“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 Caledor’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.”
Though Malekith bore himself with dignity and respect, he was sorely disappointed by the council’s decision. He returned to Nagarythe with his mother, and did not attend the ritual wedding of Bel Shanaar and Yvraine. However, he did travel to the Isle of Flame to bear witness to Bel Shanaar’s passing through the sacred flames of Asuryan, though the sight stirred within him a kernel of jealousy that he could not wholly quench.
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 the 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.”
Malekith did not hear her words, for his attention and thoughts were bent entirely upon the unfolding ceremony.
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 of 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.
—
Voyage to Elthin Arvan
With determination and resourcefulness, Malekith bent his mind to the rebuilding of Nagarythe, as the other princes looked to their realms. In this time, Ulthuan raised itself from the ashes of war, and the cities grew and prospered. Farmlands pushed back the wilderness of Ulthuan as the elves shaped their isle to their liking.
In the mountains, hunters found strange beasts twisted by dark magic: many-headed hydras, bizarre chimerae, screeching griffons and other creatures of Chaos. Many of these they sl
ew, others they captured and broke to their will to use as mounts. Here also change had been wrought upon the birds, and the elves became friends with the great eagles who soared upon the mountain thermals and were gifted with the power of speech.
Ships were built and fleets despatched to explore the lands beyond the seas, and the power of the elves grew. Tiranoc, the kingdom of Bel Shanaar, profited greatly from this expansion of the elven realms, as did other kingdoms whose people took ship to found new colonies on distant shores.
Seeing that the future of his lands lay not just upon Ulthuan but across the globe, Malekith decided to lead the Naggarothi forth on an expedition of conquest and exploration. Though he had laboured long in the reconstruction of Nagarythe, ever he had chafed at domesticity and would seek the adventure of the mountain hunts or train with the legions of Anlec.
Not for him the life of security and comfort enjoyed by the princes of Ulthuan, for his spirit burned brighter than theirs, and ever the words of his mother and father sprang to mind. He felt destined for greater things than the building of walls and the collection of taxes, and he appointed many chancellors and treasurers to oversee these duties for him.
In the two hundred and fifty-fifth year of Bel Shanaar’s reign, Malekith quit Nagarythe as part of a mighty fleet bound for the east, to the unconquered wilderness of Elthin Arvan. To Morathi he gave the stewardship of Nagarythe. Though the relationship between mother and son had been strained at times, for Morathi could not accept her son’s fate as placidly as did he, the two remained close.
Beneath a spring sky the two parted on the wharfs of Galthyr, Morathi wrapped against the chill with a shawl of black bear fur, Malekith in his golden armour. Behind the prince his flagship rose and fell at anchor, her white sails cracking in the breeze, the high tiers of her gilded hull shining in the morning sun. Further out to sea waited a dozen warships of Nagarythe, their black and gold hulls rising and falling upon the white surf, five hundred warriors and knights aboard each vessel; a bodyguard befitting the son of Aenarion.
“You will earn glory on your travels,” Morathi said with genuine affection. “I have seen it in my dreams, and I know it in my heart. You will be a hero and a conqueror, and you will return to Ulthuan to be showered with praise.”
“I have nothing to prove,” Malekith answered.
“You do not,” Morathi agreed. “Not to yourself, nor I, not to your loyal subjects. You will make a fine Phoenix King when you return and the other princes see your true worth.”
“Even if they do not, Bel Shanaar is not immortal,” Malekith said. “I shall outlive him, and there will come a time when the princes must again choose a successor. Then the crown of Ulthuan will return to its rightful line and I shall do honour to the memory of my father.”
“It is good that you leave, for I could not bear to see you wither away in our halls like a rose hidden from the sun,” Morathi said. “One day your name will be upon the lips of every elf, and you will usher in a new age for our people. This is written in the stars and thus in your destiny. Morai-heg has granted me the wisdom to see it thus, and so shall it be.”
The seeress looked away for a moment, her gaze turning towards the north. Malekith opened his mouth to speak but Morathi raised a finger to silence him. When she looked at her son, he felt her gaze fall upon him like a Iamb stood before a lion, such was the intensity of her stare.
“Great deeds await you, my son, and renown equal to that of your father,” Morathi said, quietly at first, her voice rising in volume as she spoke. “Let Bel Shanaar sit upon his throne and grow rich and spoilt upon the labours of his people! As you say, his time will pass and his line will be found weak. Care not for the judgement of others, but go forth and do as you see fit, as prince of Nagarythe and leader of the greatest people in the world!”
They embraced for a long while, sharing in silence what could not be said. There were no tears shed at this parting, for the elves of Nagarythe were ever hardened to adversity and loss. For both, this was simply a new chapter in the story of Nagarythe, to be boldly written upon the pages of history with feats of valour and tales of conquest.
Swift and sure are the ships of the elves, and the fleet of Malekith sailed north and east for forty days, crossing the Great Ocean without trouble. The elves were masters of the seas, the inheritors of the civilisation of the Old Ones that had now fallen, and the world was theirs to claim. Anticipation and excitement filled the sailors and warriors of Nagarythe as they gazed to the east and wondered what spectacles awaited them.
Malekith was filled with energy, and would pace upon the deck of his ship constantly, when not cloistered in his cabin poring over the charts and maps sent back by elven shipmasters who had begun to explore the wide seas and foreign coasts.
He travelled also from ship to ship when he could, to spend time with the other princes and knights who accompanied his expedition. They feasted on fish caught from the seas, and drank toasts to their prince from caskets of wine brought out of Ulthuan. The mood was of a great celebration, as if setting out was in itself a victory. Malekith could not fault them for their optimism, for as they woke each day heading towards the dawn he felt the lure of adventure too. Other ships they saw passing westwards, laden with timber and ores from the new lands. Ever they exchanged news with the captains of these vessels, and each meeting brought fresh excitement at the wealth and opportunities to be had.
The lands of the east were untamed wilderness for the most part. Savage creatures were there, amidst the majestic mountains and dark forests, but also vast untapped resources that could be taken for those with the wit and daring to do so.
Malekith vowed to his followers that they would build a new realm here, and carve for themselves an empire that would dwarf Ulthuan in size and majesty, worthy of the memory of Aenarion. This cheered them even more, for each prince could see himself as a king, and each knight could picture life as a prince. Under Malekith’s reign, it seemed as if anything would be possible, and each would have a castle filled with delights set in breathtaking glades and valleys.
Malekith allowed them to forge their fantasies, for who was he to quell their dreams? He had spoken in truth and looked to the wilds of Elthin Arvan as a new beginning; a place where the ghost of his father would not haunt him and the expectations of his mother would not choke him.
As dawn broke on the forty-first day, a commotion ran through Malekith’s fleet. Land had been sighted: jutting headlands of white and dark mud flats that stretched for miles. It was not for this that there was much agitation, for the masters of the ships had known they would make landfall that day, but for a great pall of smoke that hung over the northern horizon. A large fire or fires burned somewhere, and Malekith was filled with foreboding. He ordered his captains to turn northwards at once, and up the coast sped the fleet with all sail set, dancing effortlessly across the waves.
Not long after noon they came upon the port of Athel Toralien, one of the first colonies to be founded in these new lands. Her white towers rose up majestically from the sea of trees that grew right up to the coastline, and a great harbour wall curved out into the ocean, surf crashing upon it. As Malekith feared, the city was alight with many fires, and her walls were blackened with soot.
As the Naggarothi fleet tacked into the bay upon which Athel Toralien stood, they found the quays empty of ships. Malekith guessed that their captains had fled whatever disaster had befallen the city, and that Athel Toralien now lay deserted. He was to be proven wrong in part though, for as the ships approached the harbour, a loud cry went up from the lookouts. There was fighting upon the walls of the city!
As the ship of Malekith came alongside a slender pier, he leapt over the side onto the whitewashed planks. In his wake came his soldiers, jumping from the ship in their haste, not waiting for the boarding bridges to be lowered. Calling his warriors to arms, Malekith raced down the pier towards the high warehouses around the edge of the harbour. As he neared the buildings, clusters of elves
came out and hurried towards the Naggarothi. Most were women, unkempt and afraid. With them they brought clusters of children with eyes wide in fear, who hung upon their mother’s dresses as if they were gripping upon life itself.
“Bless Asuryan!” the womenfolk cried, and hugged Malekith and his warriors with tears streaming down their cheeks.
“Be quiet!” snapped Malekith to quell their effusive thanks and sobbing. “What evil passes here?”
“Orcs!” they shrieked in reply. “The city is besieged!”
“Who commands the city?” he demanded.
“No one, my lord,” he was told. “Prince Aneron left eight days ago, with the fleet and many of the soldiers. There was not enough room aboard the ships for all to flee. Captain Lorhir defends the walls as best he can, but the orcs have war engines that hurl flaming rocks, and have pounded the city for many days.”
The army was assembling on the dockside, and Malekith ordered that the horses be brought from the ships. As the knights readied themselves, he ordered two companies of spears and his best archers to follow him to the walls. As they marched through the city they saw that the destruction was not as widespread as they first thought. The war machines of the orcs were wildly inaccurate and the damaged buildings were scattered across the city. Even as Malekith reached a stairway leading up to the rampart, a ball of flaming rock and tar flew overhead and crashed into a tower, showering dribbles of flame and debris into the street below.
Leaping up the stone steps three at a time, Malekith swiftly reached the top of the wall, which rose some thirty feet above the ground. The curtain wall of Athel Toralien curved around in a semi-circle for more than a mile, enclosing the city against the bay that lay to the south. Beyond lay an immense forest that stretched as far as the eye could see, cut by the straight lines of roads radiating out from the city’s three gates.
[Sundering 01] - Malekith Page 2