into motion behind.

They sped over the sea, the phoenix’s wings almost touching the waves. A loud crack caused the elves to turn, in time to see the pyramid of Asuryan explode into brilliant white light. The temple collapsed in on itself, but the destruction did not end there. Cliffs fell into the sea and great fissures split the isle, letting the waters of the Sea of Dreams race in, washing away thousands of soldiers loyal to both sides.

Imrik’s dragons whirled away as fire and water plumed into the sky. The ships of Aislinn’s fleet put up their sails and turned away as the Island of the Flame sank. Some were too slow, the closest sucked into the maelstrom created by the island’s demise, hulls shattered and masts split by the titanic whirl of water.

The wave created by this disaster raced after the fleeing Phoenix King, as high as a tower, a wall of dark destruction. Ashtari climbed higher, leaving a trail of ice in the spume of the tidal wave as it passed beneath them.

‘Where shall we find sanctuary now?’ Caradryan asked, sadness making his voice crack.

‘Caledor,’ said Malekith, pointing at the dragons streaming south-west. ‘We shall wage the war from the land of the Dragontamer.’

Twenty-Six The Longest Road

Over the past six thousand years Malekith had spent the equivalent of many lifetimes of lesser creatures dreaming of his moment of glory. When he had been young, his visions had been filled with adoring crowds and showered adulation. After the Sundering his thoughts had become bleaker, his coronation parade taking place along a road made from the skulls of his enemies, banners made from their skins flapping along the route. In recent times he had been content to have every prince of Ulthuan, hundreds of them, prostrate themselves before him, each in turn begging for forgiveness, giving thanks that their rightful king had finally been recognised.

It was something of a disappointment that his arrival in Caledor had more in common with the coming of a thief than the arrival of a triumphant king. What was perhaps surprising was that this clandestine approach was at his behest. They had escaped the Island of Flame unseen and it seemed to the Phoenix King the most sensible course of action to conceal not only his continued survival but his elevation to Asuryan’s avatar. There would be a time to reveal his ascension, for maximum effect on morale and to dismay his foes, but it was not yet, not least because he wanted Imrik and Teclis to pave the way for the announcement, gauging the probable reactions of the other princes.

So it was under cover of darkness – Malekith swathed in a voluminous cloak, greeted by a handful of servants hand-picked by Imrik – that the Phoenix King arrived in Tor Caleda.

The city of the Dragon Princes sat high in the peaks of the southern Annulii; To the north, south and west the mountains and precipitous cliffs barred any approach save from the air; to the east a single pass held by many towers became an elevated road leading to the barbican of a mighty gatehouse.

Not much more than a high citadel with a broad curtain wall, it was the smallest of the elven capitals, a pale imitation of the former seat of power at Tor Caled. The ruins of Caledor Dragontamer’s birthplace could be visited, several days north, petrified forever when the volcano on which it was built had erupted during the Sundering, burying city and elves alike in a torrent of fire and ash. Caledor had never been a populous realm and there had been little will to rebuild such a large settlement. The outpost at Tor Sarath had naturally grown to accommodate its new importance and taken the name Caleda in honour of the fallen city.

Now it was straining to contain the host of elves that wished to find refuge there. The causeway leading to the gate was thronged with crowds from dawn to dusk, pleading with the guards at the gate for entry. Prince and farmer alike, driven south by the fighting in Ellyrion, were all turned back by order of the newly arrived Phoenix King, though the order had been voiced by Imrik. There was too much risk that Tyrion’s agents were concealed amongst the genuine refugees. What food and shelters could be provided were despatched, but it was little to help and the lords of the city were glad that it was summer – when the season of ice came the causeway would become a snow-covered graveyard if no other sanctuary was found for the dispossessed of Tiranoc and Ellyrion.

Malekith held his first court two days after coming to the city from the Island of Flame. The Phoenix King favoured only three elves to share counsel, even amongst those that knew of his arrival: Teclis, Imrik and Caradryan. All others were sent away with harsh words from their new ruler. Wine and food was left, along with a sturdy throne for the king fashioned by the city’s foremost smithy, for no ordinary chair in the citadel could bear him.

‘War.’

Malekith allowed the word to hang in the air, ringing from the crystal lanterns that hung from the vaulted ceiling. His councillors, standing around the throne, looked at each other, expressions grave.

‘You told me that you wanted a guard of dragons when you became Phoenix King,’ said Imrik. ‘You have them. Lead us into the battle and we will see Tyrion defeated.’

‘Not yet,’ said Teclis. He gestured to the empty scabbard at Malekith’s waist. ‘Urithain was destroyed. You have no blade, your majesty.’

‘Have my sword if that is all you lack,’ said Imrik. He moved to draw his blade but Malekith stopped him with an upraised hand.

‘The Phoenix King does not ride to war with some hand-me-down heirloom of Caledor,’ Malekith snapped. ‘Tyrion already wears my father’s armour and bears his sword – what further indignity do you wish to heap upon me?’

‘What blade would be suitable?’ asked Caradryan.

‘I can answer that,’ said Teclis. He had under his arm a wrapped bundle. Moving aside platters of meats, he made space on one of the tables to unroll his burden. Contained within were shards of bluish-black metal, which Malekith immediately recognised.

‘The remnants of the Destroyer,’ he said, reaching out his gauntleted fingers to touch one of the splinters. It was lifeless, all of the magic gone. ‘How did you come by them?’

‘They were brought with us when Lileath transported us from the Blighted Isle. I kept them, believing the goddess intended something to be done with them.’

‘What can be done with a few broken pieces of sword?’ said Imrik. ‘Tyrion wields the Widowmaker, made by Vaul himself.’

‘He calls it the icefang,’ Malekith told them. ‘I heard him name the blade as he drew it.’

‘The name is irrelevant,’ said Imrik. ‘How does one fight a god-forged blade?’

Malekith looked at Teclis, guessing that the mage already had the answer. Teclis smiled and moved to a long, narrow chest he had brought with him.

‘Do you remember, Imrik, the bargain you struck with our king to secure your alliance?’ the mage asked as he started to unfasten the locks of the casket.

‘All of the dragon eggs that were stolen, and the surviving weapons of Vaul forged in secrecy by Hotek for Malekith’s army.’

‘Indeed.’ Teclis opened the chest and a magical blue glow coloured his face. He lifted out the box’s contents, a heavy smith’s hammer with a golden head emblazoned with a symbol of lightning bolts.

‘The Hammer of Vaul,’ whispered Imrik, eyes widening in amazement.

‘Did you think I had thrown it away, or perhaps lost it?’ said Malekith. He addressed Teclis. ‘Now I understand why you insisted that it was included, in secret, with the artefacts Hotek created for me. Unfortunately, if you had told me your intent at the time I would have avoided today’s embarrassment.’

‘Embarrassment, your majesty?’ Teclis frowned as Malekith stood up and plucked the Hammer of Vaul from his fingers. The Phoenix King swung the Smith God’s divine instrument a few times, leaving a faint auric trail in the air as he walked down the hall. ‘Your majesty, that is not a child’s toy…’

‘It’s useless!’ barked Malekith, spinning to face the others, the hammer pointed at Teclis. ‘With Hotek gone there is nobody left that can wield it, you fool. Do you think that if I had been able to make armour and weapons with the Hammer of Vaul for the last four and a half thousand years I would have sent my troops into battle with iron spears and chainmail? I would have unleashed a legion ten thousand strong with blades that could cut the thickest armour and plate that resisted dragonrage!’

Malekith let the hammer drop from his grasp, cracking the dark stone floor where it fell at his feet.

‘We have priests of Vaul…’ suggested Imrik.

‘So did I,’ Malekith replied with a sigh, returning to his throne. ‘Acolytes of Hotek himself.’

‘They could not wield the power of the hammer?’ said Teclis, picking up the artefact with a disappointed expression. ‘They failed to forge anything?’

‘In a manner of speaking,’ replied the Phoenix King. ‘They were deafened and crippled after one stroke. A few, after suitable prompting, tried a second, but they all died. Very grisly.’

‘The world turns and Morai-heg reveals her intentions,’ muttered Imrik, shaking his head.

‘Speak clearly,’ Malekith told him. ‘What do you mean?’

The dragon prince looked at Teclis with an expression of disbelief and fear. ‘Perhaps Lileath does guide your acts, in some fashion. I do not think I can tell you – I must show you.’

‘Show us what?’ demanded Malekith, losing his patience altogether.

‘We must go to the Shrine of Vaul,’ said Imrik. ‘There is someone I think you need to see.’

A fine summer’s evening greeted four mighty guests to Vaul’s Anvil, greatest shrine to the crippled Smith God of the elves. Malekith flew upon Seraphon, who like the others had been saved by Lileath’s translocation, and with him was Imrik on the back of Minaithnir, followed by Caradryan astride Ashtari the phoenix and, below, Teclis borne swiftly over the mountain tracks by his steed of shadow magic. The evening was settling fast when Malekith saw a bright fire in the distance. Situated at the very end of the Dragon Spine range, separated by a wide valley from the rest of the mountains, a solitary peak cast its shadow over the water’s edge, shrouded with cloud and fume. To the northern slope the dragons turned, where steps were carved into the black rock, winding back and forth up the steep incline leading to a carved opening flanked by two gigantic pillars. Atop the columns were statues of bent-legged Vaul. On the left the god of craftsmen laboured over an anvil, a hammer of thunderbolts in his hand. On the right he was bound in chains, weeping over the Sword of Khaine he had forged.

Before these pillars landed the dragons. Their arrival did not go unnoticed, and acolytes garbed in heavy aprons and thick gloves came out of the shrine’s opening to assist the dragon riders in dismounting. When they saw Malekith they recoiled in horror and some turned to flee.

‘Stay!’ Imrik commanded them. ‘Behold your new Phoenix King!’

This caused some consternation, but Imrik was well known to the priests of Vaul and the presence of Caradryan and Teclis, both renowned for their loyalty to Ulthuan, mitigated their fears a little.

‘It is strange that you should come to us on this day of all days, princes and king,’ said one of the priests. He was older than the others, blinded eyes covered by a band of iron, though he moved without guidance.

‘How so?’ asked Malekith as they ascended the steps.

The priest hesitated before replying, and addressed his words to Imrik. Malekith ignored the insult for the moment, more eager to hear what the priest had to say than chastise his poor manners.

‘The prisoner started ranting this morning, shouting to all that would listen that Vaul had forgiven him.’

‘Prisoner?’ Teclis said, and Malekith exchanged a look with the mage, unsettled by his surprise. If the herald of Lileath did not know what was occurring, was any of the Sapherian’s plan truly god-sent?

‘Take us to him immediately,’ said Imrik, hastening through the arch into the ruddy chamber beyond.

They followed their guides down several levels cut into the rock of the mountain, and stopped beside a metal door at the end of a winding passageway. The door was barred by a dozen bolts, six to each side, and another thick metal spar across the width padlocked at both ends.

They said nothing as word was sent for the high priest to attend, and to bring the keys with him, but Malekith eyed the door suspiciously. He could feel waves of Chamon beating against the iron from the other side.

‘Vaul’s energy, the Wind of Metal,’ Teclis said, slender fingers fidgeting on his staff. He narrowed his eyes towards Imrik. ‘What have they got hidden in there?’

‘He was found in the maze of tunnels beneath the shrine, many centuries ago. Lost, it seems, though how he came to enter them is a mystery,’ explained one of the priests. ‘We could see that he was blinded in the fashion of our order, but none recognised him. I think he must have been from the colonies.’

‘Go on,’ urged Teclis.

‘He was mad, almost dead of thirst. He speaks little, but mutters the great incantations of Vaul. Much of what he says is nonsensical – even our most learned loresmiths can make nothing of it.’

The high priest, Fovendiel, arrived and set about unlocking and unbolting the door, visibly unnerved by the presence of Malekith. He turned before casting aside the final bolt, and looked directly at Malekith, his hand moving to within just a short distance from the king’s chest.

‘Dark work,’ the priest said, fingers flinching from the heat of the armour of midnight. ‘But a miracle, all the same. That we could once furnish such gifts to our allies. Our power is much diminished.’

‘Open the door,’ snapped Malekith, in no mood for reminiscing. Imrik’s coyness angered him, as did the mystery of the prisoner.

Fovendiel did as he had been told, stepping aside to swing the door outwards.

The figure in the room was dressed in a plain robe of black, his white hair swept back by a worn band of black leather studded with ruddy bronze. His features were severe, with high cheekbones and brow sharp. Most remarkable were his eyes, of pure white, just like those of the high priest.

He sat on a stool next to a plain bunk, surrounded by piles of tattered parchment covered with runes, writing and diagrams. Muttering, the elf was fixed upon the contents of a page on his lap.

‘How long ago did you say he arrived?’

‘That’s the miracle,’ said the high priest. ‘He has been here for more than four thousand years. Some greater power sustains him.’

The prisoner looked up, blind gaze drawn straight to Malekith as the Phoenix King stepped across the threshold.

The burning would not stop. It raged in Malekith’s mind long after his body was dead to the pain of the flames. Had his father felt like this? Is this what drove him to the Sword of Khaine, to escape the touch of Asuryan’s blessing?

The thought calmed the prince of Nagarythe. As his father had endured, so would he. What was his torment but another chance to prove his superiority? When he next stood before the princes to declare his right to be Phoenix King none of them would argue. It would be plain for them to see the strength of his character. Who of them could deny that he had passed Asuryan’s test? He smiled at the thought, cracked flesh creasing across the remains of his face.

Their resistance was fuelled by jealousy. The usurper, Bel Shanaar, had groomed Imrik like a prize stallion, though in truth he was nothing more than a plodding mule. The other princes had been blinded to the truth by the whispers of Bel Shanaar. When the evidence of Malekith’s acceptance by Asuryan was presented, they would see through the falsehoods woven by the Caledorian and his supporters. Perhaps even Imrik would bend his knee, as Malekith had so graciously done at the foot of Bel Shanaar.

The curtain surrounding the bed stirred and Morathi bent over him. Malekith tried to rise to kiss her cheek but his body failed him. A spasm of pain along his spine trapped him beneath the covers, as though a great weight was laid upon him. His mouth twisted into a snarl of anguish.

‘Be still, my beautiful son,’ said Morathi, laying a hand on his brow. ‘I have someone you should greet.’

An emaciated elf moved up beside Malekith’s mother, face almost white, eyes pale and unseeing though they fixed upon the prince.

‘Greetings, your majesty,’ he said. ‘I am Hotek.’

‘Hotek?’ Malekith whispered the name, knowing it was impossible that the ancient High Priest of Vaul could be in the same chamber, there and then. He glared at Imrik. ‘This must be some kind of trick?’

‘This is Hotek?’ replied the prince, his surprise as genuine and as deep as Malekith’s. He looked at the prisoner with wide eyes. ‘How can that be possible?’

The old priest laughed, the lines on his face deepening, but there was no madness in the sound as Malekith had feared, only humour. Hotek stood up, setting aside his studies to appraise each of his visitors in turn with blind eyes. He sneered at Fovendiel and bowed his head to Imrik, and then stopped as his unseeing gaze fell upon Teclis.

‘Another godhead,’ said the priest, cracked lips twisting into a smile. ‘I smell moonlight and mystery. Lileath has touched you, my friend.’

‘More than that,’ Teclis replied. He reached out a hand and laid it on Hotek’s shoulder, but drew it back sharply when sparks erupted from the mage’s fingertips. ‘Vaul fills you with the Wind of Chamon.’

‘I am his vessel,’ Hotek said with a nod. ‘I tried to tell these fools but the words would not come properly until now. It is as though a gag was lifted from my lips.’ He looked at Malekith and moved splayed fingers towards the king’s armour. ‘May I?’

Malekith hesitated, but consented. The priest ran his hands over the armour of midnight, the cracks and welds, the scars and rivets, almost caressing the king, his fingers long since inured to the heat of furnaces and forge. When he was done there was a look of satisfaction on Hotek’s face.

‘It has lasted well,’ said the priest, ‘but alas my sense of time has become a little unfocused. I know that when I last set eyes on you, a thousand years had passed since the fall of Nagarythe. I came back here to reclaim the notes I had abandoned during my flight, and the rest is very hazy.’

‘More than four millennia have passed since you left Naggaroth,’ said Malekith.

‘I see,’ said Hotek, receiving this news with admirable calm. ‘I see that my master’s works take time. He came to me, Vaul, and said that I had despoiled his legacy, and that I had to make amends, on my behalf and his.’

‘Is that so?’ said Teclis. ‘How are you to achieve this feat?’

‘By forging the blade that can match the Widowmaker,’ said Hotek. ‘Vaul has gifted me his power and I can sense that you have brought me his hammer. There is something else I will need.’

Teclis was about to reply when Imrik stepped forward, standing between the priest and the other elves. He looked intently at Malekith.

‘We cannot trust this traitor,’ said the prince. ‘He has betrayed Caledor before, to great detriment. What guarantee can he give that he will not do so again?’

‘Because I am willing to pay the price for my previous ill-dealings. Always Vaul loved the mountains and dragons. Oh, I will need a dragon, if you can arrange it, while it occurs to me. Nothing smelts magical steel like dragonfire! Anyway, you will cripple me and chain me to the anvil, and my last deed will be to make the blade that can stand against the Sword of Khaine.’

‘You seem very sure of this,’ said Malekith, pushing Imrik aside to confront the priest. ‘You served me before because you were promised the secrets of the dwarfs, to be wrested from their holds by our conquering armies. What do you want from me now?’

‘All that is ancient history, my king,’ said Hotek, dropping to one knee. ‘You are Asuryan and I am Vaul, and you will need a blade fit for the king of kings. It will happen as I have seen.’

‘You seem awfully quiet, nephew.’ Malekith glared at Teclis. ‘Your mistress did not reveal this to you?’

‘No, but she did speak to you of this moment, did she not?’ the archmage replied. ‘Do you recall her third prophecy?’

‘And comes forth the Crippled One’s bane, the forgotten maker shall be found. On mercy’s anvil shall hope be forged, and silence shall be unbound.’

Malekith hated this talk of gods and avatars, even though he had been through the flame of Asuryan and become one himself. The mythic tales were cycles, and he had no desire to repeat the war of the gods on the mortal plane, not at the dawn of the Rhana Dandra. But that was perhaps the whole point, to be mortal and to break the old cycles of treachery and death. He had been granted the opportunity to be the hub around which the spokes of the future might revolve.

‘Very well,’ he told Hotek. ‘It will be as you say. Forge me a blade worthy of Asuryan.’

The Phoenix King stalked away, Imrik close on his heel while Teclis remained with the priests of Vaul.

‘So you will ride to war when the sword is ready?’ the prince asked. Malekith wondered why Imrik was so keen to see Malekith risking his life in battle, but it was not the moment to question his ally’s motives. ‘How long do you think it will take Hotek to make his weapon?’

‘It took Vaul a year and a day to make the Sword of Khaine. Let us hope that Hotek is swifter.’

‘Until then?’

‘You must be the figurehead. Just as your ancestor stepped up to my challenge, you must be the visible opponent to Tyrion. The Dragon of Cothique is bewitched by Morathi and enamoured of Khaine, and there are those that will see the truth. He will become a warmonger, there is no other destiny for the chosen of Khaine. Your defection at Eagle Pass will be seen as a great moment of foresight – be sure to include Teclis in your accounts, the brother of Tyrion that has disowned him will lend further weight to your argument.’

‘Very well, but it will take more than words to stop Tyrion. When do we fight?’

‘When I sought to take this isle, I knew that my army could crush any force opposed to it, save for the dragons of Caledor. Your forefather knew that his dragons could defeat me but that they could not be everywhere at once. Neither he nor I was willing to place success or failure in a personal confrontation, and so our armies danced across the kingdoms like unwilling partners. As it was then, so it must be again. This is not a war one can win in a season, but it is a war that can be lost in a day. Give Tyrion no single enemy to destroy, but rouse up all opposition to him so that his forces must watch their backs, guard every town and garrison every fortress they take.’

‘Any other lessons of grand strategy you wish to share?’

‘Stay out of Nagarythe,’ Malekith added, ignoring the prince’s sarcasm, just as he ignored Imrik’s continued refusal to call him king. Deference would come in time – all the Phoenix King required for the moment was obedience.

Malekith stopped and held a hand to halt Imrik. He stared at the prince, intent.

‘Whatever happens, do not confront Tyrion directly. If you meet him in battle, you will die and all chance of victory will be lost.’

‘And if I should happen to be on the same battlefield as he, you expect me to avoid him?’

‘I expect you to run away, Imrik,’ said Malekith, clenching his fist. ‘Your pride is already spent – it has no value now. You are no good to me dead, and neither are your dragons. He wields the Godslayer, and you are not even a god.’

‘What if he brings the war to Caledor? We would have nowhere left to retreat.’

‘You had best make sure he does not come here, hadn’t you? I suggest you start by taking Lothern.’

Twenty-Seven A Tale of Two Kings

As Malekith predicted, the opening stages of the war were characterised by caution. Imrik swiftly secured neighbouring Tiranoc, what little remained of the kingdom after the floods of the Sundering, and in a daring assault seized both eastern and western Eataine to lay siege to Lothern from both directions. The port capitulated quickly and within days black arks and Naggarothi corsair fleets were, for the first time in the long history of Ulthuan, passing through the harbour gates to bring war to the Sea of Dreams.

Aislinn, still smarting from the losses at the Island of Flame, was enraged by the fall of his home city and threw his flotillas at the druchii reavers with vicious abandon. The coast of the Inner Sea was littered with debris and corpses following these bloody naval conflicts but the Sea Lord came no closer to uniting with his ships trapped beyond Lothern in the Great Ocean and was eventually forced to take shelter in inlets and bays along the shore of Ellyrion.

This news pleased Malekith greatly, as did affairs at Vaul’s Anvil. Hotek’s work was progressing well; the shards of Urithain made fine material for his new sword. However, the priest was canny enough to avoid any promises regarding when the work would be complete, talking instead of cosmic convergences, spheres of power and opening portals.

The Phoenix King was not vexed by this, for his wounds at the hands of Tyrion, and the poison from Shadowblade’s dagger, still left him weak and dizzy after any considerable exertion. Asuryan’s rebirth had been more cosmetic than he had hoped. He would have died rather than admit to his allies that he was incapable of fighting, but the tale of waiting for Hotek’s sword granted him valuable time to convalesce. It was of some concern to Imrik, but Teclis, who was likely not fooled at all by Malekith’s talk of biding time and striking at the most opportune moment, revealed that his brother was similarly afflicted, leaving others to prosecute the war on his behalf.

Until, that was, summer started fading into autumn.

‘And of the war in the east, Tyrion has withdrawn his forces from Yvresse’s coast.’ Teclis’s sources, both mystical and physical, were the equal to the network Ezresor had once boasted, although those agents were now for the most part ranged against Malekith, reporting to Morathi instead. The age-long game of assassination and espionage continued; the pieces had simply changed sides. ‘The daemon-haunted fogs make keeping any troops there costly, in casualties and morale.’

‘Imrik moves on Saphery then? How fares the battle for your homeland?’

‘My call for Imrik to be aided by the local militias has carried some weight. Imrik has agreed to respect the neutrality of the White Tower of Hoeth, and so far Tyrion does the same. I take it you concur with this approach?’

‘If the loremasters and swordmasters of Hoeth wish to let us settle their differences without interference I commend them. There is little else in Saphery that can hope to resist dragonfire and lances. What else?’

‘It seems my brother’s convalescence has been concluded,’ Teclis said quietly. He did not add ‘faster than yours’, but Malekith inferred the comparison anyway. ‘He marches for Tor Yvresse. I think he means to press Imrik to open battle.’

‘Of course he does – we expected this,’ said Malekith. Teclis’s concern at this turn of events was itself a source of unease for the Phoenix King. ‘Imrik’s campaign in your brother’s absence has gone well – we have made great gains in the time afforded us.’

‘He claims the title of Phoenix King,’ said Teclis. ‘Tyrion no longer pretends to be regent, but names himself ruler of Ulthuan.’

Malekith considered this, his ire rising.

‘And they follow him? The princes?’

‘Some do, others say that he has not passed through the flame of Asuryan and cannot be king, but they are afraid to openly dispute his word.’

‘Hypocrites!’ howled Malekith. He crushed a wine ewer in his fist and hurled it the length of the hall, causing a spasm in his wounded shoulder. ‘Worthless, baseless cretins! He bears the Widowmaker openly? He consorts with Morathi in front of them?’

‘He does, your majesty,’ admitted Teclis, stepping back as fire crackled and enveloped Malekith’s raised fists. ‘Is that important?’

‘Usurpers!’ shrieked Morathi, raising up her staff. Malekith leapt forwards and snatched the rod from her grip.

‘No more!’ the prince of Nagarythe cried out. ‘I would not have the realm forged by my father torn asunder by this dispute.’

Malekith laid a comforting hand upon the cheek of his mother and when she was calmed, returned her staff to her. With a last venomous glare at Yvraine and Bel Shanaar, the seeress turned her back upon them and returned to the Naggarothi contingent to glower and sneer.

‘I do not seek the throne of Ulthuan to become a tyrant,’ said Malekith. ‘It is to honour my father and see his legacy fulfilled that I would become Phoenix King. I do not claim this as a right of birth, but surrender myself to the judgement of those here. If it is the decision of this council that Bel Shanaar should wed my half-sister and become king, I will not oppose it. I ask only that you consider my petition this one last time, for it is plain that we have allowed division and misconception to cloud our minds.’

The princes nodded in agreement at these well-spoken words, and gathered together under the eaves of the Avelorn trees. They talked for a long time, until dawn touched her red fingers upon the treetops and the morning mists drifted up from the fertile earth. Back and forth swayed the debate, for some were heartened by Malekith’s gentle entreaty and believed that though he was his father’s son, he had not wielded the Godslayer and so was not touched by its darkness. Others reminded the council of Imrik’s prophecy that Aenarion’s line was touched by Khaine, and argued that a child of Anlec could never be freed from its curse.

‘We have made our decision,’ Thyriol informed the Naggarothi. ‘While Malekith is a fine prince, he is yet young and has much to learn about the world, as do we all. Now is a time for wisdom and guidance, not iron rule, and for these reasons we remain committed to the investiture of Bel Shanaar.’

Morathi gave a scream of derision, but Malekith held up a hand to silence her.

‘The fate of Ulthuan is not for a single elf to decide, and I accede to the wisdom of this council,’ Malekith declared. He crossed the glade and, to the amazement of all, bent to one knee before Bel Shanaar. ‘Bel Shanaar shall succeed my father, though he cannot replace him, and with his wisdom we shall herald a new age for our people. May the gods grant our new king the strength to prosper and rule justly, and know that should ever his will falter or his resolve waver, Nagarythe stands ready.’

‘They would not choose me because the darkness of Khaine lay upon me.’ Malekith’s laugh was shrill, rebounding from the vaulted walls in mocking echoes. ‘A shadow of Khaine? A shadow? A hint? There were times, times of weakness, when my strength was withered and my ambition stunted, when I wondered if they had been right. I would think that the blood and mayhem was the curse of Khaine as Caledor foretold and the First Council had chosen wisely. Now the wisdom of elven princes is truly revealed. Pathetic! Had I taken the Sword of Khaine they would have quailed and begged for me to be king and we would have been doomed to slaughter ourselves into history and then extinction. Is that what they want? Do they really think this blood-hungry usurper will lead them to sanctuary?’

‘They do not think,’ Teclis said, his hands raised to calm Malekith. ‘At least, they cannot think clearly. Their ancient enemy has invaded, swift on the heels of daemons that nearly destroyed their homes. Tyrion protected them then, and he bears the armour of Aenarion and his blood. The Widowmaker, it taints their thoughts, making them warmongers also, but it is fear rather than blood-thirst that drives them.’

‘They shall all be slain, in turn,’ Malekith declared, ‘for their lack of loyalty.’

‘They cannot be loyal to a king in hiding, your majesty,’ Teclis said carefully. ‘Is it your intent to make public your ascension?’

Malekith’s first instinct, fuelled by indignation, was to declare that he would. His announcement would shake elvendom to its core, make known the fact that six thousand years of injustice had finally ended. The princes would see that he had been accepted by Asuryan and would flock to his banner as their ancestors should have done.

Teclis’s calculating gaze punctured the illusion, reminding the Phoenix King of the wounds that still dogged him and the blade as-yet-unforged. To reveal himself as king now would make Malekith a target and Tyrion would come to Caledor with all speed.

‘Better to let Imrik continue to goad the beast,’ Malekith concluded, as though speaking the mage’s thoughts for him. ‘Like the bull bitten by too many flies, Tyrion will succumb to the rage and lash out. It is only a matter of time. His allies will be as mist in the growing sun when that happens.’

They concluded their conference swiftly, for the news that Tyrion now led the enemy army directly required careful counter. Teclis removed himself to consult with such authorities and agents as he could trust while Malekith was left to ponder the possible paths of his future.

Destiny demanded that he face Tyrion at some point. It was simply the way the godly cycles worked, and could not be avoided. He would not receive unexpected but pleasant news one day that a dragon had eaten his foe or a fireball had incinerated the pretender to his throne. Myths required more direct action.

Malekith was not sure at all that he would prevail, even with Asuryan’s blade. The last time he had faced Tyrion, the Dragon of Cothique had wielded the Sunfang and fought alone. Next time he would have the Widowmaker and every sorcerous assistance Morathi could devise.

The Phoenix King regarded his options as though they were laid out on the table before him but he knew his perspective was skewed. He needed counsel, but Teclis had his own agenda and Kouran and Imrik were warriors whose advice was painfully confined to the military.

Requiring a fresh source of inspiration, Malekith spent some time preparing his audience room for a difficult ritual. Retainers came and went bringing candles and iron icons and other paraphernalia, laid out to their master’s precise instructions. When he was done, Malekith sent his minions away, forbade any interruption and began his summoning.

Drawing on his dark magic, Malekith drew forth spirits he had trapped in the hinterlands between mortality and Mirai – the souls of his dead rivals conjured from the afterlife to serve him again as they had served in the Black Council of Naggarond.

They came as insubstantial spectres, their faces barely recognisable, but Malekith knew them all by name, deed and temperament. Lord Khaivan of Ghrond, founder of the city and one of Morathi’s first lovers returned screaming to existence. Others followed soon after: Lyar Winterspear of Har Ganeth; Tyrios the Flayer; Kordrilian of Clar Karond. More than two dozen ghosts crowded into the circle of power created by the Witch King, hissing and moaning wordlessly.

‘Speak,’ commanded the Witch King. ‘I would know your minds and the knowledge you bring from beyond the veil of death. Tell me how I might slay Prince Tyrion and defeat the wielder of the Widowmaker.’

Lord Shimmerghast, Dreadmarshal of Naggarond, floated closer. The first captain of the Black Guard regarded Malekith with hate-filled eyes, the skin of his ghost torn to tatters as it had been in life.

‘No blade can match the Widowmaker. No warrior can defeat its wielder. You are doomed, Malekith. Doomed to join us in an eternity of perdition and pain!’

‘How predictable,’ said the king, dismissing the spectre with a wave of his hand. He glared at the other assembled spirits. ‘You know, I could grant you the peace you desire, if you are willing to help. Do any of you have anything to say?’

‘He that lays his hand upon the Widowmaker becomes Khaine’s weapon,’ wailed Lady Mystyr. Her face was veiled with black lace, hiding the bloody holes where her eyes had been gouged out by Malekith’s torturers. ‘Only the fire of Asuryan can defeat such a foe.’

‘I know this already!’ snapped Malekith. Mystyr screamed as he banished her soul back into the pale waters of undeath that flowed around the border of Mirai. ‘I have taken the fire of Asuryan into myself and Hotek labours on a sword fitting for the king of kings. Surely there must be more than that?’

‘You are bound by the cycle of life, the circle of myth,’ said Lothek Heartstealer. The former grand admiral of Klar Karond looked odd, his head lolling to one side on a broken neck, his floating torso missing legs and limbs. ‘Time turns and Khaine will face Asuryan. Such is inevitable, King Malekith.’

With a frustrated shout, Malekith stood and swept his arm through the shimmering haze that encircled the ritual space, causing ripples of power to break apart the apparitions within.

‘Useless!’ he raved, snuffing the light from the candles with a surge of magic, sending braziers and talismans whirling across the chamber with a flicked hand. The surge of ire that filled the king made his head throb. ‘As duplicitous and pointless in death as they were in life.’

Malekith cooled his anger, grasping his head in both hands, forcing the pain to subside, clearing his thoughts. There had to be another way. He was not prepared to gamble not only his life but the future of all elvenkind on the notion that the war of the gods would simply be repeated on the mortal plane. There was too much at stake to risk on the half-baked idea of mythical inevitability. He had been schooled and advised by the most devious minds in history and he would not relax until he found a weakness to exploit, an advantage to be gained.

He accepted the predictability of fighting Tyrion. The myths demanded a confrontation, but there was nothing in the legends that said Malekith could not try a few other plans first.

Twenty-Eight A King in Name Only

It chafed at Malekith to wait while others sealed their glories in battle and prosecuted his war, for he had always been an elf of determined action, following the example of his father. The knowledge that his enforced absence from the battlefield would bring him later victory was a salve to the frustration, but many a day and night he paced the halls and balconies of Imrik’s citadel – the upper levels cleared of all but the most trustworthy souls lest word of Malekith’s presence be discovered by Morathi.

He wondered at these times what happened further afield, not just in Saphery and Cothique but beyond the Great Ocean in the lands of Elthin Arvan and the jungles of Lustria. With Morathi gone, Ghrond would have been overrun for some time, the last bastion of the elves in Naggaroth save for the Hellebron-stalked ruins of Har Ganeth.

Sometimes he allowed his essence to fly over the waves to the lands of the humans, where living and dead fought against and beside each other, in a complex to and fro of alliance and treachery against the great beast of Chaos, the one called Archaon. He was the herald of the Rhana Dandra, that the barbarians called the Lord of the End Times, but the fate of the elves would not rest in his hands. The gods themselves contested for the fate of Ulthuan’s children, not mere mortals.

Malekith was always careful to conceal himself on these excursions, unwilling to expose himself to detection by his mother. He could feel her sometimes scouring the winds of magic, seeking the telltale signs of his presence, and occasionally he was certain that she had found him. The magic of his armour, the force that she had poured into him to sustain him after his near death, were as distinctive as his seal. Yet however close she came, no matter how much he felt her lingering presence hovering over him as though she could set eyes upon him, he never felt that moment of connection that would reveal he had been discovered.

He brought up this matter with Teclis when the mage returned to Tor Caleda. They convened on a moonlit rampart at the summit of the fortress, the lights and sounds of the city far below while the odd footfall of a guard broke the still on the walls beneath them.

‘You really do not understand that which you have hungered after for so long,’ Teclis said, with a rare moment of genuine humour. ‘Your majesty, you have become the Phoenix King and the fire of Asuryan burns within you. Morathi is no doubt confused, because she will see the fire but not recognise it.’

‘Surely she would remember such a thing from her time with my father?’

‘Her memories are splitting, her mind finally dissembling after so many years adrift on the tides of magic. She thinks Tyrion is your father reborn. Now that he has lifted the Sword of Khaine, has become the Lord of Murder, her self-deception is complete. She was young when Aenarion was Asuryan’s chosen, and likely if she ever did witness him at that time the memory of it is quite obliterated by the towering force that was the blood-wreathed avenger he became. It was not your father she craved, it was the power of the Widowmaker.’

‘My mother is more than just the power-hungry witch as she has been painted by the lies of the Phoenix Kings,’ Malekith said. ‘Of late a madness has consumed her, and her ambition has never been a secret, but I cannot doubt that she cared for me and loved my father.’

‘It is nigh impossible for a son to think harshly of his mother,’ Teclis replied. The moonlight made his pale flesh glow with silvery light as he turned away and looked east towards the Inner Sea. ‘Family makes fools of us all at one time or another. I was blind for so long to Tyrion’s weaknesses. He was lauded from Caledor to Chrace, and that works a terrible toll upon the mind. When you despatched your daemonic ally N’Kari to kill the Everqueen, and my brother saved her and became her consort, you initiated a turn of events that led us to this current point.’

‘Your brother’s amour and the Everqueen’s poor choice of lovers is my fault?’ Malekith gripped the rampart in metal fingers, clawing grooves in the stone. ‘Is there any woe of the world for which you would not lay blame upon me?’

‘You misunderstand, your majesty, or I do not explain myself well.’ Teclis looked at the Phoenix King. ‘All of the choices we have made have laid the path that brings us to the place we are in, here and now. When I came to you and offered to make pact with you, do you think it was easy for me? Lileath showed me the grief and death to come, and I could have ended it with a single blow of my sword. I could have slain Tyrion without effort, forestalling this war.’

‘Your love of him stopped you?’

Teclis shook his head, saddened. ‘No, my fear of the consequences did. Without Tyrion we would have failed against the daemons and you would be the lone survivor in Naggarond, fighting with your last breath against the very creatures of Chaos that you unleashed upon us so many times.’

Malekith wondered if he had ever really made a decision himself, or if they were all simply pawns of powers far beyond their comprehension, playing out petty games for the amusement of otherworldly entities. They fell silent, contemplating the past.

Turning, Malekith leapt up the stairs three at a time, chasing after his mother. Despite his haste, Morathi was already standing beside the balcony window by the time Malekith reached the top of the tower. She turned and smiled as he strode into the room, and held out an arm for him to hold. Sighing, the prince allowed his mother to lay her hand upon his and led her out onto the balcony. This time, the seeress-queen and prince of Nagarythe were greeted with rapturous cheers and applause. The streets were packed with elves in every direction, and windows and balconies were full as the people of Athel Toralien sought the best vantage point to see their mysterious, glamorous visitor.

‘What are you doing here?’ Malekith whispered as he waved to the adoring crowds.

‘I have come to visit you, my wonderful son,’ replied Morathi, not turning her smile from the masses below. ‘A mother worries, you know that. Word came to me that you were heading off into the wilds for some ridiculous adventures, so I thought it best that I finally visit your new home before you left.’

‘You will not dissuade me,’ Malekith warned her. ‘I am ready to leave within days.’

‘Dissuade you?’ said Morathi with a faint laugh. ‘Why would I not want you to go? Was it not me that stood upon the quayside when you left Nagarythe, and told you to earn glory and renown for yourself and your people? Have you not done so, and have I not looked upon all that you have achieved with great love and pride?’

‘Forgive my misunderstanding,’ said Malekith. ‘If you are here to lend your support, then I am very grateful.’

Morathi did not reply straightaway, but instead indicated discreetly that they should retire inside. With a final wave and a grin, Malekith stepped off the balcony and his mother followed. Closing the window, Malekith rounded on his mother.

‘So why is it that you are here?’ he asked, not with accusation but with genuine curiosity.

‘It is not my support that you need, at least not in any physical way,’ Morathi replied.

Seeing his mother wave a hand towards the bottle upon the desk, Malekith took a clean glass from one of the many cabinets in the room and poured wine for Morathi. She took it with a nod, had a sip and then continued.

‘You have been away from Ulthuan for too long. I was of a mind to persuade you to return rather than go gallivanting across the Wastes, but then I realised that such a course of action would be a fool’s errand and only earn me your enmity, perhaps even your disdain.’

‘You are right, I will not return to Ulthuan,’ said Malekith. ‘Why do you think it is so important that I do so now?’

‘Not now, but soon,’ Morathi said. ‘I sense that Bel Shanaar’s rule is fading. His usurpation of your relationship with the dwarfs was an attempt to bolster his flagging fortunes. Now that the colonies are well established, all of the kingdoms enjoy the comfort and wealth that the realms overseas bring to us, Tiranoc no less so, nor more so than any others. Nagarythe’s most adventurous spirits have departed the shores of the isle, for new generations look to the likes of you to emulate, not to the staid and overly sincere Bel Shanaar. In comfort there is frailty, for a sword must be forged in the burning fires before it can rest in its scabbard. There is no more fire in Ulthuan. Even as her empire continues to grow, Ulthuan herself is diminishing.’

‘If Ulthuan has become lessened, then it is the fault of the princes who rule there,’ said Malekith, pouring himself some wine.

‘That is my point,’ snapped Morathi. ‘There is none capable of succeeding Bel Shanaar – his court is as weak as he is. Your achievements here have been rightly lauded, but your success has been copied and appropriated and demeaned by others. If only you had returned to us before Bel Shanaar accorded himself and his rule with the dwarfs and stole your victory. It is time to create a new legend for yourself, and return in triumph to reclaim what is rightfully yours.’

‘What would you say if I told you that I wish never to return to Ulthuan?’ said Malekith. ‘What if I have decided that my life is out here, away from the coddling embrace of Ulthuan?’

‘Then I would curse you for a fool and cast you out of my life,’ said Morathi. ‘But that is not really how you think. You do not like Ulthuan, and I cannot blame you. She is like a maiden that you love, gripped tightly within the arms of a less-deserving amour. But, just as you turn away from that sight, within your heart still lingers that love for the maiden, no matter what she does.’

‘You are right, of course,’ admitted Malekith. ‘She is like to me as a lover who has spurned my attentions many times, and yet her gaze lingers upon me always, tempting me with the notion that one day she will accept my advances. However, if what you say is true, then perhaps it is too late for me. The beauty of youth has faded and Ulthuan perhaps is on the decline into infirmity and then a swift passing away. Perhaps it is better this way – that we break our ties to that small isle, and reach out to the wider world.’

Morathi strode across the room, her face a mask of fury, and slapped Malekith across the cheek. In instinct he raised his hand to reply in kind, but Morathi was as quick as a serpent and snatched his wrist in her fingers, her long and sharpened nails digging so deep into the flesh that blood trickled across her hand.

‘How dare you!’ the seeress hissed. ‘Your father gave his life for Ulthuan, and it took his death to save her! I thought I had raised you better than this. I thought that you had not become one of those prancing, preening fools that pass as princes in Bel Shanaar’s court. How dare you condemn Ulthuan to death by indifference! Your father laid down his life to protect our isle – who are you to do differently?’

Malekith snatched away his wrist with a snarl and made to turn, but Morathi was relentless and grabbed his arm and spun him around to face her.

‘You dare to turn your back on me, just as you turn your back on your homeland!’ she snarled. ‘Perhaps the First Council was right not to choose you, not because of a darkness upon you, but because you are weak and undeserving.’

‘What more could I do?’ demanded Malekith. ‘I have conquered new lands in the name of Nagarythe, and brokered the greatest alliance our people will ever see. What more can I give to Ulthuan?’

‘Yourself,’ said Morathi. ‘When Aenarion died, he left Ulthuan a legacy, and you are part of it. To rule is also to serve – Aenarion understood that. He served Khaine, for there was no other master worthy of his fealty. You must be prepared to serve a high purpose, a great power.’

Morathi paused and took a deep breath, calming herself. When she continued her voice was low but insistent.

‘Serve Ulthuan and you will be Phoenix King. Protect her from enemies outside and within and she will embrace you in return. Go into the north and learn of the race of men. Head into the chilling Wastes and confront the dark powers that hunger over our world. Then return to Ulthuan and take up your place as ruler, to shield us against their unnatural thirst. I fear that only you can protect us against the dangers I have foreseen. I see fire and bloodshed sweeping Ulthuan again. The colonies will burn and all that we hold dear will be cast upon the rocks and be for naught.’

‘What have you seen, when will this happen?’ asked Malekith.

‘You know that there is no future that is certain,’ replied Morathi. ‘I have simply cast my gaze ahead along the path of my life, and I see death. War will come again and the Naggarothi will be called upon as they were by your father. I warned the First Council that it would be so, but they did not listen. You must learn what you can of Chaos, and of humans, for our future is entwined with both. When you are master of your fate, then return to us and take what has been kept from you for so long. Let Anlec be a beacon of hope again.’

Malekith saw desire and fear in equal measure in the face of his mother and his love for her stirred him. He laid an arm about her shoulders and pulled her close to him. She quivered, though whether from anxiety or excitement he could not tell.

‘It shall be as you say,’ said Malekith. ‘I shall go into the north and seek whatever destiny awaits me there. I will return to Ulthuan, and I will guard her against whatever comes to pass.’

‘I have given myself to Ulthuan,’ he whispered.

‘What was that?’ Teclis had been lost in a reverie of his own, or perhaps trying to discern the unwinding paths of the future guided by the whispers of his goddess.

Malekith straightened and flexed metal-bound limbs. He felt neither heat nor cold, but could tell that this year the season of ice would come swiftly. It would make no difference – the fighting was moving south towards Lothern and the campaign would continue through the winter while the north of the isle was gripped by blizzards.

‘I stepped through the flames, and gave myself to Ulthuan,’ Malekith replied more volubly. ‘I stayed in the fires and received Asuryan’s blessing. My mother told me long ago, before I travelled into the Northern Wastes, that I had to accept her and be accepted to rule the island. I had forgotten that these past six thousand years. Ystranna said something similar. I could never take Ulthuan by conquest.’

‘A wayward step has been corrected, your majesty,’ said Teclis, ‘but the journey has only just begun.’

‘There is something that plagues my thoughts in recent times,’ Malekith admitted. ‘I try to wrangle meaning from it over and over, but it makes no sense to me. If I was the chosen of Asuryan, if it was my destiny to become Phoenix King, why did the First Council reject me? Why has it taken so long?’

‘The wiles of Chaos, your majesty. The designs of the Great Powers spool across countless lives of mortals before they are fully woven. In your case, the Prince of Pleasure sowed the seed of lust and power in the heart of your mother when she was captured by His creatures. Thus was the course of history changed. It was not the darkness in you that the First Council feared, it was the taint of Chaos in Morathi, though they did not realise that. Rather than see a reign of Phoenix Kings from Aenarion unbroken to the present day over an unbroken civilisation, the Chaos Gods divided the elves and created war and strife, feeding deep on the dreams and nightmares of a broken people. Now we have one opportunity to unite again and survive, or else we will perish.’

‘From that moment, we were doomed to millennia of war?’ Malekith took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, the heat of it billowing like dragonfume in the cool night air. It was hard to still the anger that burned inside, stoked by the mage’s revelations. ‘My acquiescence to the council, my attempts to bring favour back to the house of Aenarion, were for nothing?’

‘All were worthy attempts, your majesty,’ Teclis assured him, turning with his staff clasped in both hands. ‘Had you slain your mother on that fateful day in Anlec, had you refused her offer to give you control of the Cults of Pleasure so that you would manipulate your way to power, your claim would have remained untainted and Bel Shanaar would have named you successor in time. A little faith, for a little longer, is all that was required.’

‘No!’ Splinters and sparks showered from the battlement as Malekith’s fist struck the dark stone. ‘No! The other princes had already rejected me. Imrik was their favourite.’

‘Your mother’s words,’ Teclis snapped, his stare unflinching. ‘Her lies in your head. That was the moment the Chaos Powers won. Not when you slaughtered the princes in the shrine, nor when you murdered Bel Shanaar. Those were simply the consecrations of your betrayal.’

‘But… I spared her out of love.’

‘And that love was greater than the love of Ulthuan and her people,’ Teclis continued. ‘You chose the wrong mother, Malekith, and we all had to pay the price.’

Malekith sagged, leaning against the battlement. ‘Go,’ he whispered. ‘I tire of this conversation.’

‘As you wish, your majesty,’ said Teclis. ‘On the morrow I depart for the fields of Cothique where my brother makes great gains. We must hold council before then.’

‘Leave, meddling loremaster,’ Malekith growled. ‘Spare me more of your twisted words.’

Malekith listened to the footfalls of the mage until they were gone. The rage was too much to contain and with a snarl he ripped free a block of stone and incinerated it in his grasp, hurling the broken, burned fragments over the parapet.

He hated Teclis. More self-righteous than any other mage, so convinced of his own superiority and correctness.

He hated even more that Teclis was right.

The Phoenix King’s brooding presence spread to other parts of the citadel, his sour mood infecting the spirit of the guards and servants and beyond to the streets of Tor Caleda. There were whispers and dark rumours of what lay in the upper reaches of the keep, some as outlandish as to suggest Imrik had summoned forth a daemon, others more unsettling but closer to the truth – that the prince had sealed a pact with a dark spirit from the past.

Malekith’s self-imposed imprisonment started to take its toll on his temper. Daily he sent missives to Hotek demanding news on the priest-smith’s work. Daily the replies returned that Hotek’s labours continued without pause.

The risk of magical discovery stopped the Phoenix King from transporting his spirit beyond the castle, forcing him to rely upon conventional and far slower means of news. In concert with this, Teclis came only rarely to report the progress of the war, and spoke in equivocating terms, but it was plain that Tyrion’s direct intercession had rolled back Imrik’s forces to the borders of Eataine and the coast of the Inner Sea. Though supported by the mighty fleet of Naggaroth, the dragon princes were suffering setback after setback.

One evening there was commotion in the lower levels of the citadel, rousing Malekith from a days-long fugue of depression. Panicked shouts brought the Phoenix King to full awareness, and calls for aid carried him out of the halls he usually haunted and into the main part of the keep.

His appearance caused terror and consternation, and only by the intervention of Caradryan was a band of Caledorians prevented from attacking their king. Malekith demanded to know the reason for the tumult and he was led to a stately hall close to the citadel gate.

Within was a bustle of courtiers and servants. At the centre of the chamber a tall figure in bloodstained armour stood over another in gilded plate. There was blood on the floor and apothecaries and mages shouldered and fussed at each other, competing in their attempts to attend the wounded knight.

‘Let me see,’ Malekith growled.

The crowd parted at once, save for a female mage who knelt beside the forlorn figure, channelling waves of rejuvenating Ghyran into the injured warrior’s body. The knight flailed a crimson-covered hand at the sound of Malekith’s voice, beckoning him closer. He turned his head, revealing the features of Imrik, ashen-faced and drawn.

‘What happened?’ the Phoenix King demanded, striding along the hall. He directed the question at the other Caledorian prince, whom he recognised as Marendri, an older cousin of Imrik.

‘The usurper came upon us at the shores of Lake Calliana, in Saphery,’ Marendri explained, his gaze moving quickly between his prince and his king, brow furrowed. ‘He must have marched day and night for five days or more. Possessed he was, falling upon a host five times the size of his own with just a vanguard and the griffon-knights. Tyrion led the attack, killing dozens, driving into the heart of the army before we could reform.’

‘Imrik attacked, didn’t he?’ Malekith said grimly. ‘He ignored my orders and confronted Tyrion.’

‘He saw no other way to save the battle,’ Marendri admitted. ‘He did not seek prolonged engagement, but thought that if he could but drive Tyrion back for even a few moments, our knights and spears would reset and be better prepared.’

Malekith looked at Imrik and saw that his dragonplate armour was cut from left shoulder to the centre of his breastplate. The female mage was trying her best while others were unbuckling pieces of bloodied armour and cutting away the padded jerkin beneath to see the wound more clearly.

‘He struck a fine blow,’ Marendri said earnestly, kneeling to lay a hand on his prince’s leg. ‘It pierced Tyrion’s breastplate, I swear. Any other warrior would have been slain.’

‘Tyrion is no ordinary warrior, not even before he took up the Widowmaker.’

‘It was terrible, like a slash of midnight. It shattered Imrik’s shield like glass…’ Marendri started to weep, a display that made Malekith’s lip curl in disgust. ‘Neremain, Astalorion and Findellion were on the usurper in moments, while I snatched Imrik away to safety. They died, as did three fine dragons.’

Malekith baulked at this thought – that even after being wounded Tyrion had single-handedly killed three dragon princes and their steeds. If Imrik died Malekith would have to lead the army himself. He looked at Imrik, seeing only the barest hints of life remaining despite the healer’s efforts.

‘Your life magic will not avail here,’ Malekith declared, waving the maiden aside. ‘He has been marked by a far darker power. One that must be matched tooth for tooth and claw for claw.’

A nimbus of dark magic coalesced around Malekith’s outstretched hands, forming a pulsing cloud of purple and black. The attending nurses and apothecaries scattered at the display of sorcery, some running wailing for the doors, others whispering mantras of protection against evil.

‘Settle yourselves,’ snarled the Phoenix King. ‘A little sorcery like this is child’s play.’

‘You seek to bring him back from the dead?’ The female mage was aghast.

‘You have a crude view of life and death,’ Malekith told her. He unleashed the dark magic into Imrik, sending it rippling through every part of his body. The prince convulsed, armour clattering on the bloodied tiles, his life fluid spilling from the gash in his armour, head arched back in a silent scream.

Malekith knelt beside the broken prince and poured on more energy, willing severed arteries and veins shut, forcing blood to clot and muscles to knit.

‘You’re killing him!’ screamed the mage. Marendri intercepted her as she lunged towards the Phoenix King, fireballs glowing in her hands. Malekith darted a look in her direction and she shrunk back as if struck, her spell steaming away under his burning stare.

‘He is nearer dead than alive. What the life-giving forces of Ghyran cannot mend, sorcery can reanimate. How do you think I stand here, seven thousand years after my birth, through all of the trials this mortal form has faced?’

So he spoke, and so it was seen in the body of Imrik. Dead tissue came back to life, flooded with freshly pumped blood from a jolted heart, colour returning to the skin. Imrik opened his eyes with a pained gasp, his gaze roving madly around the room for a few moments before it settled on Marendri. Familiarity brought calm. The prince panted as he sat up, his gaze moving to Malekith.

‘I couldn’t run,’ the prince croaked.

‘You were weak,’ Malekith replied, standing up. ‘I still need you. Be stronger next time.’

The Phoenix King turned and marched from the hall, his mood at its blackest for a long time.

Twenty-Nine The Bringer of Silence

The day finally arrived, on the cusp of the season of ice, when Fovendiel arrived from Vaul’s Anvil, accompanied by a procession of lesser priests, carrying a rune-etched casket of white wood. Teclis had arrived the night before, bidden, he claimed, to attend the Phoenix King by Lileath – the reason becoming clear when news of Fovendiel’s arrival came to them.

The High Priest of Vaul was admitted to audience with the Phoenix King, but Malekith was in a poor mood and sent away his entourage of smith-priests with thinly-veiled threats, leaving himself with the high priest and Teclis.

‘Does it have a name?’ Malekith asked, as Fovendiel worked the clasps of the casket.

‘Asuryath,’ Teclis answered before the high priest could speak. The bringer of silence. ‘Asuryan’s sword is named Asuryath.’

‘Give it to me,’ rasped Malekith, snatching the box from Fovendiel.

He wrenched open the lid with clawed fingers, breaking the intricate bronze clasps and hinges, to reveal a shard of purest white. To the elves white was the colour of death, purity and silence, the three being indivisible. Thus was Asuryan the true guardian of their spirits, despite Ereth Khial’s rulership of Mirai. His was the last word, His flame was the purifier and His colour – or lack of it – was the blank sheet upon which new futures were written by Morai-heg and the other goddesses of fate.

‘Asuryath…’ Malekith breathed the word, tasting it, savouring it as his fingers closed around the hilt of the bringer of silence. He lifted the sword clear, its blade bursting into pale flame in his grasp. The weapon felt as light as air in his grasp, effortless to swing and thrust and parry. Carving sigils of flame around him, Malekith wove the tip of Asuryath in a complex series of feints, attacks and killing blows, artfully spelling out his own name with wisps of fire as he did so. He laughed, holding up the sword. ‘Hotek is indeed Vaul reborn. This is the blade to match the Widowmaker. Send him my deepest compliments and break his shackles. Tell him he is free to roam wherever he wishes.’

‘Hotek is dead, your majesty,’ said Fovendiel, head bowed. ‘We found him this morning, this blade sheathed in his chest, his hands about the hilt.’

‘He killed himself with it?’ Teclis recoiled from the blade, looking at it as though it were a serpent about to strike.

‘He anointed it,’ Malekith said, shaking his head in disbelief, new-found appreciation for Hotek’s dedication rising. ‘Vaul gave his own blood for the last tempering of the blade, and he will forge no more weapons for the gods.’

‘This is timely,’ Teclis announced, recovering his composure. ‘Tyrion’s army marches for Lothern.’

‘Leave us,’ Malekith told Fovendiel, not wishing to discuss his mind in front of the priest. He could barely bring himself to confide in Teclis, but there was no alternative. When the high priest had said his farewell and departed, the Phoenix King confronted Teclis. ‘Is it enough? Can I beat your brother with this sword?’

‘You fear to face him, even with Asuryath?’

‘I would expect you to be the last to throw accusations of cowardice,’ Malekith replied. There was a white-enamelled scabbard decorated with rubies like drops of blood in the casket. Malekith sheathed his sword. ‘You know that if I perish all will be lost – I must weigh every risk. I will face Tyrion when I must.’

‘It was a genuine question, not an accusation,’ Teclis said. ‘I cannot give you an answer. We shall only know if you are ready when the time comes. Fortunately, that time is not yet here. I am certain that Tyrion has left his army. He has gone north with Morathi, seemingly content after besting Imrik, and has left the prosecution of the war to Korhil.’

‘The name is unfamiliar to me,’ admitted the Phoenix King.

‘The captain of the White Lions. Stubborn, strong, courageous. He is a competent strategist, far more patient than my brother. He musters for a final assault on Lothern and must be stopped.’

‘Must?’ Malekith hung Asuryath on his armour, tying the silver hangers to his belt. It felt as natural as the Destroyer had done ever since he had lost Avanuir at Maledor. ‘That sounds like instruction, nephew.’

‘No, your majesty, simply a statement of strategic imperative. If Lothern falls Lord Aislinn will reunite his fleet and sweep away our ships in the Sea of Dreams. From Lothern they can attack Caledor directly. If we do not stop their advance at Lothern, Tor Caleda will be besieged before midwinter.’

‘The geography lesson is appreciated,’ Malekith growled. ‘Your assessment is pessimistic. The defences of Lothern are strong and our fleet outmatches any seaborne-attack Aislinn can muster. Why must I intervene now?’

‘The warriors of Lothern will not fight for long for a cause that is, at best, nebulous to them. It is only the presence of the Caledorians that stiffens their resolve for the moment, and only Imrik that led the Caledorians. However, unless you wish to see a reversal of the events at Eagle Gate, the people of Eataine need a focus for their loyalty. The time has come to reveal to them and all of Ulthuan that they have a Phoenix King, and it is not Tyrion.’

Malekith accepted this appraisal without comment, and after some time Teclis interpreted his silence as dismissal and left the Phoenix King to ponder his decision.

The king had been quick to quash any thought of cowardice, but alone in that hall he was free to admit to himself a very physical, mortal fear. He could hide it behind talk of surviving to lead his people, and justify his continued absence from the battlefield as sound strategy, but the truth was that he was afraid to test himself against Tyrion again. He had barely survived the last encounter and, Asuryath or not, he was in no hurry to repeat the experience.

Tyrion was every bit the swordmaster that Aenarion had been and now he wielded the Sword of Khaine. There was no deadlier fighter in the world.

It did not matter that Tyrion was not at Lothern in person. Malekith could break the siege, he was sure of it, but the moment he revealed himself the future would be set, the wheel would turn along the rut that led to the fight between Asuryan and Khaine, Malekith and Tyrion. Was there any more that he could do to prepare himself for that confrontation?

Thirty The Battle of Lothern

The war was within view of Lothern’s walls. To the east the fields burned and the skies darkened with smoke. To the north the flotsam of sea battles, timbers and corpses, washed towards the city on lapping waves. The wind carried the clamour of battle, the crash of weapons, the curses and war cries, distant yet all-consuming.

The corpses of dragons mouldered on the hillside meadows, iron-hard scales pierced by hundreds of arrows and the bolts of war engines. Griffon bodies lay beside the feathered remains of phoenixes and harpies, figures cloaked in lion pelts and sea dragon hide, casualties of Ulthuan and Naggaroth combined, slashed and stabbed, decapitated and burned.

The air danced with Azyr lightning and Hysh thunderbolts. Sorcery and high magic whirled in multicoloured thunderheads and opened chasms lined with jagged boulder-fangs. Trees enervated by Ghyran magic uprooted themselves and hurled their branches at any creature encroaching on their woodlands, while walls of fire incinerated farms and hostelries, fed by growing waves of Aqshy. Bear, lion and panther followed the call of Ghur, and unseen lurking things crept in the shadows of Ulgu. Ancient spirits wailed their laments, their chill weapons freezing the hearts of those that came near their mausoleums, and the lodestones that powered the vortex crackled and fizzed with discharging magic, unable to beat the huge influx of magic pouring from the Northern Wastes.

The archers and spear-wielding militia on the walls of Eataine’s capital tightened their grips and looked east, seeing the first ranks of the retreating columns marching into view. The dragons appeared overhead, manticores amongst them, duelling with skycutters and great eagles.

The banners of Caledor and Eataine fluttered at the head of the returning army, but there were other standards too – grisly icons of the Cytharai, dire runes carved into steel and bone, wound about with thorny branches and hung with entrails. These were the marks of the druchii, vicious and depraved, but made uneasy allies by some means by which a great many within the city were unsure. Their princes vowed for the alliance and they fought for the princes, but it was unsettling to see the black-and-purple-clad legions of Naggarothi bearing down upon the landside gates.

And the enemy were almost on the heels of the returning host, many thousands of knights on horseback, the chariots of Tiranoc rumbling through the fields and along the white-paved roads. The banner of Cothique flew high above many of the advancing regiments, along with those of Yvresse and Chrace. White Lions and Phoenix Guard, once symbols of Ulthuan’s unyielding defence, now threatened to sack Lothern.

Across the Inner Sea came Aislinn and his fleet, and this caused even greater consternation. Born of Eataine, the Sea Lord now seemed content to see his own city ruined rather than held by another. Magical bolts flew from the decks of his ships to crash against the stones of the sea walls, while seaguard loyal to Aislinn unleashed volleys of arrows against former companions that remained true to the defence of their city.

No order was given for the gates to open, and none demanded. The Caledorian dragons turned and formed a rearguard, passing across the lead elements of the following host with fire and claw, driving back the enemy for a short while, until press of numbers and threat of being overwhelmed caused them to fall back. The task was complete, however, and the army that now fell under the command of the Naggarothi corsair Lokhir Fellheart formed for the final battle for Eataine, perhaps even the last meaningful battle for Ulthuan.

Flying at speed across the city, Malekith sensed the changing tide of war as a prickling on the skin. He had not felt as invigorated as he did now since the Battle of Maledor, when first his plans to rule Ulthuan had been crushed. More than that, it was at Maledor that he had come to believe Asuryan had rejected him, and it had been that revelation that had soured his ambition for the following millennia. Now that he had been accepted again by the king of the heavens, Malekith felt enlivened, dedicated to his cause by a fresh enthusiasm that could sustain him for another six thousand years of war.

His laugh was carefree, and something of his old flair for exhibition filled him. Beneath him Seraphon sensed his mood and let out a roar. Just as she had been raised from a captured egg by his hand, she had been restored to full health by his dedication and sorcerous attendance.

Malekith drew Asuryath and laughed again, buoyed by the flame of Asuryan that burned from the blade. The sword left a trail of silver and white across the grey skies, and bathed both black dragon and rider in a pale halo.

The Phoenix King realised just what it was that he felt, and he marvelled that he had missed it for so long.

Righteousness.

It had been stripped from him that day on the field of Maledor, tainting his ambition, perhaps fuelling an inner doubt ever since. Now he knew that he fought not only for himself but for Ulthuan and for the elves.

For an instant, a fleeting heartbeat, he was wholly at peace with himself.

He swooped down upon the oncoming army like a comet, a dozen black dragons in his wake. At his arrival Lokhir Fellheart signalled the counter-attack and trumpets blared across Lothern, ordering the gates open and the companies within to spill forth. On the western horizon the looming shapes of massive black arks, each a castle brimming with warriors and war machines, closed on the fleet of Lord Aislinn. Fellheart’s own black ark, the Tower of Blessed Dread, led the seaborne charge, bearing directly for the gates of Lothern.

The clarions of the attacking army quickly changed from calling the advance to sounding the retreat. On the Sea of Dreams Aislinn’s fleet quickly hauled about and set to the east, fleeing for the shallower waters of the Sapherian coast. Imrik, though not fully recovered, had insisted on accompanying the Phoenix King and he joined his dragons in pursuit of the breaking ships while Malekith’s black drakes savaged the fleeing elements of the land-bound host.

After the initial exhilaration of the charge, three dozen foes cut effortlessly apart by Asuryath, as many again torn to shreds by Seraphon, Malekith’s mood deflated. He broke off his attack, uncharacteristically bored by the mindless butchery. The battle had been won at the moment of his arrival, that much was clear, and it seemed pointless to slaughter his new subjects to settle the point.

It was then that he did something entirely against his normal judgement. He signalled his forces to stand fast, ordering them to marshal the thousands that had surrendered. This allowed Korhil and the rest of Tyrion’s force to flee eastward. Imrik responded after a time, returning from his pursuit to find the Phoenix King atop Seraphon in the shadow of the eastern wall watching the captives filing back into the city.

‘We had them!’ barked Imrik, stowing his lance behind his saddle-throne. ‘We could have crushed them, destroyed all resistance in one attack. What madness in Asuryan’s name has taken your senses?’

‘Asuryan’s name indeed,’ Malekith snapped back. He waved a hand to encompass the rainbow of kingdom colours flying above the returning army, and the darker icons of the druchii amongst them. ‘These are my people now, Prince Imrik. I have killed more than you can ever count, and a thousand-thousand times that number are dead because of my commands. But I am not their enemy, I am their king. I have shown mercy today. I have shown those that follow Tyrion that there is an alternative.’

‘It will take more than a few spared lives to change six thousand years of history, Malekith,’ said Imrik, but his protest was spoken softly, a touch of admiration in his voice. ‘But I suppose today is as good a day as any to start making amends.’

‘Amends?’ Malekith sneered. ‘I do not seek their forgiveness, only their compliance. Let the survivors take back the word that I can be merciful. Those that choose to face me again will learn that I can still be merciless.’

Teclis had been amongst the army retreating to Lothern, and sought out Malekith soon after, finding him in council with Imrik discussing the next moves in the war. King and prince were in disagreement, with Malekith keen to consolidate the victory in Eataine and Imrik pressing to move the army after Korhil, pushing back into Saphery and Yvresse.

‘We cannot win this war by battles alone,’ Malekith told them. ‘Tyrion will not give up his claim while he lives, and will spend the lives of his followers to the last elf in prosecuting that claim.’

‘As will you?’ said Imrik.

Malekith answered with a silent stare.

‘Or the war ends with your death or Tyrion’s?’ the prince continued.

‘Be sure to know that you will not outlive me, son of Caledor,’ Malekith replied abruptly. ‘And your people will die screaming soon after.’

‘The king has it right, Prince Imrik,’ Teclis intervened before Imrik could retaliate. ‘We must win Ulthuan to our cause and rob my brother of forces, so that when the confrontation that must happen occurs he is entirely outmatched. We must begin here, with a proper triumph, so that the citizens of Lothern can see who their saviour is and spread the word to the other kingdoms.’

‘I have seen the manner of reaction my presence provokes, in Tor Caleda,’ Malekith said sourly, flames rippling from his body to demonstrate his meaning. ‘My name is poison on the tongues of the asur, my image a vision of hate and dread.’

‘The first will be nullified by your title, King Malekith, the second…’ Teclis appraised Malekith for a while and then started an incantation. The Phoenix King felt the seven winds of magic binding around him, guided by the power of light, Hysh. He felt no physical change, but saw Imrik’s eyes widening in surprise.

‘A glamour?’ the king said, holding up his hand. He saw only dark, scarred metal and turned to Imrik. ‘What do you see?’

‘You, your majesty,’ the prince replied, his tongue faltering over the words. ‘The image of a king, the line of Aenarion, in golden plate.’

Malekith straightened to his full height, impressed by Imrik’s reaction.

‘Then let us share our triumph with the people of Lothern,’ the king declared. ‘Let them see the magnificence of Aenarion born again, and be glad in their hearts that the true Phoenix King walks amongst them.’

And with these words, Malekith set off for the city.

Thirty-One A Heavy Crown

Malekith’s will held sway after the victory at Lothern, and his army spent the early winter restocking supplies and garrisoning towns and castles that had been abandoned by Korhil’s swift retreat northwards. He expected a counter-attack, either along the coast or across the sea, but none came. Concerned that his own forces, many of them corsairs of the fleet, would grow increasingly unruly if left to grow idle, he despatched several columns into Saphery and Yvresse, hoping to prompt a response from his foes.

It was not only Malekith’s armies that coped poorly with idleness. The king himself, now that he had revealed himself to friend and foe, was the centre of much attention. Princes of Yvresse and Eataine were keen to make audience, and under Teclis’s urging the king granted such meetings to foster fresh alliance and reveal Tyrion’s falsehoods. These affairs were tedious in the extreme, a succession of pontificating nobles that seemed to think they had the secret to winning the war, who deemed their opinions of any interest to Malekith at all.

Painfully aware that he could not simply have them killed out of hand – this was not the Black Council of Naggarond – Malekith tried his best to endure their bird-like twitterings and ill-informed grasps at politics and military strategy, but all too often his shortness of temper betrayed him and the emissaries left with stinging insults in their ears, if not bellowed threats following them out of the Sapphire Palace of Lothern, where Finubar had once ruled.

‘You cost us valuable friends,’ Imrik complained to the king a dozen days after Lothern had been saved. ‘Teclis has given you the appearance of a true king, but you have none of the nobility.’

‘You would talk to me of nobility?’ asked Malekith softly, wondering just how much longer he would require Imrik’s support. He longed for the day when the dragons answered to Malekith directly, and he could dispense with the swaggering, overblown descendant of the Dragontamer. ‘These princes try to tell me how to wage war, and seek to advise me on how best to rule my people. They are dolts and dullards, and it is a wonder that with such cretinous commanders your armies ever held against mine.’

‘A history it is best not to bring up with them,’ Teclis said smoothly, having entered unheard and unseen through one of the side doors of the great audience hall of the Phoenix King. He looked weary again, the flush of energy that had filled him following the defeat of Korhil now vanished. ‘I have spent the better part of the last two days salving the wounds your harsh words have caused, your majesty. Prince Imrik is correct, you must try to resist these intemperate moods.’

‘Moods?’ Malekith said the word slowly, with menace. ‘Lackwits try to surround me with their idiocy and I am prey to moods? The whole of the Naggarothi people were dedicated to my every word, they lived and died by my will and whim. They recognised my leadership and knew when to offer their opinions and when to listen. Perhaps I should make a few more obvious examples, so that these pretentious princes understand the nature of my kingship?’

It was in this state of mind that Malekith later received word that one of his corsair captains, Drane Brackblood, had led an attack on an outpost at Allardin, slaughtering all within and looting as was the nature of the black ark crews. Such violence against Malekith’s new allies was wholly unacceptable and the Phoenix King feared that unless he sent a strong message to the other druchii tensions between them and the asur would split apart the fragile alliance he had forged.

Turning in these troubled times to his most trusted companion, he despatched Kouran, who for some time had been working with the Caledorian princes integrating the armies of Naggarond and Caledor. The captain of the Black Guard’s orders were clear and would be carried out without hesitation – Brackblood and all of her officers, and any that took part in the killing at Allardin, were to be summarily killed.

Five days later Kouran returned to Malekith with the news that the deed had been done. The bodies of the dead were displayed from the battlements of Brackblood’s black ark Shadow Tide in the harbour of Lothern and Malekith delivered a speech to his court in which he told his allies that the perpetrators of the attack at Allardin had been apprehended and executed, and he told those from the druchii contingent that any violence against the asur when not in open battle would be punished in the same manner.

The show of strength had the opposite effect to that which Malekith had desired. Amongst his own ranks there were desertions as companies and commanders decided that Malekith no longer represented their best interests, hoping to find better understanding amongst those that had followed Morathi to Tyrion’s side. From the asur princes came an outcry against the king’s brutal actions, complaints about the tyranny of Naggaroth being brought to the homes of Ulthuan.

The following night fighting broke out in the Sapphire Palace. The battle was swift and one-sided and when it was concluded Malekith was visited by Kouran and Caradryan, whose bodyguard forces had combined to form the Shadowfire Guard, one sinister figure in black the other a bright hero in white, as though a telling embodiment of the Phoenix King’s own duality.

‘Prince Torhaeron rallied a company of the White Lions still in Lothern, your majesty,’ reported Caradryan. ‘They served once as Finubar’s bodyguard and were on their way to kill you.’

‘This Torhaeron, where is he now?’

‘Caradryan took his head, my king,’ Kouran replied, with a hint of grudging admiration in his voice. ‘The others all fought to the death too. There were no survivors.’

‘We can expect there to be other attempts on your life, your majesty,’ the former Phoenix Guard captain told him. ‘We have organised a standing guard of two hundred warriors that will attend to your security at all times.’

‘One hundred of mine and one hundred of his, my king,’ added Kouran, ‘regularly rotated from the rest of the companies.’

‘You think this was a serious threat to my life?’ Malekith growled.

‘Perhaps not this time, but the danger will grow when Morathi learns that you have taken up the Phoenix Crown, your majesty,’ Caradryan said, his expression stern.

‘I do not need two hundred shadows dogging my footsteps, getting in the way.’

‘We are resolute on the matter, my king,’ Kouran added, literally standing shoulder to shoulder with Caradryan. ‘Shadowblade tried to kill you on the Blighted Isle, and his whereabouts have been unknown since. There are too many people that want you dead, my king – we will not be refused on this.’

Malekith was stunned by the insolence, even as he was unsettled by the accord between the two captains. They could not have been more dissimilar in temperament and ambition but they now presented a united front.

‘You are right, there will be others,’ the king snapped. ‘You can have your guard of two hundred warriors, but I want a thousand more out there in the city, in the towns, scouring for signs of rebellion before they take root. Cut out any disease, eliminate potential threats before they become a problem.’

‘Yes, my king,’ said Kouran. Caradryan seemed uncertain, but said nothing in protest.

When they had gone, Malekith walked through the palace, coming to the high tower that rose needle-like over the east wing. Finubar’s Point it was called, raised by the previous Phoenix King, where he would retire and think. At the summit was a crystal-domed observatory, for Finubar had been known as the Seafarer and even after his voyages had ended he had spent many days looking out at the stars, charting their course across the heavens, gazing towards distant horizons only he could see.

The doors had been broken in, the enchanted planks split apart by many heavy axe blows. Malekith stopped at the threshold, disturbed by the last words Finubar had said to him.

The starlight beyond the dome was reflected in the still scrying pool on the raised dais at the centre of the room, like a sheet of inky blackness dotted with tiny diamonds. A ripple disturbed the water, which in turn disturbed the watcher, for Finubar had not moved for many hours and there was no breeze to cause such a thing.

The Phoenix King straightened in shock as he saw a face at his shoulder reflected in the settling water. He spun, the punch passing through the apparition of a dark-haired, lean-faced elf.

‘So it’s true what they say,’ Malekith’s spirit said lightly, stepping through the scrying pool. He stopped at the centre and turned, one finger tracing a line in the water though the rest of his projection was as insubstantial as thought. ‘Sailors, always ready with their fists!’

Finubar stepped back, eyes narrowing, a glance directed towards the door.

‘The wards… They are not broken. How did you pass them?’ The Seafarer stopped his retreat as his legs met the edge of a cabinet by the wall. ‘The loremasters assured me the barrier was inviolable.’

‘Magic can be a tricky thing, my friend,’ said Malekith. ‘But you are right, my mother and I tried for many years to breach the warding spells on this tower without success. Trickery, brute strength, nothing we tried worked. A shame we didn’t have an earlier opportunity to exploit treachery.’

‘A traitor.’ Finubar had recovered some of his composure, comporting himself again as ruler of the elves. ‘A traitor amongst the loremasters of Hoeth? Who could gain by such a thing?’

‘Not quite a loremaster, not really.’

‘Teclis?’

‘I’ll grant you this, you are one of the cleverer Phoenix Kings I have killed.’

‘So, you intend to kill me. It will not help – my death will bring you no closer to the Phoenix Throne.’

‘Actually, it will. Or so I have been told, from a reliable source.’

Malekith strode out of the pool and looked up at the stars, marvelling at the way the rays of light seemed to pass through his not-quite corporeal body.

‘Teclis again? It was a moment of weakness, assisted by wine, the night I confessed to feeling guilt at our deception.’

‘Deception? Confession?’ Malekith smiled, or at least the representation of him did. ‘Please continue.’

‘You know of what I speak. The coronation to become Phoenix King, it is a sham. I no more passed through the flames of the king of kings than you did.’

‘I knew it!’ Malekith snapped his fingers, his smile broadening to a grin. ‘There had to be something that made Teclis seek me out. He thinks the Rhana Dandra is coming, you know? He needs the true heir to Aenarion to sit on the Phoenix Throne, to save elvenkind.’

‘His brother T–’

‘Tyrion is useless, a vacant slave to his lusts for the Everqueen, cursed by the taint of Khaine as pronounced by Caledor Dragontamer. Have you not been paying attention? He even has a child from his rutting, a dirty secret to keep from the court.’

‘Alarielle has borne only my child, Aliathra.’

‘Save your lies – you know that she is not yours. What a noble spirit Tyrion must be. To cuckold the Phoenix King and sire the next Everqueen? That must be why you never named him as successor, but always spoke well of Imrik though the prince of Caledor despises you for the most part.’ Malekith was guessing much of this, but he enjoyed the look of pain that twisted Finubar’s face as each accusation was made and took it as further proof. ‘It gnaws at your heart, doesn’t it? To think that the Dragon of Cothique is lauded so highly when in truth he is nothing more than an adolescent, getting into fights and bedding your wife. Even you, noblest and most worthy of all the princes, even you cannot swallow that shame and accept that failure in your heart.’

‘Many times has the marriage and consummation between the Phoenix King and Everqueen been purely… ceremonial.’

‘More sham, more guilt?’

Finubar bowed his head, averting his gaze. He mumbled something that Malekith did not quite hear.

‘Was that an apology or a prayer?’ said the Witch King. ‘Neither will be heard.’

‘You cannot harm me here,’ Finubar announced, suddenly emboldened. He waved a hand back and forth between Malekith’s left and right shoulder and then up through his face. ‘You could not transmaterialise yourself within these walls, even with Teclis’s assistance. He has opened a window for you, nothing more. In fact, I would think that Teclis does not want me dead, not yet. He is right, I have seen in the heavens that the Rhana Dandra is upon us. The gods of the stars fall back to the world and the gate in the north opens. The daemons will be upon Ulthuan in a matter of days and Teclis knows that our people need my leadership.’

‘I cannot say for sure what Teclis intended, but rest assured I have not hidden my motives.’ Malekith’s apparition started to make signs in the air, weaving jagged rune-shapes with the tip of a finger. ‘Well, not for this night. I will, however, dispense with his alliance as soon as it becomes unnecessary. Once he has handed me Ulthuan’s keys, he will find me a less pleasant companion. You are correct in your assertion that I cannot lay physical hands upon you, much to my pity. There are other ways in which I can extend my reach.’

‘What are you doing?’ Finubar demanded, moving towards the door. Malekith’s apparition stalked after him, whispering an enchantment. With his words the floating incantation formed a circle that started to revolve around the scrying pool.

‘Dangerous things, windows,’ said Malekith, coming between the Seafarer and the door. He pointed back to the pool whose waters were colouring with blood. ‘The sisters of Ghrond have learned such lessons in very hard circumstances. Sometimes other things look back through the windows. Also, some windows can be opened, you see.’

‘What have you done?’ Finubar’s voice was choked as he dashed to the side of the raised pool and stared into the depths of his scrying-water.

‘Just a little portal,’ said Malekith. ‘It won’t last long enough to threaten Lothern.’

‘A portal to where?’

‘See for yourself.’

Finubar leaned over the edge of the pool. A hand with red skin and black claws shot out of the blood-coloured water and seized the Phoenix King by the throat. The waters boiled and a horned head emerged slowly, white-eyed, fanged mouth open in an ecstatic grin.

‘I cannot, as you said, transubstantiate my body within these walls, but daemons rarely have such problems.’

‘They’ll never accept you!’ Finubar pulled himself free from the grasp of the emerging daemon, tearing bloody welts from across his throat. ‘Ulthuan will drown in blood before you are hailed as the Phoenix King!’

Malekith said nothing as the bloodletter of Khorne leapt from the waters, hands seizing hold of Finubar while a forked tongue ran across its razor-sharp teeth. The daemon turned a hungry look on Malekith and the Witch King wondered if it would be able to follow him through the breach Teclis had made in the wards.

It was probably better to be safer than sorry, and Malekith ended the spell, pulling his spirit back to the Black Tower in Naggarond.

Malekith did not step through the broken door, but remained there in thought. After a while he turned and beckoned to one of the guards close at hand. The elf was Eataine-born, and approached with caution, her shield and spear trembling. Malekith thought it fear and then remembered Teclis’s glamour. It was not dread that unsettled the guard, it was awe.

It felt good, and was proof that Finubar would be wrong.

‘Send word to my seneschal, Kouran. This door is to be barred again. Understood?’

‘Yes.’ The elf nodded and then remembered whom she addressed. ‘Your majesty.’

With a flick of the hand the Phoenix King dismissed her from his presence and thoughts equally, and turned his mind to more difficult matters. Recalling the conversation with Finubar had reminded him of another thorny obstacle to be overcome if he was to legitimately become Phoenix King – marriage to the Everqueen. While Alarielle was not his half-sister, there could still be other objections, not least by the Everqueen herself.

Thirty-Two The Everqueen

It transpired that Tyrion had encountered similar issues in securing the Everqueen’s endorsement. News from the north was of a great battle under the eaves of the Avelorn Forest, and it seemed that Prince Tyrion desired to take by war that which had once freely been given by the Everqueen. Details were sparse, for not only Morathi’s conjurations prevented scrying, but Alarielle’s presence also confounded attempts at magical observation.

As had become his habit, Teclis arrived at nightfall following word of Tyrion’s attack reaching Malekith’s ears. The mage travelled far and fast upon his shadow steed, but the magic was costly. The Phoenix King had noticed the disturbances in the winds of magic growing greater, filling the vortex of Ulthuan with unprecedented power but making spells of any subtlety and nuance all but impossible.

‘The King in the Woods fights alongside Alarielle,’ said the breathless mage as he was admitted to Malekith’s great hall. Imrik, Caradryan and Kouran were hard on Teclis’s heels, having been alerted to the mage’s imminent arrival by the many spies, both physical and not, surveying the Sapphire Palace and city of Lothern. ‘Your majesty, the host of Athel Loren has come to the Everqueen’s aid.’

‘How is that possible?’ asked Caradryan. ‘An ocean and continent separate the two.’

‘The more pertinent question would be why,’ said Malekith. ‘Our forest-bound cousins have never seemed interested in our continuing struggle for the isle of their ancestors. What brings Orion and Ariel to these shores now?’

‘Something of that might be answered by knowing that it is Orion alone that has come, your majesty,’ said Teclis. ‘Of the avatar of Isha, nothing has been seen. Avelorn and Athel Loren, though divided, have always been bound together in ways that we cannot fathom. The spirits of the Everqueen and immortal Ariel connect in a fashion, both stemming from the power of Isha. With the gods returning to the world, that ancient conjunction is perhaps showing itself in new ways.’

‘What if Tyrion wins, my king?’ Kouran asked, always of a practical mind. ‘If the pretender seizes control of Avelorn, his coup is all but complete. None know what happened in the Shrine of Asuryan and with the Island of Flames swallowed by the sea it is your word alone that claims Asuryan’s blessing.’

‘And my presence,’ snapped Malekith. ‘Does not the fire of the All-king run through me? Does not his blessing emanate from my being?’

‘No disrespect was intended, my king, but trickery has been used before and your opponents will dismiss such things as an artifice of the Sapherian.’

‘Should we send our forces to aid Alarielle?’ said Imrik. ‘It will take some time to arrange passage on ships but the dragons could be there in a matter of days.’

‘Just in time to see the forests burning and hear Morathi’s laughs of triumph,’ said Malekith. ‘She has always hated the Everqueen, and will stop at nothing to see her dispossessed, the power of Avelorn broken.’

‘Chosen by whom?’ asked Morathi contemptuously.

‘By the princes and the Everqueen,’ Bel Shanaar replied, standing to one side of the holy tree of Isha.

‘Astarielle was slain,’ Morathi said. ‘The reign of the Everqueen is no more.’

‘She lives on,’ said a ghostly, feminine voice that drifted around the glade.

‘Astarielle was slain by the daemons,’ Morathi insisted, casting her gaze about to spy from whence the voice had come, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

The leaves on all of the trees began to quiver, filling the glade with a gentle susurrus as if a wind whispered through the treetops, though the air was still. The long grass of the glade began to sway in the same invisible breeze, bending towards the Aein Yshain at its centre. The glow of the sacred tree grew stronger, bathing the council in a golden light dappled with sky blues and verdant greens.

In the shimmering brightness, a silhouette of greater light appeared upon the knotted trunk, resolving itself into the form of a young elf maiden. Morathi gasped, for at first it seemed as if Astarielle indeed still lived.

The maiden’s golden hair hung to her waist in long plaited tresses woven with flowers of every colour, and she wore the green robes of the Everqueen. Her face was delicate, even by elven standards, and her eyes the startling blue of the clearest summer skies. As the light dimmed, the elf’s features became clearer and Morathi saw that this newcomer was not Astarielle. There was a likeness, of that Morathi was aware, but she relaxed as she scrutinised the girl.

‘You are not Astarielle,’ Morathi declared confidently. ‘You are an impostor!’

‘Not Astarielle, you are right,’ replied the maiden, her voice soft yet carrying easily to the furthest reaches of the glade. ‘I am not an impostor, either. I am Yvraine, daughter of Aenarion and Astarielle.’

‘More trickery!’ shrieked Morathi, rounding on the princes with such an expression of anger that many flinched from her ire. ‘Yvraine is also dead! You conspire to keep my son from his rightful inheritance.’

‘She is Yvraine,’ said Oakheart, his voice a melodic noise like the sighing of a light wind through branches. ‘Though Astarielle remained to protect Avelorn against the daemons, she bid us take her children to safety. To the Gaen Vale I carried them, where no other elf has trod. There my kin and I fought the daemons and kept Yvraine and Morelion safe those many years.’

At this there were gasps from the Naggarothi, none louder than the exclamation of Malekith.

‘Then my half-brother also still lives?’ the prince demanded. ‘Aenarion’s first son is alive?’

‘Calm yourself, Malekith,’ said Thyriol. ‘Morelion has taken ship and sailed from Ulthuan. He is a child of Avelorn, as is Yvraine, and he seeks no claim to the rule of Nagarythe. He is blessed of Isha, not a scion of Khaine, and seeks neither dominion nor fealty.’

‘You kept this from Aenarion?’ Morathi’s tone was full of incredulity. ‘You allowed him to believe his children were dead, and raised them separated from their father? You have hidden them from–’

‘I am the beloved of Isha,’ said Yvraine, her voice stern, silencing Morathi. ‘In me is reborn the spirit of the Everqueen. Anlec is a place of blood and rage. It could not be my home, I could not live amongst the taint of Khaine, and so Oakheart and his kind raised me in the manner and place fitting for my station.’

‘I see now your conspiracy,’ said Morathi, stalking across the glade to confront the princes. ‘In secrecy you have muttered and whispered, and kept the Naggarothi from your counsels. You seek to supplant the line of Aenarion with one of your own, and wrest the power of Ulthuan from Nagarythe.’

‘There is no power to wrest, no line to break,’ replied Thyriol. ‘Only in pain and death does Nagarythe prevail. We sent messengers to Anlec and you turned them away. We sought to include you in our deliberations, but you would send no embassy. We gave you every right and opportunity to make the claim for your son and you chose to tread your own path. There is no conspiracy.’

‘I am the widow of Aenarion, the queen of Ulthuan,’ Morathi snarled. ‘When the daemons preyed upon your people, did Aenarion and his lieutenants stand by and discuss matters in council? When Caledor began his spell, did he debate its merits with the peons? To rule is to wield the right to decide for all.’

‘You are queen no longer, Morathi,’ said Yvraine, ghosting softly across the glade, her steps as light as settling snowflakes. ‘The Everqueen has returned and I shall rule with Bel Shanaar, just as Aenarion reigned with my mother.’

‘You will wed Bel Shanaar?’ asked Morathi, turning on Yvraine.

‘As Aenarion wed my mother, so the Everqueen will marry the Phoenix King, and ever shall it be down all of the ages,’ Yvraine declared. ‘I cannot marry Malekith, my half-brother, no matter what his entitlement or qualities to succeed his father.’

The debate continued long into the night, but it was Malekith’s decree that any force sent to bolster the defence of Avelorn would be wasted. While Tyrion’s focus was on the Everqueen it made sense to gain ground in the southern and eastern kingdoms, and perhaps to even take Ellyrion so that Tyrion would have foes to the east and west of his position.

As dawn lit the night sky, clear clarions were heard to the east. Suspecting attack, the defenders of Lothern rushed to their posts, while Malekith and his princes alighted on their dragons and took to the skies. What they saw to the east was almost like illusion, a semi-real phantasm of the dawn light.

An army marched to Lothern, but not of Tyrion or his commanders. Maidens with bows and spears led the way, and on a unicorn in their midst came Alarielle herself, flanked by companies of leaf-cloaked archers and stag riders. A morning mist followed them, creating an otherworldly air as though the army marched not on the ground but through it, passing hedge and thicket without impediment. As the sun rose higher the apparitions took more shape, their gonfalons and banners snapping in the breeze, their regiments marked out in summer and autumnal colours, greens and browns and deepest reds.

Malekith and Imrik sped back to the Sapphire Palace to make ready for a proper welcome to the Everqueen while the other dragons flew escort to the eagles and drakes that accompanied the combined army of Avelorn and Athel Loren.

The gates were opened for the Everqueen and, followed by her handmaidens, she entered the city along streets that were littered with hastily-procured leaves and petals, while choirs of children sang hymns in praise of Isha. Only once before had Alarielle come to Lothern, to publicly wed Finubar when he had been chosen as Phoenix King, and there was rampant rumour in the city regarding this unheralded arrival.

Malekith, who had no experience of how these matters were handled on Ulthuan, allowed himself to be guided by Teclis’s counsel. In the wide plaza before the Sapphire Palace a stage was quickly raised and bedecked with garlands of such flowers and plants that could be found in the palace and the gardens of the local nobles, while word was sent to those same ranking elves to attend a feast that afternoon.

Alarielle’s procession through the city was stately, and for Malekith thankfully slow, so that by the time the Everqueen and her entourage arrived at the Sapphire Palace the inner plazas of the city were thronged with princes and nobility ready to cheer her in welcome.

Following Teclis’s advice Malekith had left his immense iron throne in the audience chamber, and instead two ornately carved chairs, equal in size, were placed at the centre of the stage. Standing to one side of these, the Phoenix King, his glamour-image resplendent in dragon armour and swirling scarlet cloak, waited for Alarielle to complete her parade.

‘Bow, your majesty,’ whispered Teclis, as Alarielle mounted the steps to Malekith’s left.

‘What?’ snapped the king. ‘Why?’

‘She is the Everqueen, greater than the Phoenix King, and you seek her commendation,’ Teclis said hurriedly. ‘Your majesty.’

Malekith almost refused, thinking it beneath him. Alarielle was no more a great queen of the elves than any of the fake kings she and her foremothers had endorsed in his place over the centuries. However, when he saw the light of Ghyran that shone from the Everqueen, highlighting a beauty that was ethereal and entrancing, he allowed his old charm to surface and did not bow, but sank to one knee.

Surprised, the Everqueen stopped a few paces away while her handmaidens and grim-faced guard lined the square. Malekith had already placed warriors from the Shadowfire Guard on all the roofs and surrounding buildings lest an agent of Tyrion try to assassinate the Everqueen, but Alarielle was used to seeing to her own fortunes.

‘Welcome to Lothern,’ said the Phoenix King, standing up to offer his hand.

Alarielle looked at it, and Malekith realised that the glamour had no effect on her. She saw the truth of what he was, a haggard half-corpse in blackened armour. He left the hand out and tried to smile, though his helm hid his withered lips.

Alarielle took the hand without comment and stepped beside the Phoenix King, turning her radiant smile on the crowd. Their cheers shook the buildings as she nodded regally, her gaze passing over everyone in her audience, seeming to touch all present with a glance of wry humour or earnest intent as their expectations warranted.

Releasing her grip, Alarielle moved to the front of the stage and held out her hands for quiet. A break in the clouds bathed her in golden sunlight and a still descended, so that not even the birds nesting in the eaves made any sound. Her voice when she spoke was as clear as running water, calm but strong, carrying on the wind easily.

‘Great are the tribulations that have troubled our lands of late, and the turmoil to come is greater still. Yet in adversity can also be union, and so it is that with profound pleasure I can tell you that the houses of Avelorn and Athel Loren have been united once again. Those that were estranged are now as one.’

She gestured to the wood elves that had followed her into the square, and there was a ripple of polite applause for them. Alarielle straightened, her hands resting lightly on her girdle, and took a deep breath. Malekith could sense her nervousness now, though she did not look back at him, and knew what troubled her thoughts.

‘And of other unions I must speak. Divided are the kingdoms of Ulthuan, and divided are the loyalties of their princes. This must end, and so I have sent my maiden guard to roam wide across Ulthuan bearing the declaration I speak to you today.’ She then turned a little and beckoned to Malekith, who dutifully stepped forward. ‘As is the right and proper tradition, Malekith of Nagarythe, prince of Ulthuan, heir to Aenarion the Defender, has entered the sacred fires of Asuryan and been reborn. When his prosecution of the current war has successfully driven out the dark forces that would see us plunged into a nightmare of blood and eternal night, we shall be united in marriage, Phoenix King and Everqueen as ever it has been since the time of Aenarion.’

More rapturous cheers and claps thundered across the plaza. Someone started to chant Malekith’s name, and the shout was taken up by others. To hear voices raised in praise of him in such a fashion was something he had not experienced for a long lifetime. Spears and halberds were raised, swords clashed against shields, adding to the tumult of adulation. Yet for all the noise of his supporters there were many in the plaza that did not join the celebration. He saw elves slinking away through the streets and alleys with backwards glances, concern and distaste on their faces. Kouran had noticed them too, it seemed, for almost imperceptibly groups of former Black Guard broke from the crowd and followed these dissidents.

When the clamour had died down, Malekith and Alarielle walked together back to the Sapphire Palace, but once concealed within the gates the Everqueen took her leave of the Phoenix King and retired with her handmaidens to the south halls. Malekith returned to his chambers to assimilate the day’s events and before long the guards called out the arrival of Teclis and Imrik.

Malekith sent for refreshments for his advisors and sat silent in his throne while they debated the course of events that had led to Alarielle’s arrival. Orion was dead, all reports claimed, slain by Tyrion but not before the King in the Woods, the incarnation of Kurnous the Hunter, had gravely wounded the prince with his spear. Many other heroes of Avelorn and Athel Loren had died in the forests of Withelan, but a great toll had also been taken of Tyrion’s forces. Morathi’s attempt to claim the power of the Everqueen had again been thwarted though Avelorn itself was now abandoned.

‘Alarielle remains uncertain,’ Malekith declared. ‘Why else would she pronounce that the war will end before we are wed? It is a soft proclamation, one that our rivals will seize upon as proof that Alarielle only backs me out of coercion.’

‘Her words are more significant even than that, your majesty,’ said Teclis. ‘She talked of reuniting Ulthuan with Athel Loren. All three of our split kindreds are again becoming one. Druchii, asur and asrai, all of them returned to Ulthuan now, under your rule.’

‘It is inevitable, is it not?’ Malekith tapped his fingers on the arm of the throne. ‘I am Asuryan reborn, Aenarion’s heir, the king of kings. Not for me the false throne of Ulthuan. When I prevail I shall be ruler of all the elves.’

‘A war still lies between us and that eventuality,’ said Imrik. ‘The endorsement of the Everqueen stands in our favour and her troops are well-received, but the greater part of Ulthuan is still loyal to Tyrion. While he is wounded we would do well to strike fast and make what ground we can, spreading the word of Alarielle’s blessing.’

‘Summon the princes and generals to council tonight,’ commanded Malekith. ‘Come dawn the last war for Ulthuan will begin.’

The next morning the combined army of Malekith and Alarielle marched forth from Lothern, the Phoenix King and Everqueen at its head, one a figure of dark majesty, the other the embodiment of life and light. The banners of Ulthuan, Naggaroth and Athel Loren streamed behind them and the host that followed numbered tens of thousands.

The war that followed was a terrible time, fought as bitterly and savagely as when Malekith had first attempted to seize the Phoenix Throne. Wherever Tyrion rode the Shadow of Khaine followed, filling elves with a bloodlust and desire for battle that brought them flocking to his banner. To counter this Malekith and the Everqueen seemed to be everywhere, calling on the elves of Ulthuan to swear allegiance to the new Phoenix King.

Malekith’s army had one great advantage over Tyrion’s, and that was Alarielle’s mastery of the World Roots. These ancient magical paths were the means by which the warriors of Athel Loren had come to Avelorn, and they allowed bodies of troops to move from kingdom to kingdom, across the mountains and Inner Sea, undetected and unopposed.

It was well that the Phoenix King’s host had such advantage. Though victories and defeats seemed in equal measure between the two sides, always it seemed that Tyrion’s army was swelled by every conflict and Malekith’s diminished.

Too many are the tales to be told of that bloody affair, of armies routed and scores of dragons duelling in the skies. Morai-heg laid many a twist and turn on fate’s path over the coming seasons, so that the battle for Ulthuan was marked as much by treachery and rebellion as it was valour and sacrifice.

Most notable of these events was when Korhil, who had led Tyrion’s army to the walls of Lothern, broke free of Tyrion’s grip and Morathi’s enchantments. In a daring episode, the captain of the White Lions took the Widowmaker and attempted to bring it to Malekith’s camp.

Morathi’s hunters scoured the wilds for Korhil and the stolen Sword of Khaine but in a twist that would have made Morai-heg cackle with joy, they were set upon by rival Khainites under the command of Hellebron. The hag queen had finally abandoned Har Ganeth, and having learned that her favoured assassin Shadowblade had been ensorcelled by Morathi when he attacked Malekith, sought to avenge herself on the Hag Sorceress and her consort. Long was the rivalry between Har Ganeth and Ghrond and now that enmity was given full freedom. Cothique and Yvresse were awash with blood as the two sects of devotees to the Lord of Murder tried to outdo each other in their dedication and bloody sacrifice, but it availed Korhil nought, for he was captured and the Widowmaker returned to Tyrion. For his bravery the Lionmane was beheaded with his own axe.

The fighting moved to the mountains of Saphery, where the vortex of magic swirled strong and beasts of all size and manner were brought to the battles by both sides – manticores and chimeras, griffons and hydras. While spell and counter-spell lashed across the peaks the roars and bellows of the beastmasters’ charges heralded a deadly confrontation of fangs and claws, scorpion-stings and petrifying stares. The skies were split by thunderbolts and the earth trembled with the summoning of elementals.

The threat of assassination and treachery was rife. Though the direct attempts on Malekith or Alarielle were few, greater were the desertions and small coups. Garrisons would hail for Tyrion and ambush supply caravans destined for the armies, while ship’s captains and town elders would transport and hide the agents of Morathi, conveying the spies into the heart of Malekith’s holdings in return for promised riches and power when Tyrion was victorious.

Word often reached Malekith’s ear of a prince’s wavering loyalty or of seditious words spread through the companies of a particular general. Having learned from the fiasco of Brackblood’s execution Malekith did not act overtly against these naysayers and faint-hearts, but sent them to the areas where the fighting was hardest, allowing Tyrion’s warriors to cull the dissenters.

And throughout the war Malekith and Tyrion avoided matching each other blade to blade. Both knew that they were evenly matched. Malekith had fresh experience and his pride still smarted from his last confrontation with the Dragon of Cothique, while Tyrion was wary of Malekith’s new-found power and reforged blade, reminded that in the old myths Khaine was laid low by Asuryan’s wrath.

Even when by miscalculation or poor fortune the two found themselves on the same battlefield they would be circumspect in their fighting, such clashes becoming brief skirmishes before both sides withdrew.

At Tor Ellian Malekith’s army faced a disastrous defeat and only the arrival of warriors and spirits from Athel Loren along the World Roots allowed the Phoenix King’s forces to disengage in any semblance of order. Alarielle herself had almost been slain and the elves from beyond the Great Ocean vowed that they would never leave her side.

Tor Ellian signalled a shift in fortunes for Malekith. No matter what he tried, still Tyrion’s forces prevailed more than they lost. Engulfed by the Shadow of Khaine they would fight to the last, selling their deaths dearly while Malekith’s warriors were forced to retreat again and again to fight another day. With each encounter the Shadow of Khaine spread to more soldiers and princes once loyal to Malekith, sapping the strength of his hosts even more.

Thirty-Three A New Ending

His desperation growing, Malekith sent Teclis across Ulthuan, demanding of the princes not yet committed to show themselves loyal to the Phoenix Throne, in battle. A great many of the nobles finally sent forth their households, but as many that declared for Malekith were matched by the number that moved to the camp of Tyrion, and an equal number refused to pick between two equally bloodthirsty tyrants.

No matter how bloody a pursuit became, nor if an army was outmanoeuvred and on the brink of destruction, there was one kingdom of Ulthuan that neither side violated. Nagarythe, a fog-shrouded desolation, was home to the Shadow King and his aesenar and neither side dared the borders of Aenarion’s ancient realm for fear of rousing the wrath of Alith Anar. Now Malekith risked the Shadow King’s neutrality and despatched Teclis to seek audience with the self-appointed ruler of Nagarythe.

It was with some trepidation that Malekith awaited his emissary’s return. In the guise of a flock of crows Teclis came back to the camp of the Phoenix King as the army was camped on the shore of the Inner Sea close to the border between Eataine and Saphery. Malekith knew immediately from Teclis’s expression that his advances had been rebuffed.

‘The ranks of the aesenar swell, as they did when the Anars first raised their banner in opposition to Morathi before the Sundering, your majesty,’ said the mage. ‘Tens of thousands of refugees from across the kingdoms have sought sanctuary under his banner, turned aside from the other kingdoms.’

‘A force that could swing the war yet he sits on his hands like a coward,’ snarled Malekith. ‘Does he not know that Tyrion and Morathi will slaughter them all once they have secured Ulthuan?’

‘He does not care, I think,’ admitted Teclis. ‘He is a bitter spirit, and your treachery still burns cold in his heart.’

‘My treachery?’ The king’s protest was like iron scraping on stone. ‘The Anars swore their oaths to me, delivered Anlec to me, and then they turned on me. He owes me an army!’

‘Nevertheless, there will be no army from Nagarythe, your majesty,’ said Teclis. The two of them walked to Malekith’s pavilion and stopped under the shade of the great awning over the entrance. Servants brought Teclis wine but he waved them away and instead imbibed one of his constitution restoratives.

‘We are being beaten, nephew,’ Malekith said quietly. ‘The time fast approaches when I must risk all or we shall lose by degrees everything we have until there is no army left to fight with.’

‘Personal combat?’ Teclis flexed his fingers as though they were stiff and rolled his shoulders with a pained expression. As much as anyone the war had taken its toll on him. ‘Do you think you can win?’

‘I think the first problem is drawing Tyrion into a fight he cannot avoid,’ said Malekith. ‘His army grows stronger every day, and with each the reasons to match his blade against mine lessen. I have misjudged this war. The Shadow of Khaine lies too deeply over our people, and loyalty to the Phoenix Throne is scarce.’

‘What do you suggest, your majesty?’

‘Do not be coy, nephew.’ Malekith stepped inside the pavilion and Teclis followed. He did not speak again until they were alone in his audience chamber. ‘You have always harboured a grander plan for the conclusion of this effort, have you not? Do not seek to dissemble any longer – the time is upon us for frank discussion.’

‘You speak of the vortex, your majesty.’ The mage did not look at the Phoenix King but busied himself at a platter of meats and breads on a side table. ‘An attempt to harness the winds of magic to end forever the threat of Chaos and the daemons.’

‘I knew it would be grandiose, nephew, but I never quite thought you could have such a high ambition! Ultimate victory over Chaos? Peace and love in our times? Wolf and lion living in harmony? I am surprised you waited this long before making your confession.’

Teclis turned but before he could speak Malekith stopped him with a raised hand.

‘You are aware that I have some personal experience in this matter, yes?’ said the Phoenix King. ‘Interfering with the vortex, I learned at great cost, can have severe consequences.’

The throne room at the heart of Aenarion’s palace was shrouded in darkness. The only light came from the glow of the Witch King’s armour, casting flickering shadows from the twelve figures that stood before him.

The humiliation hurt more than his wounds, though they were grievous; the blows of the Phoenix Guard had reignited the fire of Asuryan that had been set in his flesh. Malekith did not retreat from the pain as he had done before. He embraced it. He nurtured it. The agony in his body fuelled the rage in his spirit.

‘I will not be denied,’ Malekith growled.

‘We are defeated, master,’ said Urathion, the sorcerer-lord who ruled over the citadel of Ullar. ‘There are barely enough troops to defend the walls and the army of the accursed Anars will surely come soon.’

‘Silence!’ Malekith’s shout reverberated around the hall, echoing from the distant walls. ‘There will be no surrender.’

‘How can we resist with our armies scattered?’ asked Illeanith. The sorceress, daughter of Thyriol, asked the question in a whisper, voice full of fear. ‘It will take too long to withdraw our garrisons to the city.’

‘We will have a new army, one that Imrik and his fawning minions will never defeat,’ said Malekith.

The Witch King stood up, armoured feet ringing on the stone floor as he took several steps closer to the ring of wizards. He held out a smoking hand and cut the air with a finger. A line appeared, bulging with energy; a torrent of formless colour and noise screamed from the tear in reality. The line widened to a gap, pulled apart by clawed hands to reveal leering daemonic faces. A scaled arm reached through.

The rift into the Realm of Chaos wavered. The arm withdrew as the rent sealed itself, disappearing with the sound of tearing metal. It had lasted a few moments, but left no trace of its existence.

‘Daemons?’ said Urathion.

‘An endless army to command,’ said Morathi, stepping into the circle, her skull staff in hand. ‘Immortal and impervious. What better host to serve the lord of Nagarythe?’

‘It would take all of our power to summon a handful of daemons,’ said Drutheira, once an acolyte of Morathi, now a fully accomplished sorceress. Her dark hair was twisted with silver and her pale skin painted with runes. ‘There are yet the artifices of Vaul that can destroy a daemon’s form, enough weapons to defeat any host that we might conjure.’

‘We do not have to summon them,’ said Malekith. ‘We need only to break the bars that keep them imprisoned in the Realm of Chaos.’

There was silence as the cabal considered what this meant. It was Urathion that broke the quiet.

‘You mean Caledor’s vortex?’ said the sorcerer.

‘It cannot be done,’ said Drutheira. ‘The vortex is powered by the lodestones of Ulthuan. We would have to destroy them, and most are in the lands of our enemies.’

‘It can be done,’ said Morathi. ‘Not by destroying the lodestones, but by overloading them.’

‘A sacrifice,’ said Malekith. ‘Together we will create a surge of dark magic, enough to disrupt the harmony of the vortex. Its own power will do the rest, dragging that blast of energy into its heart.’

‘Is this wise?’ asked Urathion. ‘Without the vortex, the Realm of Chaos will be set free upon the winds of magic. Not even together can we control that power.’

‘It does not need to be controlled, simply directed,’ said Malekith. He raised a smouldering finger to the circlet set into his helm. ‘With that power turned to our ends, I have the means to focus its energies. Our enemies will be swept aside by a tide of daemons. Only those favoured by me shall survive. I will have both victory and vengeance in one stroke.’

The cabal looked at each other. Some seemed eager, others more concerned.

‘What other choice do we have?’ asked Auderion, dragging black-nailed fingers through his white hair. His gaze flickered nervously from one member of the cabal to another, never stopping. ‘We cannot hold out forever, and our lives will be forfeit.’

‘Our spirits are already forfeit,’ whispered Illeanith. ‘Bargains we have made and promises of blood have not been kept. I will not go easily to that fate.’

‘Imagine their terror,’ said Drutheira. ‘Imagine the horror unleashed upon those that scorned us, abandoned us. We will rid the world of the Dragontamer’s legacy, reverse the mistake he made and erase the insult upon Aenarion’s legend.’

Some of the cabal remained silent, not daring to speak though their unease was as palpable as the heat from Malekith’s armour. Worried eyes glittered in the gloom.

Urathion bowed his head to Malekith.

‘Forgive my objections, master,’ he said, dropping to one knee. ‘What must we do?’

‘Return to your castles and gather such acolytes and slaves as you still possess. Morathi will furnish you with the details of the ritual you must undertake. At the appointed hour, midnight ten days from now, we will begin. The blood of our sacrifices will draw the dark magic and our incantations shall send it as a storm into the vortex.’

‘What of the Sapherians?’ said Illeanith. ‘My father and his mages will try to stop us.’

‘How can they?’ said Morathi. ‘By the time they know what is happening, it will be too late for them to intervene.’

‘Even if they do, they do not have the power to stop us,’ said Malekith. ‘The vortex was wrought by Caledor Dragontamer at the height of his strength. Not even your father can contest such a spell.’

There were no further questions or objections. The sorcerers and sorceresses bowed and departed, leaving Malekith alone with Morathi.

‘If you are wrong?’ said Morathi. ‘If we cannot harness the vortex?’

‘The daemons will rampage across the world and all will be destroyed,’ said Malekith.

‘And you are sure you wish to risk such an end?’ said Morathi.

‘Risk it?’ Malekith replied with a harsh laugh. ‘I embrace it! If Ulthuan will not be mine, then none will rule. I would rather our people perished than see them laid low by the hand of another. Better it is to see the world torn asunder than suffer this eternal torment.’

‘I would not seek to break the vortex, but to channel it away from the lodestones into fresh vessels,’ Teclis explained, his expression thoughtful. ‘The stasis upon the Isle of the Dead is already weakening. The Dragontamer has sent his spirit to Imrik and has passed on his wisdom to me. In this time when the Realm of Chaos expands the vortex is not powerful enough. Only a living, immortal host can contain the power unleashed.’

‘What happened with Nagash and the Wind of Shyish…? The Great Necromancer has become the embodiment of death magic. You would do this with the other seven winds?’

‘The return of the gods is not a metaphor, Malekith, it is a necessity. Lileath has shown me how it can be done.’

‘And these other avatars, who would they be? You have chosen them already?’

‘You would be one, your majesty. Think on what you have achieved wrapped as you are in a shell of sorcery, as bound to your armour as a fish is to the ocean. Now imagine being freed, becoming an incarnation of magic, a source of power that would never wane.’

Malekith imagined it, and the thought was pleasing.

‘Alarielle, obviously, yourself, Imrik – who else is on your list?’

‘For the moment it does not matter, your majesty. Much can happen between now and the moment the vortex is released. The winds will find their way to the most suitable vessels – we need only unshackle them from the lodestones and help them on their way.’

‘That might cause some problems,’ Malekith said with an affected wave of the hand. ‘You weren’t there so I forgive you forgetting, but the last time I tried to “unshackle” the vortex, I sank two kingdoms beneath a wave.’

Teclis grew solemn and he did not speak for some time. When he did his voice was quiet.

‘Ulthuan will not survive,’ he admitted softly, meeting Malekith’s gaze. ‘Without the vortex our island will sink beneath the waves entirely. For seven millennia the winds of magic have eaten at the bedrock of Ulthuan and now there is nothing but the magic to keep us afloat. When it is gone, Ulthuan will drown.’

It was Malekith’s turn to remain silent for a considerable period, shocked by what Teclis was proposing. Talk of the vortex brought back an ancient, conflicted memory.

The hall was awash with blood. It moved with its own sluggish life, hissing and sizzling at Malekith’s feet, lapping over the twisted bodies of his victims. Morathi chanted, staff held above her head, an incantation calling upon all of the daemons and powers with which she had made pacts during her long life. The air seethed with dark energy, flowing from walls to ceiling, making the symbols and runes painted in blood on the stone glow with ruddy power.

Through the circlet, the Witch King could feel the rising tide of dark magic across Nagarythe. In castles and towers across the barren kingdom his followers despatched their sacrifices and used their deaths to draw on the winds of magic, the mystical forces congealing together under the sorcerous influence of the Naggarothi.

Morathi’s incantation was reaching its crescendo. Her voice was a wail, her body shuddering, the coils of dark magic thickening and strengthening as they whirled around the throne room.

Reaching out his hands, Malekith felt the slick touch of the magic on his iron skin. The circlet gleamed on his brow and filled his mind with ice as the Witch King grasped and manipulated the formless energy with his will, shaping it, turning its convoluted waves into a rhythmically pulsing cloud.

‘Now!’ screamed Morathi, her staff blazing.

Malekith flung the dark magic up, spearing its energies through the palace of Aenarion. He could feel the other columns of power erupting across his kingdom, pillars of pure magical energy roaring up into the heavens.

Malekith strode to an iron balcony adjoining the chamber, Morathi hurrying after him. He turned his flaming gaze to the east and saw the ravening energies gathering across the mountaintops.

‘It is done,’ said Morathi.

She pointed high into the heavens, to the north. Lights burned in the sky, silhouetting the horizon with a rainbow of colours that were constantly shifting. The magical aurora flickered, spitting bolts of energy to the ground and up towards the disappearing stars.

Malekith could see through the anarchy of shape and colour: towering spires of crystal and rivers of blood; cliffs with screaming skull-like faces and forests of waving tentacles; castles of bronze and a huge dilapidated mansion; plains covered with splintered bones and white beaches rippled by purple waters; clouds of flies and miniature suns that glared with cyclopean eyes.

And he heard the roaring and the howls, the screaming and the growls. Marching and slithering, swooping and leaping, a host of daemons poured forth.

‘The Realm of Chaos opens,’ he rasped, feeling triumphant. ‘My legions awake!’

‘No!’ screamed Morathi.

Malekith felt it too, a presence he had not known for more than a thousand years. The Dragontamer had returned. The Witch King did not know how, but he would not be defeated so easily. He poured out all of his scorn and hatred, looking to wrench control of the vortex from the elf who had betrayed his father. Morathi sensed what he was doing and added her own sorcery, seeking to overcome the Dragontamer’s spell.

The two waves of magic clashed within the vortex, detonating with a blaze of multicoloured light that swept away the storm, converting both high and dark magic into a huge detonation. Malekith felt it as a shockwave that pulsed across Ulthuan, flattening trees and toppling towers. He sensed the mountains lurching as the vortex spun again.

He felt something else too, like the world was tipping on its axis. The magic unleashed rocked Ulthuan, ripping earth and sky with its power. A crack appeared in the city wall of Anlec as a huge fissure opened up in the ground to the north. Roofs collapsed and walls toppled as Anlec convulsed. Everywhere across Nagarythe the dark magic earthed itself, mighty spires of rock erupting from the ground while huge pits and crevasses dropped down.

‘What is that noise?’ said Morathi, looking to the north.

Malekith turned, gripping the rail of the balcony tight as the palace swayed on its foundations, turrets and towers crashing down onto the buildings below in a flurry of broken stone and tiles.

To the north was a wall of white. It looked like fog at first, a bank of cloud swiftly approaching from the north-west. It brought an odd hissing, which deepened as the cloud came closer.

Malekith felt a moment of dread as he realised it was not a cloud that approached, but a wall of water. As though the ocean had heaved up itself in protest, a tidal wave stretched across the horizon, shining in the moonlight, as high as the tallest tower of Anlec.

‘No,’ said the Phoenix King. ‘I forbid it. I stand at the moment of achieving my dreams and you would throw it all away on the vacuous whim of a goddess. I will hunt down Tyrion and slay him and Ulthuan will rejoice and forever praise my name.’

‘As you command, your majesty,’ Teclis said with a bow. As the mage left Malekith knew well that his nephew could not be trusted and considered whether this was the time he had finally outlived his usefulness. For the moment the Phoenix King’s alliance was too fragile, the battle in Saphery still finely balanced. Soon, though, Malekith thought, Teclis would no longer be required and his insane scheme to destroy the Dragontamer’s vortex would prove a useful story to cover his removal.

Despite every effort on the part of Malekith, Tyrion flatly refused to meet his rival in battle. Every passing day brought fresh news of the pretender’s host growing or some defeat of Malekith’s forces, yet the Phoenix King would not countenance Teclis’s plan.

Matters were brought to a head as the Phoenix King gave the order to break camp not far from the Tower of Hoeth, at least a dozen leagues from the closest of Tyrion’s armies. At first light Imrik called upon the king and asked that he summon Teclis and Alarielle to hear what the prince had to say. Imrik was a picture of agitation, pacing the rugs back and forth as he waited for the Everqueen and mage to arrive. Malekith studied him closely, wondering what might have brought about such a disturbed disposition.

Eventually the others joined Imrik and Malekith and the prince was free to speak his news.

‘The Shadow of Khaine is growing,’ said the prince, fists balled in front of him. ‘For a time now there have been missing sentries, bodies found slain in their sleep. We thought it was assassins employed by Morathi but I have now seen the truth for myself.’

The prince shuddered and poured himself water. He downed the goblet and waited a second before continuing, haunted eyes moving from one companion to the next.

‘Marendri, my own cousin, who swore allegiance to you at Eagle Gate, has broken faith with us and attempted to desert last night.’ Imrik shook his head. ‘A more loyal warrior you would not have found in all of my kingdom, as close to me as fabled Thyrinor was to Caledor the First. He slit the throats of his brothers, all three, and only a chance encounter with the sentries revealed his crime. His tent was next to mine! My own kin, close at hand for counsel and comfort, poised to drive the dagger deepest into our heart. I heard the fighting and confronted him. A wild beast I saw, with blood-red eyes and foaming mouth. He spoke in curses of blood and I ended him quickly, mercifully so.’

Shuddering, Imrik turned away, the goblet falling from his trembling grasp. Alarielle addressed Malekith while Teclis moved to comfort the dragon prince.

‘We have striven in every way we can, but we cannot fight this. Khaine feeds on death and war – we must seek an end to this slow execution.’

‘You have spoken to Teclis?’ Malekith asked. He did not wait for answer – it was clear the mage had colluded with the Everqueen despite Malekith’s orders. ‘It is madness, for which I was damned for a seeming eternity.’

‘What would you give for victory?’ asked Alarielle, stepping closer. She laid a hand on Malekith’s, her touch warm yet also cooling the fires inside the Phoenix King. ‘Would you give your life?’

Malekith considered this and nodded. ‘I stepped into the flame of Asuryan and did not know if I would survive.’

‘Would you see countless dead on the battlefields of Ulthuan?’

‘You know my legacy as well as any. Countless already are the lives I have expended in my quest to rule.’

‘Would you be willing to lose everything? Would you give up your claim to save our people?’

Malekith found no ready answer to this question. He withdrew his hand from Alarielle’s grasp and stood up, turning his back on her.

‘I would see no other as Phoenix King while I live.’

‘Yet if you continue to face Tyrion as you do, you will lose the war and Tyrion will prevail. What you once condoned out of spite, you will not do now for justice?’

‘Justice? Where was justice these last six thousand years?’ Malekith whirled around and glared at the Everqueen. Unknowingly reliving the act of rage that had propelled his father to the Sword of Khaine, the Phoenix King snatched up his throne and heaved it over his head. With a wordless shout, he dashed it to the ground, smashing it into pieces. ‘No more!’ he roared. ‘This is a price too heavy for me to pay!’

Fire burst from his armour as he staggered away, fending off Alarielle’s attention with an outstretched hand. Malekith’s gaze next fell upon the banner of Nagarythe in its stand behind where the throne had been, woven with silver thread and inlaid with pearls and diamonds. He grabbed the haft of the banner and lifted it clear, ready to snap it across his knee.

‘Your majesty!’ Teclis’s stern words cut through the anger that threatened to swallow Malekith, water splashed on embers. ‘We will not fail.’

‘If we do,’ croaked the Phoenix King, ‘none will survive to know it.’

There was a long silence and none of the elves would look at each other.

‘Do we proceed with Teclis’s plan to unfurl the winds of magic and anchor them in mortal form?’ Alarielle asked. ‘We must be unanimous.’

‘Better to die in glory than live enslaved,’ said Imrik, his sorrow now replaced with a vengeful expression. The words might have come from Malekith himself in another time.

The Phoenix King replaced the banner of Nagarythe, the flames of his body dimming.

‘When Ulthuan sinks, what becomes of our people?’ he asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

‘They become free,’ said Teclis. ‘Free from the touch of Chaos, free from the Shadow of Khaine, free to live out their lives in sanctuary. Lileath has shown me this.’

‘Athel Loren will welcome us,’ said Alarielle. ‘It always has.’

‘Make your preparations, nephew,’ Malekith said, his voice gaining confidence as he acknowledged the inevitability of the decision. ‘The gods demand a battle the like of which they have not seen for many ages. Rule of the elves is not high enough stakes for such a cataclysm, so let us again fight for the future of the world!’

Thirty-Four The Final Battle

On the Isle of the Dead was the fate of the world to be decided, at the very heart of the vortex raised by Caledor Dragontamer. Astride Seraphon, Malekith held the centre of the line, surrounded by warriors from ten kingdoms and further afield, all drawn together in his cause.

The air crackled with the whirl of magic, condensed into its rawest form by the eight lodestones that formed a circle at the very centre of the isle. A loremaster stood at each sparkling stone, though the monolith for the Wind of Shyish was dull and lifeless, its power stolen by Nagash.

Teclis sat atop his shadow steed to Malekith’s right, sword in hand, expression pensive. To the left Alarielle and her asrai followers guarded the approach to the inner stones, bows at the ready.

‘Protect the loremasters – that is all that matters,’ Teclis shouted up to the Phoenix King. ‘Do not let Tyrion’s forces break through. It is as when the vortex was made and Aenarion fought as the shield of the Dragontamer.’

‘I know the strategy, nephew, and have no need of another of your history lessons,’ Malekith replied. He felt calm, committed now to a course of action from which there could only be two simple outcomes. He would be victorious or he would be dead. It was strangely reassuring to have such clarity of purpose. ‘Just mind your own deeds, and I will see to mine.’

The Phoenix King drew Asuryath and a great cheer rose up from his assembled army as the splinter of light shone against the multicoloured sky.

‘I was expecting more of them,’ the king commented, as Tyrion’s army approached. It seemed if anything that the Dragon of Cothique was slightly outnumbered. Blood-frenzied hags and vicious corsairs led the attack while companies of bows filled the air with barbed shafts and phalanxes of spears moved to the flanks. Malekith’s force arrayed in deep ranks to await the assault, their banners flying colours from all of the kingdoms of Ulthuan.

Tyrion himself could be seen at the centre of the line, a golden figure amongst red and black. He raised the Sword of Khaine and a hush fell across the island, the sight of the Widowmaker causing even the bravest heart to flutter for a moment. Malekith felt the vortex churning around Tyrion. At first he thought it was the sorcery of Morathi, but he sensed his mother’s presence elsewhere. It was tempting to seek her out, to rend her limb from limb for her betrayal, but the cautioning words of Teclis held Malekith to his task. If she survived the battle vengeance would come later.

Whatever enchantment was being wrought by Tyrion, its energy flowed over the Isle of the Dead and into the sea, causing the waves to boil, washing deep spume upon the shores. There was movement in the waves, figures approaching from the waters.

Lurching and staggering, the dead of the seas answered the summons of Khaine. Bidden to the Isle of the Dead, the restless corpses of thousands forged out of the sea, some less than a day in their watery graves, others seaweed-clad skeletons who had fallen in millennia past.

Dismay flowed through Malekith’s army as these unearthly reinforcements followed after Tyrion’s host, their ghastly moaning and groans a bass background to the shriller war cries and wails of the Khainites.

‘No retreat!’ Malekith bellowed, brandishing his blade again.

There was little strategy and Malekith charged into the heart of the enemy with his black dragon, cutting to the left and right with Asuryan’s holy blade, leaving corpses wreathed in white fire behind him.

He knew little enough of the unbinding ceremony, but could feel the vortex loosening around him. He tried to concentrate on the foes in front and behind, urging Seraphon deeper into the fray to slick her claws and fangs with the blood of the enemy.

Time lost meaning. Around Malekith the battle raged, physical and magical, and the skies whirled with skycutters and griffons, mages on shining platforms and roaring manticores. He paid little heed to anything else and cut down hydras and elves, charioteers and cold ones with equal cold ferocity.

He was dimly aware of bright fire and screams when Imrik’s last surviving dragons charged the flank of Tyrion’s army, slaying with dragonfire and claw. The stench of saltwater and decay washed over him and he saw that the dead of the seas had reached the battle line. Some fought with their weapons, broken shields and rusted swords, others had clawed hands and wide maws filled with needle-like fangs like some deepwater fish.

He hewed down reanimated corpses to the left and right, though around him his followers were unsettled by the assault of the dead and began to give ground. Not wishing to become isolated, the Phoenix King was forced to back away, and in the break this granted him he saw why the dead had caused so much consternation.

At their head marched five figures, resurrected from their tombs upon the Isle of the Dead. In regal cloaks and armour, with swords and shields and necklaces and bangles about their mouldering bones, five dire warriors led the charge of the undead.

The Phoenix Kings of ages past.

Five alone of the ten, whose bodies had been interred in the mausoleums upon the water’s edge. Finubar was there, though less than three years dead his body rendered to gleaming bones by the magic of the vortex. After him came others, glowing with fey light, eyeless sockets gleaming with magic. Confronted by the kings of times past the host of Malekith drew back, bending before the advance of the undead like the bow wave of a ship.

Malekith saw that Tyrion’s forces were gathering again for a fresh attack in the wake of the undead advance. Knights and griffon riders were set ready to charge, while Tiranocii chariots mustered to force any breakthrough.

Looking on Finubar’s skeletal features Malekith was filled with a loathing born not of horror but anger. Arrayed before him were five of his worst foes, who had thwarted him in life and now their bones were beholden to a brain-addled slave of Khaine. Their weakness sickened Malekith and he rose up in Seraphon’s throne-saddle in disgust.

The vortex was like an unchained beast around him, bucking at the lodestones to tug free, smashing into the ground and whirling into the air in a storm of sparks and clouds. His simplest thought caused ripples to eddy out into the maelstrom. Shaped by his hatred of the dead kings pressing towards him, the vortex responded, gathering in his body, fizzing along fingers and limbs.

Infused with magical power, Malekith burst into flame, his armour burning white, Asuryath like a lick of fire in his hand. And in that moment Malekith understood his destiny and accepted who he was.

Asuryan reborn.

Malekith’s laughter echoed across the battlefield.

‘Kings of Ulthuan!’ the Phoenix King spat the words as a curse. ‘You are usurpers and thieves. You owe me a debt. In my name, and in that of my father, I call upon you to repay it now!’

The magic was too much to control and Malekith had to give vent to his righteous wrath. He thrust Asuryath towards the oncoming host of the dead and white fire sprang from the blade to create a ball of blazing destruction. The bones of the dead kings shattered at the impact of his magical missile, scattered to the winds as ash. As it screamed through the ranks of the undead the fire took on a shape, becoming the image of an elf.

Of Finubar, as he had been in life.

Though the fire burned out quickly, leaving a ring of charred corpses on the ground where it had stopped, the gleaming figure of Finubar remained where the bolt had exploded, glowing with white light. Drawing an ethereal blade, the shade of Finubar charged into the foe.

‘Spirits of the fallen kings, answer me now!’

Malekith hurled another fireball, which coalesced into the image of Bel-Hathor. From his fiery birth the Phoenix King known as the Sage strode forth unleashing blasts of power from his fingertips, eyes ablaze with magical energy. Eight more times Malekith cast the incantation and eight more times the spirits of the Phoenix Kings past answered his summons, appearing in coronas of white fire, reborn by the power of Asuryan, the Phoenix of the Gods.

All came that were bidden, whether warrior like Tethlis and Caledor and his son, or magic-weaver like Caradryel the Peacemaker and Bel-Korhadris the Scholar-King. Only one king did Malekith not call upon, and one king alone that had no debt to settle. Aenarion’s spirit remained unsummoned, wherever it had departed.

But Malekith did not stop there.

He was Phoenix King, the Lord of Lords, and to him was owed every oath of fealty and dedication ever sworn upon Ulthuan. With Asuryath a storm of white fire, he called forth every hero and heroine that ever laid down his or her life for the cause of the elves, from Eltharion the Grim who had died only a year before trying to rescue Tyrion’s daughter, to Yeasir, his lieutenant from ancient Anlec, killed when he had stood up to Malekith’s soldiers to protect the heir to Tiranoc before the Sundering had flooded that kingdom.

With these ancient heroes to lead them, the Phoenix King and Everqueen at the forefront of the fight, the army of Malekith surged forwards into Tyrion’s host, possessed of a righteousness of spirit that eclipsed the blind blood-thirst of their foes.

Seeing that the battle turned against him Tyrion was at last forced to come forward himself. His sword arm never ceasing in its rise and fall, he cut his way through the throng, heading directly for the Phoenix King.

‘Finally,’ Malekith said to Seraphon. ‘A foe worth fighting.’

A panicked thought intruded upon the Phoenix King’s mind and in the moment of distraction he noticed that the vortex was almost free, riding and crashing like a ship on storm-tossed waves that had broken its moorings. The sense of another close at hand announced a message from Teclis.

‘Summoning the kings of old has upset the balance of our incantations!’ bellowed the mage into Malekith’s thoughts. ‘Look what your meddling has wrought!’

Malekith glanced towards the lodestones and saw that a handful of the mages were dead, their desiccated corpses propped up against the waystones they had been controlling. Like ribbons in a storm the winds of magic fluttered free and fierce.

The white of Malhandir streaked towards Malekith through the melee, the Dragon of Cothique on the horse’s back a vision of destruction.

‘I have more pressing matters, nephew. I am playing my part, mage, now play yours!’

Taking to the air, Malekith watched as the Phoenix Kings of old tried to confront Tyrion. Each in turn fell to the Widowmaker, speared and sliced by the shard of icy death in his hand. Tyrion plunged onward, reckless in his haste, trampling friend as well as foe beneath the hooves of his steed.

It was then that Malekith realised his error. Tyrion rode not for him, but for Teclis.

Seraphon swooped at his command and magic rained from Malekith’s sword, but Malhandir was swifter even than dragon or bolt or fireball. Cursing himself for his lapse, Malekith strained every nerve to ensnare Tyrion with a spell while Seraphon, urged on by her master, almost tore herself apart in her efforts to catch the blur of white and gold on the ground below.

Teclis was unaware of the doom descending upon him, arms reaching into the air as though he tried to seize hold of the winds of magic like reins. Oblivious to his brother bearing down, the mage howled his enchantments into the vortex.

But there was to be one last turn of allegiance. No mere horse was Malhandir, but descended from the father of horses in the time before the Everqueen. He had borne Tyrion across countless battlefields and almost died a dozen times for his master, but now at the last the Lord of Steeds sensed that it was not Tyrion he carried but a far darker creature.

As Malekith dropped like a comet, Malhandir pranced, tossing Tyrion from his back to fall onto the hard rock of the outcrop where the bases of the lodestones met. The Dragon of Cothique lashed out with the icefang but Malhandir was already galloping away. The Widowmaker in his grasp, Tyrion stalked on, eyes fixed on Teclis.

Malekith smiled as Seraphon flexed her claws. Enslaved to the rage of Khaine, Tyrion had turned his back on the Phoenix King, possessed by the thirst for vengeance against his brother. He was but moments from death.

A piercing shriek cut across the clamour of battle, a warning scream that caused Tyrion to turn when Seraphon was but a heartbeat from snatching up the Dragon of Cothique. Malekith recognised the voice as his mother’s but had no time to curse her interference as Tyrion spun with supernatural speed and speared the Widowmaker towards the diving black dragon, rolling beneath the outstretched claws.

Seraphon needed no command and banked fast, pouring forth a billow of noxious vapour from her maw.

Purple lightning erupted around the dragon and her rider, crackling across scales and armour. Screeching agony from Morathi’s spell, Seraphon spasmed, wings folding as she fell. Malekith leapt clear a moment before she hit the rock, wings and spine cracking, scales and flesh torn by the jagged stone upthrusts.

Landing lightly, Malekith turned to find Tyrion almost upon him. The Widowmaker flashed for the Phoenix King’s throat. Asuryath moved as though of its own accord and the two godly blades clashed with a shower of icy sparks and white fire.

So did Malekith and Tyrion, Asuryan and Khaine, finally meet to decide who would prevail.

Thirty-Five One King to Rule Them

Tyrion’s sword was in constant motion, but no slower was Malekith’s blade. Ice and fire wreathed the pair, the toll of enchanted steel sounding out with every heartbeat as the two demigods fought.

Malekith was aware that the winds of magic were almost undone, and in this moment stuck true to his task, defending and engaging Tyrion rather than forcing the fight for a kill one way or the other. For Tyrion the duel was a venting of a bloodlust long in the making, his red eyes fixed on his foe, every lick and lash of the Widowmaker intended to maim and kill, only centuries of unthinking instinct moving the Godslayer in defence when Malekith counter-attacked.

Malekith was wounded first, taking a cut to his left arm that bit deep to the bone. Had it not been for Hotek’s craft the arm would have been lost altogether, though the limb hanging dead at his side caused the Phoenix King some difficulty. In retaliation Malekith swept his sword towards Tyrion’s throat. The avatar of Khaine eluded the blow but at the expense of his jaw as the tip of Asuryath raked across his face.

They parted for but a moment and then flew at each other again, their swords a blur to all that watched. Malekith circled, keeping his good side presented to his foe, while Tyrion unleashed a blistering set of strikes both high and low, seeking any gap in the Phoenix King’s defences.

Each was cut a dozen times and more from glancing blows, their suits of armour streaming with blood, their blades hissing with magic. Malekith renewed his efforts, sensing that he was tiring, knowing that he had to overwhelm Khaine’s incarnation quickly. The vortex was almost freed, and in a few more heartbeats Teclis’s spell would be complete.

Tyrion weathered the Phoenix King’s offensive with hasty parries and dodges, always just ahead of the next blow. Malekith could not help but remember the result of their earlier encounter and fear crept into his heart as he looked into the unthinking, raging gaze of his foe. The dread crept through his body like ice, seeping from the wounds inflicted by the Widowmaker, sapping his spirit as well as his stamina.

It was then that Malekith knew he could not win.

The efforts of his earlier sorcery and the wounds he had received had taken too much of a toll. He could defend himself for a time more, but not long enough, or he could try to end Tyrion with one last effort.

His first blow took the avatar of Khaine back a step, his second rang against Tyrion’s helm, almost shearing through his skull. The armour of Aenarion held against the blow, however, and the impact sent shock tingling up Malekith’s weary arm.

As before, Malekith became aware of a presence near at hand – a familiar coiling of Ulgu that he now recognised as the shadow-walking of Alith Anar. Between flurries of sword strokes, he scanned the piles of dead and dying heaped upon the lodestones, searching for the Shadow King.

He finally spied Alith Anar in the shadow of a waystone, calmly watching the fight with the moonbow drawn, an arrow unerringly following Malekith’s heart. Distracted, the Phoenix King could manage only a clumsy parry of Tyrion’s next attack, and to his horror Asuryath shattered from the blow.

Tyrion’s backswing caught Malekith across the breastplate, rending through the armour of midnight and slicing open his fire-ravaged chest. Hurled to his back, Malekith gasped for air, sucking in hot lungfuls, hands scrabbling in the blood and mud.

Spitting blood, he pushed himself to his feet, the remnant of Asuryath still in his hand.

‘I regret nothing!’ snarled Malekith, raising the bladeless hilt of his sword in mocking salute.

Tyrion replied with a salute of his own, cross-hilt to his chin, before raising the Widowmaker high above his head for the deathblow. As his arm extended, Tyrion turned, and right before Malekith was revealed a tear in Aenarion’s armour where Imrik’s lance had wounded the prince.

Alith had seen it also. While Morathi’s triumphant laughter echoed over the killing ground, a black shaft sped from the shadows and buried to the fletching in Tyrion’s chest. Malekith’s strength fled as he fell back, mirroring Tyrion’s fall as his last life’s blood spurted from the mortal wound.

Morathi’s laughter became a drawn-out shriek of despair, but her cries sounded distant, muffled.

Crashing to the ground face-first, Malekith barely felt his fall. There was a pain in his back, but soon all he felt was numbness. Overhead the winds of magic danced and writhed, finally freed from the vortex.

His heart fluttered and then stopped.

A lifetime and a moment later, Malekith felt himself lifted up, elevated into the sky upon Ulgu the Wind of Shadow. It wrapped about him and pierced him, passing through limb and artery, becoming part of him.

He opened his eyes, still lying on the ground, and felt different.

The winds of magic were no more. As though the sun had burned away a morning mist, their presence had been washed from the world. Inside he felt Ulgu writhe, trapped within his immortal flesh, bound to his body as it had once been bound to the waystone.

All had become still, the sounds of fighting washed away by a clear sea breeze. He heard footsteps and though there was no sensation yet in his body, he swivelled his eyes to see Alarielle picking her way through the falling waystones to hasten to the spot where Tyrion and Malekith lay. Her face was distant and unreadable, while around her the eyes of elves who had hovered on the brink of death snapped open as the Everqueen passed, their broken bones reknitting and their agonies receding.

Alarielle stooped briefly at Malekith’s side. This close, he could feel the raw Ghyran that filled her. Always she had been a queen of life, and now the bargain was made whole, the wind of magic finding home in her. The Phoenix King realised that there was an arrow in his back and though his memory was dim now recalled that Anar had loosed another shaft as he fell, but even this had not finished Malekith. The Everqueen brushed the arrow-shaft protruding from his back and the wood burst into a fine cloud of seeds. They hung in the air for a moment, gossamer against the light. Then the wind scattered them across the rock. The seeds took root wherever they landed, shoots bursting from the husks to burrow into cracks. Alarielle’s presence was all the nourishment the seeds required. Decades of growth occurred in seconds, and soon a thin but glorious glade of oaks stood at the isle’s heart.

Malekith’s fists clenched and unclenched as the strange forest unfurled about him, but he otherwise made no move. Alarielle paid him no further heed. Without a word, she knelt in the dust beside Tyrion. Malekith watched as a single tear spilled from the Everqueen’s cheek, splashing across the prince’s brow. In death, all the malice and cruelty had faded from the prince’s face, and his aspect was again that which had brought hope to his people.

The ground rumbled and a short distance from where Alarielle knelt, a waystone collapsed, showering the ground with dust and shards of stone. The rock where the vortex had once stood fell away, replaced by a seething cauldron of white water.

Malekith, at last roused, staggered to his feet. No one moved to help and as blood splashed to the wet rocks he noticed that not all of his wounds were healing. The shaft of the arrow had been transmuted by Alarielle’s touch, but the tip remained, lodged close to his heart. Every motion was agony, but Malekith was no stranger to pain. He reached out for the Widowmaker, which lay where it had fallen from Tyrion’s hands. Malekith’s Ulgu-wreathed form blurred as he moved, every motion leaving an afterimage of shadow in its wake.

It was Alarielle who first saw Malekith moving towards the icefang. She cried out in alarm and moved to block his path. Others heard the warning and started forward, but were all too late. The shadowy fingers of Malekith’s right hand closed around the Widowmaker’s hilt, and the Phoenix King gave a snort of triumph.

For a long moment, Malekith stood silhouetted against the billowing sea spray, the Widowmaker outstretched.

‘Naught but steel,’ he declared, feeling nothing of Khaine’s power remaining in the blade. ‘Just metal, nothing more.’

The Phoenix King turned and hurled the sword into the frothing waters. For a heartbeat, the Widowmaker glinted darkly. Then it was gone to the depths of the ocean. With its master’s passing, the legendary Sword of Khaine could neither command Malekith, nor offer him anything that a dozen other blades could not provide.

As the Widowmaker vanished, another great tremor struck the Isle of the Dead. Jagged spurs of rock burst from the ground, and waystones sank into the whirling waters. Stone by stone, inch by inch, the island began to slip into the sea. It was the same all across Ulthuan. For thousands of years, only the magic of the Great Vortex had kept the continent above the waves. Now, with the magic scattered, the hungry ocean laid claim to a prize long denied.

‘You have work to do. Save our people,’ Malekith told the Everqueen, sparing a brief glance for dead Tyrion. ‘He really is the very image of my father, you know.’

Malekith managed a few more paces before his injuries and weakness proved too much. He stumbled and then collapsed and his unconscious form was carried from the Isle of the Dead by the survivors of the Shadowfire Guard.