Silence reclaimed the woods.
Koradrel and the hunters closed around Imrik, axes held at the ready. They stood in the centre of the clearing, as far from the trees as possible, all eyes turned outwards.
“Above!” shouted Imrik, seeing a haze pass across the moonlit clouds.
His warning came too late as the gloom-cloaked attacker landed in the midst of the group, blood spraying as twin knives flashed. The hunters could not use their axes, afraid their wide swings would hit each other. The band scattered, trying to create space, two more of them falling with pained screams as their throats were cut.
Imrik’s sword needed no such room and the prince sprang towards the shadow of the assassin, arm outstretched. The point lanced into something hard and deflected away.
“Duck!” shouted Koradrel and Imrik immediately dropped to the ground.
A moment later the axe head of Koradrel swung over the Caledorian, connecting heavily with the assassin. A severed arm flew from the shadow-shape and the air was split by a piercing howl of pain. Imrik surged to his feet, swinging up his sword, the blade burning as it cleaved through the wounded assassin’s breast, slicing through ribs and heart.
After the flurry of violence, peace descended again.
Still Imrik was not sure if all of his attackers had been slain. Nobody spoke as the group reformed around the princes. Every flutter of a leaf or creak of a branch drew the attention of the elves, who peered into the darkness with wide eyes, searching for the slightest sign of a foe.
After some time, Imrik relaxed and sheathed his sword.
“That is the last,” he said.
“Are you sure?” said Koradrel.
“Yes,” replied Imrik, though his eyes said otherwise as they flickered towards a particular tree on the edge of the clearing, between the elves and their tents. Koradrel caught his meaning and gave the slightest of nods.
“Let us return to the camp,” said the Chracian. “Gather the dead and attend to the wounded.”
The two princes set off towards the trees, weapons in hand. When they were only a few paces from the shadows, the last assassin struck, leaping from the gloom with sword outstretched. Koradrel had been expecting the attack and caught the blade with his axe, turning it aside as Imrik chopped with his sword, slashing down where he thought the assassin’s neck to be.
His aim was not far off; the black-clad body that tumbled to the ground had its skull nearly sheared through. Imrik pulled free his blade with a grimace.
“Nobody sleeps tonight,” he said.
“I don’t think anybody could after this,” Koradrel replied.
In all, eight hunters had been slain in the fight, three more wounded, one of those in a fever from a poisoned cut and not expected to survive until dawn. All of the elves sat in vigil for the rest of the night, the fires banked high with wood, whispering prayers to Ereth Khial to watch over the spirits of the slain.
Dawn was not far off when the sound of a large body of soldiers could be heard coming up the valley. The Chracians were alert, two of the guides heading down the track to investigate while the rest stood guard at the camp and manned the bolt thrower.
It was a testing wait for Imrik. The fight with the manticore and the attempt on his life had left him feeling drained, his body weak from the exertions of the day. He pulled his sword free and stood with the others, waiting anxiously.
There was no sound of fighting and after a while, the scouts returned with the third of their number who had been sent to investigate the fire. With them came another elf, clad in silver armour.
“Who is this?” demanded Koradrel.
“I know him,” said Imrik, sheathing his sword. “He is Carathril, herald of the Phoenix King. He can be trusted.”
The Chracians relaxed only slightly as the herald approached the camp. Behind him came a company of warriors bearing shields with the emblem of the Sea Guard.
“In a night of surprises, this is the last thing I expected,” said Koradrel. “What brings a herald of the Phoenix King to the wilds of Chrace?”
“Grave events have engulfed Ulthuan,” said Carathril. “Bel Shanaar is dead and a great many of our princes have been slain at the Isle of the Flame. Malekith tried to become Phoenix King and was killed by the flames.”
“Caledrian?” said Imrik, his heart heavy with foreboding, Carathril shook his head.
“Your brother is amongst the dead,” said the herald. “Yet Thyrinor survived.”
Imrik swallowed hard at the news. His thoughts flashed back to when he had been told of his father’s death and been presented with Lathrain. Emptiness swallowed his heart at the realisation that Caledrian was slain, and the gulf widened as he realised that he was now ruling prince of Caledor.
Carathril beckoned to one of the Sea Guard, who entered the camp bearing a bundle wrapped in waxed leather. The herald took this and walked up to Koradrel.
“These are for you,” he said, eyes downcast.
Koradrel took the bundle and opened it. Inside were a folded banner of red with a white lion’s face embroidered upon it and an axe, its double-bladed head like the wings of a silver butterfly etched with forks of lightning.
“Achillar, and the banner of Chrace,” said Koradrel, choking on the words. He looked at Carathril. “Where are my brother and nephew?”
“Also slain,” Carathril said. He gave a solemn bow. “You are now the ruling prince of Chrace.”
There were moans and mutters from the other Chracians, and some swore oaths to the gods to find the perpetrators of such a crime.
“The Naggarothi have revealed their true colours,” said Carathril in answer. “It was knights of Anlec that killed so many at the Shrine of Asuryan, and I have good information that Morathi has been freed and returned to Anlec.”
Carathril reached into his robe and drew out a folded piece of parchment. He handed it to Imrik, who looked numbly at the letter, not understanding its importance. He pushed back the grief that welled up inside him and directed an inquiring look at Carathril.
“Bel Shanaar wrote this to you before he died,” explained the herald.
“The seal is broken,” said Imrik, unfolding the letter.
“Thyriol instructed me to open it,” said Carathril. “Read it first and then hear my message from him.”
Imrik scanned the letter quickly, saying nothing. Its content came as no surprise, although it seemed now more prophetic than perhaps had been intended.
“What else?” said Imrik.
“Those princes that have survived, Thyriol, Finudel and a few others, have chosen you to become Phoenix King,” said Carathril. He looked at Koradrel. “They do not expect any objection to the nomination.”
“And they will get none from me,” said the Chracian.
“These are desperate times,” said Carathril. “The situation has changed. Ulthuan does not need you as a general, it needs you as a king.”
“Why?” said Imrik.
Carathril was taken aback by the question and took a moment to reply.
“You are the best of the princes, and you have the support of your fellows,” said the herald. “Caledor remains strong, and you will need that strength. You have the dragon princes to come to your call.”
Imrik nodded, accepting each point.
“No other prince who survives can match you, Imrik. They are slain, all but a few of the greatest of Ulthuan.
“The Phoenix Throne is empty, the crown unworn, and the kingdoms are in disarray.”
“Bad,” said Imrik. “Very bad.”
“What does this mean?” said Koradrel. “Malekith dead, Morathi reigns again in Nagarythe, princes slain and assassins in the shadows?”
Imrik looked at the other elves, seeing fear and hope in their expressions. Fear of what had happened; hope that he would protect them. There was no higher calling, no greater duty that he could be asked to fulfil.
“What will become of us?” said one of the Chracians. “What happens now
?”
Imrik took a deep breath and nodded his assent to Carathril and Koradrel. His hard stare met the gazes of those around him and he answered the question that loitered in all of their minds.
“War.”
—
From the Flames
There was none of the ceremony that had accompanied the crowning of Bel Shanaar. The Shrine of Asuryan was almost empty; the high priest Mianderin and his acolytes prepared their incantations while Imrik waited with the ruling princes that had survived the massacre or been chosen to succeed those who had not. There was one notable absence; no representative stood for Tiranoc. Messages had been sent, but no word had returned of who had succeeded Bel Shanaar; Elodhir had been heir before his death at the hands of Bathinair.
Koradrel had come south with Imrik and Carathril, accompanied by several hundred Chracians summoned from the mountain towns around Tor Achare. Not trusting any other with the task, Imrik had appointed the lion-pelted warriors to be his bodyguard in recognition of their fight against the assassins. He called them the White Lions of Chrace and news of their bravery had quickly spread through the several thousand elves stood guard on the Isle of the Flame. Alongside them were the silent warriors of the Phoenix Guard. Their numbers were diminished, many having fallen to knights of Nagarythe and cultists in fighting outside the shrine while the massacre had taken place within.
Imrik spied the crest of the Phoenix Guard’s captain amidst a troop standing at the doorway, and left the other princes.
“Your order has read the secrets held within the Chamber of Days,” said Imrik. “Written in fire upon the stone are the lives of every Phoenix King.”
The captain nodded once, his expression unmoving.
“And you read Bel Shanaar’s doom?”
The captain did not respond, but met Imrik’s glare with a steady gaze.
“Is my death written there in flame?” the Caledorian asked.
Again the captain made no gesture of denial or agreement. Snarling, Imrik grabbed the Phoenix Guard captain by the golden clasp of his cloak.
“What use is the wisdom of Asuryan if you keep your tongue?” snapped Imrik. “You stand silent while our people destroy themselves.”
“He will not answer you,” Mianderin called from within the shrine. “He will die before he utters any word. Unhand him, Imrik, and behave like a king. It is not for us to know the will of Asuryan, nor to second-guess it. Fate will always prevail.”
Imrik released his grip and stalked back into the shrine, wondering if there was any means by which he might elude the destiny scribed upon the walls of the Chamber of Days. He was greeted by a row of expectant faces. Thyriol was smiling slightly, evidently amused at Imrik’s outburst.
“Imrik dies this day,” declared Mianderin, waving the group to gather around the eternal flame of Asuryan. “As Aenarion and Bel Shanaar before him, he shall pass into the flames and be destroyed by Asuryan’s judgement, to be reborn again as the Phoenix King.”
“If I am to die, then my name will die with me,” said Imrik, earning himself a frown from the high priest for the interruption. He ignored Mianderin’s sigh of annoyance and continued. “Imrik will not lead our people to salvation. I will be Caledor, in honour of my grandfather and the kingdom that raised me. Imrik will walk into the flames but Caledor will emerge.”
“May we continue?” said Mianderin. Imrik nodded his assent. “Today we crown a new Phoenix King, chosen by the princes of Ulthuan to be the first amongst equals.”
“Are we done?” said Imrik.
He started walking towards the flame. Mianderin hurried after him, signalling to his acolytes to light incense burners and begin their chanting. The high priest grabbed Imrik’s arm two steps from the flame.
“Not yet,” said Mianderin.
The high priest stepped back and began his own whispering incantation. Imrik stood looking at the flame of Asuryan. There was no heat. His skin prickled with magic and he felt the enchantments of the priests weaving around him. His limbs chilled and his heart slowed.
Two acolytes approached and fastened the long cloak of feathers upon his shoulder guards. Taking a deep breath, Imrik looked to Mianderin, who nodded.
Imrik stepped into the fire.
The flames burned through him, touching every part of his body and spirit. There was no pain, no sensation at all. Imrik felt like a ghost, apart from the mortal world.
He could still hear the singing of the priests, but the melody had changed, the pitch moved higher. Imrik swore that a thousand voices were now singing.
He 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.
Imrik wondered if he was dead.
The cloak felt like wings, lifting him up, borne aloft by the flames. He closed his eyes but nothing changed; still the flames filled his vision. A gentle breeze seemed to wash over him, its touch smoothing away skin and flesh and bone, reducing him to delicate ash; all without the slightest hint of discomfort. Imrik thought that he imagined it.
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.
The princes gave a cheer, raising their fists in salute to their new king.
“Hail Caledor, Phoenix King of Ulthuan!”
Caledor nodded in gratitude and rejoined his companions. He did not even glance back at the flames.
“What now?” he asked.
“It is tradition that you travel to Avelorn, and be married to the Everqueen,” said Mianderin. “She is Ulthuan’s true ruler, and you must seek her blessing as well as Asuryan’s.”
The priest leaned in closer and whispered his next words.
“It is also necessary that you father an heiress to take up the mantle of Everqueen,” said Mianderin.
“No time,” said Caledor. He looked at the princes. “We need an army. Nagarythe will march soon, if it does not already. There is not a host of a single kingdom that can match them.”
“And what would you do with this army?” asked Aerethenis. The elf was young, barely an adult, and had just inherited Eataine from his slain uncle Haradrin. “Which lands will you protect with this host?”
“Protect?” said Caledor. “Ulthuan is too large for one army to guard. We will invade Nagarythe first.”
This caused consternation, particularly among the newly elevated princes. There were words of disagreement and Tithrain of Cothique stepped forwards to voice the complaint.
“We have few warriors to speak of,” said the freshly crowned prince. “What armies we have defend our lands in the colonies. Not just Cothique, but also Eataine and Saphery. Yvresse still reels from the treachery of Bathinair.”
“You can offer your households,” Finudel said sharply. “And yourselves. Saphery has mages, Eataine the Sea Guard. All of you have city militia, raised to combat the cults.”
“And they still fight that battle,” said Tithrain. “If we march on Nagarythe we abandon our homes to unknown peril at the hands of Morathi’s agents and assassins.”
“Sooner that than allow the legions of Nagarythe to march into your homes,” said Athielle. She looked at Caledor with fierce eyes and then to Koradrel. “Chrace and Ellyrion border Nagarythe and will feel the first blow. Tiranoc also, though I fear the absence of their new prince tells me we should expect no aid from that quarter, whatever the reason.”
“Chrace will fight, you already know that,” said Koradrel. “But the others are right, cousin. I must return and see to the defence of my kingdom first before I can accompany you into Nagarythe. When the border is secure, I will bring such warriors as I have remaining to you.”
Caledor sighed with frustration and looked to Thyriol for support.
“I will send word for those mages skilled in counter-magic to come here, so that we might thwart any sorcery of Mora
thi and her coven,” said the Sapherian prince. “Like the others, I have few spears and swords for the cause and many of them must be employed guarding against the enemy that already lurks within.”
Biting back his disappointment, Caledor remembered that he was chosen as king to lead, not be a tyrant. The princes were right to be fearful for the security of their kingdoms. It was not cowardice; it was their first and greatest duty to protect their people.
“Very well,” he said. “Let us each return to our kingdoms and make what preparations we can. We will return here at the first winter moon, in forty-three days.”
“Be vigilant for all danger,” said Thyriol. “While we cast our gaze towards Nagarythe, do not let the enemy near at hand slip from your sight. The cytharai worshippers will come in force now that all is revealed. Make no mistake, this is a war now, and we must prevail.”
“Show no mercy,” said Caledor. “A moment’s weakness will doom us all.”
A long peal shook the bleak mountainside from Dorien’s dragon horn, rebounding from the bare rocks, echoes muffled by the low mist. Thyrinor glanced at Imrik—Caledor, he reminded himself—and saw the new Phoenix King’s eyes intent upon the cave mouths barely visible though the haze. The new ruler of Ulthuan had passed on the momentous news of his elevation with barely a glimmer of emotion; no more feeling than if he had been reporting the weather over the Inner Sea. Caledor had refused all suggestion of celebration and was even more close-lipped than he had been before.
They had ridden with haste to the lair of the dragons, Caledor almost silent for the whole journey. Thyrinor had tried to prise forth some word concerning the Phoenix King’s thoughts, but had failed. Caledor was worried, that much Thyrinor could see, and the way he waited for the dragons to answer the call did nothing to allay Thyrinor’s fears. Caledor was tense, hands clenched in fists, arms crossed over his breastplate, jaw clamped shut.
There was none of the show of the last visit. Maedrethnir emerged from a cave to the elves’ right and swooped down to the bare hill.
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