“They are allies!” shouted Athielle, riding just as hard from the west.
Prince and princess reined in their steeds next to Caledor, horror written in their expressions.
“The Naggarothi in the woods are not the enemy,” said Finudel. “I recognise them.”
“They are the Shadows of the Anars!” gasped Athielle. “Do not harm them.”
Cursing, Caledor barked at Maedrethnir to launch himself. They headed for the stand of trees as Dorien began his steep descent, smoke and fire trailing from his dragon’s maw. Caledor knew there was no point in shouting; his brother would hear nothing over the roar of the wind.
“Get in front of them,” he told Maedrethnir. “Quickly!”
The dragon raced towards the trees, wing beats scattering the elves below with huge draughts of wind. Caledor ducked low and raised his shield to direct the rushing air over his head, to avoid being broken upon his saddle by its force.
Dorien did not slow, probably thinking that Caledor joined the attack. Against the buffeting wind, all the king could do was grip tight to lance and shield, peering ahead through slitted eyes.
Maedrethnir roared, his whole body shaking with the effort. The deafening bellow struck a chord in the mind of Caledor; for a moment he was overwhelmed by a primal fear and almost let go of his lance. It was a challenge, a hunting cry, a claim of territory that no other creature could match.
Dorien’s dragon responded out of instinct, veering away from the woods to charge headlong at Maedrethnir, roaring his response. Almost thrown from his saddle-throne by the change of direction, Dorien lost his shield, which tumbled into the trees as Maedrethnir and the other dragon hurtled towards each other.
Caledor realised that in uttering the challenge, Maedrethnir had reverted to his most feral state. He barked the incantations of the Dragontamer, trying to break the dragon from his instinctual behaviour; he guessed Dorien would be doing likewise.
Maedrethnir gave a strange yelp of pain, snapping from his fury. He folded his wings, dropping like a huge stone so that the other dragon passed overhead. He could only half open them again before he hit the ground, legs splayed to lessen the impact. Trunks exploded into splinters and branches scattered as the dragon ploughed into the woods. In a deluge of green and brown, dragon and rider slid down a shallow slope, Maedrethnir’s claws gouging deep furrows in the earth as he slowed himself.
They came to a stop and the dragon sagged to his belly, panting hard. Caledor’s neck flared with pain and he realised his teeth were gritted together so hard the muscles in his jaw had locked. With an effort, he opened his mouth, pain surging down the sides of his neck.
Maedrethnir shook his head, puffing smoke as he recovered his senses.
“Are you all right?” the dragon asked, arching back his head to look at Caledor.
The Phoenix King grunted and nodded as best he could, unable to speak. He dropped his shield and lance to the ground and wrenched off his ornate helm and gauntlets. Rubbing his neck in his hands, he stretched his back, fearful that his spine had been broken. There was no stab of pain and he relaxed, slumping forwards to pat the dragon on his shoulder.
“We are not alone,” said Maedrethnir.
Caledor looked around and found himself surrounded by several dozen black-swathed elves, bows bent with arrows pointing directly at him. One of them stepped closer, the bow in his hand a beautiful object of silver and white, its string no thicker than an elf maiden’s hair. Dark eyes regarded Caledor coolly from under the elf’s hood. He slowly lowered his bow and the other shadowy elves did the same.
“You must be the Phoenix King,” said their leader, pulling back his hood to reveal a slender silver crown. “The one who calls himself Caledor.”
“You must be Alith Anar,” Caledor replied. “The one who calls himself the Shadow King.”
The Ellyrians were searching the woods for Caledor. The Phoenix King heard Finudel calling his name. Another, lighter voice called for Alith: Athielle. At the sound of the princess’ voice, a change came over Alith’s demeanour. He beckoned for Caledor to dismount and dispersed his warriors with a snapped command.
Maedrethnir settled, allowing Caledor to unbuckle his harness and drop to the branch-strewn ground. Standing next to the Shadow King, Caledor found Alith to be a lot shorter than he had imagined, and a lot younger too. He was probably not even a century old, yet from his exploits Caledor had thought him a veteran of war.
“Malekith is alive,” said Alith.
At first the Phoenix King thought he had misheard.
“What did you say?” said Caledor.
“Malekith, prince of Nagarythe, still lives,” said Alith.
“You are wrong,” said Caledor, shaking his head. “He was burned by the flame of Asuryan. I have spoken to those that saw it.”
“And I have spoken with him, not so long ago,” replied Alith with a hint of a smirk. “Which of us is wrong?”
“How can that be?” The idea was beyond Caledor’s comprehension. The testimony of Thyrinor, of Carathril and Finudel, spoke of the ruin that had been carried from the Shrine of Asuryan.
“Sorcery,” said Alith. “He wears an enchanted suit of armour, the colour of midnight, though it burns still with the heat of its forging. He asked me to join him.”
“He did what?” Each revelation was more unbelievable than the last. Caledor looked at Alith carefully, trying to detect any hint of subterfuge. He saw nothing and could think of no reason why the last of the Anars would fabricate such a ridiculous tale.
“Malekith lives on, sustained by his magic, and now calls himself the Witch King,” Alith explained. “You saw him today.”
“The dragon rider?” said Caledor.
“Yes, that was the Witch King,” said Alith. “When he came to me in the ruins of Elanardris he offered me a place at his side. I said no.”
“I have only your word that is true,” said Caledor. “How is it that you survived?”
“By running,” Alith replied with a lopsided smile. “Running very fast. They pursued us into the mountains, but we know the peaks and passes better than any other and escaped. I followed Malekith south, and learned of his plans here.”
“You have my thanks for your part, though it was not necessary,” said Caledor.
“Not necessary?” Alith’s laugh was edged with scorn. “Your army was being destroyed.”
“I was about to order my dragons to attack the bolt throwers at the same time,” said Caledor, crossing his arms. “We would have wiped out half the war machines in a single moment. The battle was far from lost.”
“I did not fight for your thanks,” said Alith, taking a step back. “As I told your brother and your cousin, I fight for Nagarythe and that is all.”
“Prove to me you do not owe loyalty to Malekith,” said Caledor. “Swear your allegiance to the Phoenix Throne.”
“Never,” spat Alith, his hand moving to the pommel of the sword at his waist. “I will swear no oath to any king again. Nagarythe is not yours to command, it is mine.”
“My father was there when Malekith bent his knee to Bel Shanaar and swore his loyalty,” snarled Caledor. “Who are you to do any less for me?”
“I am the Shadow King,” said Alith, touching a hand to the circlet on his brow. “This is the crown of Nagarythe, worn by Aenarion himself. My grandfather was the last of the great princes, equal to your ancestor. Do not think that because I wear shadows for my cloak I have abandoned my lineage.”
“I will not offer my protection to any that will not swear their obedience,” said Caledor.
“I do not need your protection, Nagarythe does not need your rule,” said Alith.
The scion of the Anars glanced over Caledor’s shoulder and again his expression changed; his anger faded, to be replaced by a grim look. The Shadow King spoke quickly.
“Do not think you have seen the worst of this war, Caledor. Morathi has known all along that Malekith lived and has been nurturing an arm
y for him. They are the deadliest of Naggarothi, the knights of Anlec at their heart. They have been hidden away, even from me, upon the Blighted Isle, studying the deadliest skills of Khaine at His bloody altar. Nothing you have faced is like them. You have not seen yet half of Nagarythe’s strength. Prepare yourselves for the onslaught.”
“There cannot be such a force left in Nagarythe,” said Caledor. “The druchii have suffered many defeats these past years. What of the army destroyed today?”
Alith laughed bitterly, a sinister sound that cut at Caledor’s spirit.
“Today you slaughtered frightened Tiranocii,” said the Shadow King. “They are terrified of the Witch King, and fight as conscripts in his army. They would rather die on the swords of your warriors than face the Khainites that Malekith has at his command. News of Cothique’s fate has spread far indeed.”
The sounds of the search were approaching close; the devastation left by Maedrethnir’s fall would not be hard to find. Alith’s discomfort increased and he darted a look at Caledor. He suddenly again looked to be the young prince Caledor had first seen close at hand, worried and alone.
“Many thought I was slain, and with good reason,” said the Shadow King. “Tell Finudel that I am still alive; I leave it to his discretion whether Athielle should know. I would rather she did not see me.”
“You would rather not see her,” said Caledor, reading Alith’s expression.
“I cannot, I forfeited that life when I became the Shadow King.”
“You are a strange person, Alith Anar,” said Caledor. “I do not like that you call yourself king but if you need my aid, send word.”
“The elf who takes his grandfather’s name and has a dragon for his best friend calls me strange?” Alith said with a laugh. He grew serious. “I am no hunting dog, to be called when you choose. I am the wolf, and I hunt in my own way. I will fight the druchii, but not at your command. I tell you again, Nagarythe is not yours, it is mine. Stay away.”
Alith turned and dashed into the darkness of the woods, swiftly vanishing into the shadows. A moment later, Finudel called out from behind Caledor and the Phoenix King turned.
“Who was that?” asked the Ellyrian prince.
“We will discuss it later,” said Caledor, his thoughts full of Alith’s dire warnings.
—
The Phoenix Resurgent
The plains outside the walls of Anlec were still hard with frost, the air steaming with the breath of thousands of warriors. Armour dark against the white ground, they waited in rank after rank for the command of their king. Malekith looked down at his army from the eastern gate tower, overshadowed by Sulekh, the Witch King’s dragon. The black-scaled monster loomed over the gatehouse with wings half-spread, her hide pitted and scarred from many fights with her brood. None had been able to tame her until Malekith, and now that she was broken to his will the black dragon was his bodyguard as well as steed.
The ring of heels on the stone steps of the gate tower announced the arrival of Morathi. The sorceress-queen strode onto the rampart and stood beside her son to survey the host of Anlec.
“They are a fine coronation gift,” said Malekith, fiery eyes regarding the massed companies below. “You were wise to save them for me.”
“I knew you would return to us, one day,” replied Morathi. “All that remains is to use your gift to seize the throne of Ulthuan.”
“We shall inspect the troops,” announced the Witch King.
He held out his right arm and the flames that played about his armour died, leaving wisps of smoke in the air. Morathi laid her hand on the proffered arm and the two of them made their way down the tower and headed out of the city.
“You have met Hellebron already,” said Morathi, waving a hand towards the Khainite high priestess. Her hair had been bleached white and stood in spikes and a mask of dried blood covered her face.
“Hail the Witch King, son of Khaine!” she shrieked, lifting twin blades above her head. The Khainites let out ululations of praise, howling and screaming as they flourished their weapons.
Witch King and sorceress moved on past the wailing cultists to where a dozen princes and commanders stood waiting, their companies of spears and repeater crossbows standing in stolid lines as the cold wind keened across the open plain. The crews of a hundred bolt throwers stood ready beside their machines, flanked by five thousand heavily armoured knights on black steeds.
“The host of Anlec,” said Morathi.
Malekith nodded and at a shouted command, the thousands of Naggarothi crashed spears and swords against shields and stamped their feet.
“Hail the Witch King!” they roared, lifting their weapons in salute.
Further north were the beast pens, where the black dragons lazed, surrounded by a fog of noxious gas.
Manticores paced their iron cages and roared their frustration. Griffons and hydras strained at their chains, their rasping growls and hisses dying to silence as the Witch King approached. Even the manticores seemed cowed by Malekith’s presence, settling to their haunches in deference, submissive whimpers echoing from their cages.
Other warriors there were too; lightly armoured scouts and foot knights who wore long coats of mail and high-crested helms. Morathi’s sorcerers and sorceresses, a dozen in number, lowered themselves to their knees as Malekith came near. Assassins branded and tattooed with the marks of Khaine abased themselves, presenting poison-edged daggers of black crystal as a sign of obedience.
“What is your plan?” asked Morathi as mother and son turned back towards the city gate.
“Chrace must fall,” announced the Witch King. “Tor Achare must be taken if we are to stage any campaign against the eastern kingdoms.”
“That will take us into the territory of the Anars,” said Morathi. “Many an army has not returned from those mountains.”
“It is my territory!” Malekith snarled, snatching his arm away from his mother. Flames rippled along his armour, burning dark blue, the inside of his helm glowing with the same hue. “I will crush the Anars, as you should have done a decade ago.”
“It is fool’s errand to attempt a conquest of the mountains,” Morathi snapped back. “Many of my incompetent minions lost their lives attempting the feat.”
“I did not say I will conquer Elanardris,” said Malekith, “I said I would crash the Anars. The march to Chrace will be too tempting a target, and when they attack I will trap them and kill the last of Eoloran’s spawn. Without Alith, their resistance will crumble.”
“We thought him dead for many years,” said Morathi. “He is sly.”
“I know him,” said Malekith. “I have seen him. He is nothing more than a boy. He will not outwit me.”
They passed under the gate as the commanders dismissed the army back to their camps. The huge iron portcullis descended and the gates closed as the pair emerged into the late winter sun that shone down on the plaza within the walls.
“You said you will take Tor Achare,” Morathi prompted.
“With Tiranoc and Chrace in my possession, Ellyrion will soon fall. Avelorn is a spent force, to be finished off at my leisure. Cothique lies ruined, and so Saphery will be the next objective. Thyriol is not the match for either of us, and together we can destroy his gaggle of mages and rob Caledor of their enchantments.”
“You seem to have everything considered,” said Morathi, as the two of them crossed the square towards the road leading to Aenarion’s palace.
“I have had a long time to consider my plans,” replied the Witch King. “When the pain was not too great, I thought hard on what I would do. I will isolate Imrik, take from him every advantage and ally, and when he is left alone, I will offer him the chance to hand over the throne of Ulthuan.”
“He would never accept,” said Morathi. “He is far too stubborn to admit defeat.”
“I do not wish him to accept,” said Malekith. He held out a flame-wreathed hand. “When he refuses, I will seize him by the throat and he will
burn. He will not know one-hundredth of the pain I knew, but it will still be an agonising death. I will slaughter his people and cast down Tor Caled. The dragons will be broken and turned to our cause and when all of this is accomplished, when Imrik knows that I am the master of the elves, I shall burn him to death.”
Malekith shuddered with delight as he pictured that glorious moment. It had overtaken the visions of coronation in his dreams. He could feel the charring of the usurper’s flesh on his fingertips and hear his strangled cries of mercy. Malekith knew well the stench of burned flesh, but the smell of Imrik’s immolation would be sweeter than the finest incense of Cothique. Skin would bubble and his eyes would melt. Flesh would rupture and bone turn to ash.
“I have the measure of him,” said the Witch King, freeing himself from the daydream with some effort. “My foray into Ellyrion has proven I am the superior general. He is guilty of extremes, veering between cautious defence and over enthusiastic attack. He was never my equal.”
“Yet he beat you in Ellyrion,” said Morathi, darting a glance up at her son’s masked face.
“It was not my intent to defeat him,” replied Malekith, holding his temper in check despite the accusation in his mother’s voice. “The Tiranocii conscripts would never be an army worthy of my command. And I have taught Imrik a lesson, one that will make him nervous of attacking my army again. I will use that uncertainty to my advantage when I strike for Tor Achare.”
“What of Tiranoc?” said Morathi.
They had reached the plaza in front of the palaces. Sulekh swept over the city, her massive shadow blotting the sun from the square as she flew to a perch atop one of the palace’s ancient towers, stones and tiles crumbling to dust as she found purchase with her claws.
Malekith glanced up at the dragon, amused by her behaviour, as loyal and dependent as a hunting dog.
“Tiranoc?” he said, recalling the question. “It is safe. Imrik dares not launch an offensive while his allies are under attack. He will have to defend Chrace, or lose the loyalty of his supporters. That is his weakness. He cares what his subjects think.”
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