[Sundering 01] - Malekith

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  “Surely Palthrain is more trusted than I am,” said Malekith, sitting down on an elegantly carved chair. “It will be easier for him to administer the poison.”

  Morathi shook her head in disappointment and crossed her arms.

  “Palthrain will not become Phoenix King with this act,” she said sternly. “Show me that you have the will to succeed your father. More than that, prove it to yourself. The throne is there for the taking. Only by your own hand can you take it and deserve to sit upon it. Bel Shanaar was given his rule by others. True kings seize it for themselves.”

  Malekith nodded wordlessly, struck by the truth of his mother’s words. If he could do this one simple thing there was nothing that would stand between him and his dream of ruling Ulthuan.

  “Come on!” said Morathi, clapping her hands as if to chivvy along a wayward child. “You will have plenty of time to practise your speech to the princes on the voyage to the Isle of Flame.”

  “I will be Phoenix King,” murmured Malekith, savouring the thought.

  Upon leaving his mother, the prince sought out the chamberlain. He took Palthrain to the gardens where they could speak in privacy, and informed him of his desire to enact his mother’s plan for assassinating Bel Shanaar. Palthrain took this news without comment, merely telling Malekith that Bel Shanaar was wont to take his evening repast at sunset. He agreed to meet the prince by the Phoenix King’s rooms just before then, and would provide him with the deadly wine.

  For the remainder of the day, Malekith fretted in his chambers, pacing back and forth. Though he did not doubt that what he was doing would ultimately be for the benefit of all, he worried that the plan would somehow be forestalled. He wanted to speak to his mother again, but knew that to visit her so soon after their last meeting might arouse suspicion.

  As the day wore on, doubts clawed at Malekith’s nerves. Could Palthrain be trusted? Even now, was the chamberlain fulfilling his true loyalty and reporting the plot to the Phoenix King? Every footstep in the corridor beyond the door to his chambers set Malekith on edge, as he suspected the approach of Bel Shanaar’s guards.

  Pacing like a trapped animal, barely ready to believe that success was so close, Malekith prowled and brooded in his rooms, unable to settle. He constantly strode to the window to check the progress of the day, as if by his will alone he could bring the sunset more quickly.

  After an eternity, the sun was finally upon the horizon and Malekith set out from his rooms to meet Palthrain. He kept his expression genial as he passed servants and guards in the corridors. He then realised that he was not normally so cordial and set his face in a determined frown instead; an expression with which all in Tor Anroc were now very familiar.

  In the corridor around the corner from Bel Shaanar’s main chambers Palthrain stood with a tray upon which stood a silver ewer and goblet, and a plate of cured meats and bread. Palthrain passed him the tray but Malekith’s hands were shaking and the chamberlain quickly retrieved it.

  Malekith took deep breaths, trying to calm himself as if summoning the power for a difficult spell. Ignoring the purposefully blank expression of Palthrain, the prince took the tray once more, now in control of his body.

  “Are you sure this will work?” demanded Malekith. “It must be final!”

  “It is used in certain practices of the Khainites, to numb the senses,” Palthrain replied. “In small doses it will render its victim incapable for several hours. With the amount I have put in the wine, it will be fatal. At first he will be paralysed. Then his breathing will become difficult as his lungs freeze, and then he will fall pass away.”

  “No pain?” said Malekith.

  “Not that I am aware of, highness,” said Palthrain.

  “What a pity,” said Malekith.

  The Naggarothi prince walked down the passageway to Bel Shanaar’s chambers, forcing himself to stride slowly so as not to gamer attention. He knocked at the door and waited for Bel Shanaar’s call for him to enter.

  The Phoenix King was sat at a writing desk, no doubt penning corrections to his speech for the council.

  “Malekith?” he said, startled.

  “Forgive the intrusion, your majesty,” said Malekith with a low bow. He stepped across the room and placed the tray on the desk.

  “Why are you here?” asked Bel Shanaar. “Where’s Palthrain?”

  “I apologise for waylaying him, majesty,” said Malekith. “I wished to bring you your wine as a peace offering.”

  “Peace offering?”

  “I wholeheartedly wish to offer my apologies,” replied Malekith, pouring the poisoned wine into the goblet. “I spoke out of misplaced anger earlier, and I caused great offence. My anger is not with you, though it might have seemed that way. I have endeavoured to earn your trust and to be a loyal subject, and it is my failings not yours that have led you to choose Imrik. I will be happy to support your choice.”

  The prince passed the cup to Bel Shanaar, his face a mask of politeness. The Phoenix King frowned and for a moment Malekith feared that he suspected something. The Phoenix King took the goblet however, and placed it on the desk.

  “Your apology is accepted,” said Bel Shanaar. “I do trust you, my friend, but you have personal concerns that far outweigh any duty to me. I choose Imrik not just on ability, but on the fact that I would have you address the problems of your kingdom without distraction. I would have you direct your energies solely to restoring your rule, not pandering to the whims of other kingdoms.”

  The goblet remained on the desk.

  “Your consideration heartens me greatly,” said Malekith, keeping his eyes fixed firmly upon the Phoenix King lest he dart a betraying glance towards the wine.

  “You will offer your support in the council?” Bel Shanaar asked, finally lifting the cup to his lips and taking a mouthful of the wine.

  It was not enough for the poison to work and the prince silently willed Bel Shanaar to drink more.

  “When the debate rages, none will argue harder than I,” said Malekith with a smile.

  Bel Shanaar nodded and took another sip of wine.

  “If that is all, then I wish you a fair evening and look forward to sailing with you in the morning,” said Bel Shanaar with a polite nod.

  Malekith stood there watching for some sign of the poison’s effect.

  “What are you staring at?” asked the Phoenix King.

  “Is the wine not to your satisfaction?” said the prince, taking a step closer.

  “I am not thirsty,” said Bel Shanaar, placing the goblet back on the desk.

  Malekith twisted and picked up the goblet and sniffed it.

  “It is very fine wine, majesty,” he said.

  “I am sure it is, Malekith,” said Bel Shanaar, pursing his lips. His voice became more insistent. “However, I feel a little sleepy all of a sudden. I shall retire for the night and see you in the morning.”

  Stifling a frustrated shout, Malekith lunged forwards and seized Bel Shanaar by the throat. The Phoenix King’s eyes widened with terror as Malekith forced open Bel Shanaar’s mouth and emptied in the contents of the goblet. The goblet tumbled from the prince’s fingertips and spilt a cascade of red droplets over the white boards of the floor.

  Clamping one hand over the Phoenix King’s nose and mouth and dragging his head back by his hair, Malekith choked the king until he swallowed the deadly draught. He then released his grip and stepped back to watch his future unfold.

  “What have you—” panted Bel Shanaar, clawing at his throat and chest.

  Malekith lifted the parchment from the desk. As he had suspected, it was a draft of the Phoenix King’s speech for the council. Thinking it better that no evidence of Bel Shanaar’s support for Imrik was found, he crossed the room and tossed it into the fire burning in the grate. Turning, he saw that there was still life in Bel Shanaar’s bulging eyes.

  Malekith padded forwards until he was very close, and bent towards the dying elf’s ear.

  “You brought
this upon yourself,” the prince hissed.

  With a last gurgle, Bel Shanaar died, his face purple, his tongue lolling from his mouth. Malekith stood for a moment, absent-mindedly looking at the contorted face, not quite believing that it was almost over.

  “Well, I have to leave you now,” he said at last, affectionately patting the Phoenix King’s head. “I have a throne to claim.”

  ——

  The Wrath of Asuryan

  Parties from Yvresse, Cothique, Saphery and Ellyrion camped upon the meadows surrounding the shrine, in a pavilion town of bright reds, blues and whites. The banners of the princes flew from standard poles above the tents, and mailed sentries stood guard on the perimeter. A place had been set aside already for the prince of Eataine and his contingent, and while Haradrin’s servants laboured at the dock to unload the wares and stores of the camp, Carathril went to the shrine itself.

  The outer parts of the temple were open rows of columns decorated in relief with images of Asuryan in many guises: as a loving father, a swooping eagle, a rising phoenix and others. Between the colonnade and the shrine proper stood the Phoenix Guard, the sacred warriors of Asuryan, with glittering halberds and high-crested helms. Their white cloaks were embroidered with patterns of red and blue flames leaping up from their hems, and their scale armour shone with gilding.

  All were silent, for they were avowed to never speak; each had passed into the Chamber of Days, where the history of Aenarion was recorded, and so too all the histories of the Phoenix Kings yet to come. Past, present and future were laid bare within that secret hall, and the Phoenix Guard were forbidden to speak of the knowledge they now guarded.

  Two of the Phoenix Guards stepped forwards and lowered their halberds to stop Carathril as he walked under an arched entrance into the shrine. Carathril presented the seal of the Phoenix King and they let him pass. Inside, Carathril found himself in an antechamber, a small room unadorned but for a carving of a great phoenix over the closed door opposite. Stoops of clear water flanked the doorway, and Carathril paused to wash his hands and face.

  He opened the door and moved further in, to find himself in a wide gallery that ran around the outside of the central chamber. Phoenix Guards barred any route to the left or right and Carathril walked ahead, passing through another archway into the holiest of shrines on Ulthuan.

  His gaze was immediately drawn to the sacred flame. From nothing it sprang, hovering without fuel over the middle of the chamber, burning blue then green then red then golden, shifting colour every few moments. It gave off no heat that Carathril could feel, but he felt a wave of calmness wash over him as he approached. There was not a crackle or hiss of burning; the flames were as silent as their guardians.

  “Do not approach too closely,” warned a voice beside Carathril, and he turned to see an ageing elf wrapped in a blue and yellow robe, leaning upon a staff tipped with a golden likeness of a phoenix. Carathril recognised him immediately as Mianderin, the high priest of the shrine, who had presided here for as long as Carathril could remember. His attention thus drawn from the flame, Carathril noticed that there was much activity in the central chamber, as priests and acolytes brought forth tables and chairs and arranged flame-patterned rugs upon the floor in readiness for the council.

  “All will be ready for tomorrow,” said Mianderin. “Is there something with which I might help you?”

  “No,” said Carathril, shaking his head. “No, there is nothing… except, perhaps, you might furnish me with some information.”

  “What is it that you wish to know?” the high priest asked.

  “Has there been any word from Prince Imrik?” said Carathril.

  “A messenger arrived yesterday,” said Mianderin. “Both he and Prince Koradrel are hunting in the mountains and could not be located. By choice, I would presume.”

  Carathril’s heart sank; how was he to present Bel Shanaar’s message to Imrik now? He hoped that whatever the missive contained, it was not important to the business of the council.

  “Thank you for your help,” he said distractedly.

  “Peace be upon your life,” the old priest said as Carathril turned away. The captain paused and looked back.

  “I most fervently hope so,” said Carathril before heading out of the shrine.

  It was gone noon on the day appointed for the council to begin, and still there had been no sign of Bel Shanaar, nor Malekith, Imrik or Koradrel. In all there were nearly two dozen princes gathered, some leaders of realms, others powerful nobles in their own right, as holders of land or commanders of troops. As Carathril had seen before, they conspired and bickered in an almost casual fashion, directing vague slights against one another whilst making promises of cooperation and partnership. Though they had been sent word of the unfortunate events of Nagarythe, none knew fully why they had been asked to come, and as the day wore on without sign of the Phoenix King, tempers began to fray and arguments broke out.

  Some of the princes, Bathinair chief amongst them, complained bitterly of the disrespect done to them by Bel Shanaar’s tardiness. There were whispered threats of returning back to their lands, but they were persuaded to stay by courteous argument from the likes of Thyriol and Finudel. The presence of Elodhir did much to calm the situation, who spent every moment apologising for his father’s delay and assuring that it would be worth the princes’ while to remain and hear what he had to say.

  It was late afternoon, and the autumn sky was just beginning to darken when the huge ship Indraugnir glided effortlessly to the quay, the flag of Nagarythe flying from her masthead. There were claps and cheers, some of them ironic, as Malekith strode down the ramp onto the wharf, followed by several dozen of his armoured knights.

  Retainers of the prince swarmed over the gunwales, quickly unloading sacks and chests onto the pier. Malekith waved for the princes to precede him inside and they did so, leaving Carathril, the Phoenix Guards and a few other retainers outside with the knights of Anlec.

  “Prince, what of the Phoenix King?” said Carathril, falling into step beside the swiftly striding Malekith. The prince did not reply but simply shooed Carathril away with a fluttered hand. Slighted, Carathril gave a snort and stormed away towards the quay.

  * * *

  Inside the shrine, the princes and their aides had seated themselves around a horseshoe of tables that had been set up before the sacred flames, and in a chair directly in front of the flames sat Mianderin, his staff of office held across his lap. Other priests moved around the tables filling goblets with wine or water, and offering fruits and confectionaries.

  The table nearest the entrance was empty, reserved for Bel Shanaar. Malekith stood behind it, earning himself frowns from Mianderin and a few of the princes. He was flanked by two knights who carried wrapped bundles in their hands. The prince of Nagarythe stood there, leaning onto the table with gauntleted fists, and stared balefully at the assembled council.

  “Weakness prevails,” spat Malekith. “Weakness grips this island like a child squeezing the juices from an over-ripened fruit. Selfishness has driven us to inaction, and now the time to act may have passed. Complacency rules where princes should lead. You have allowed the cults of depravity to flourish, and done nothing. You have looked to foreign shores and counted your gold, and allowed thieves to sneak into your towns and cities to steal away your children. And you have been content to allow a traitor to wear the Phoenix Crown!”

  With this last declaration there were gasps and shouts of horror from the princes. Malekith’s knights opened their bundles and tossed the contents upon the table: the crown and feathered cloak of Bel Shanaar.

  Elodhir leapt to his feet, fist raised.

  “Where is my father?” he demanded.

  “What has happened to the Phoenix King?” cried Finudel.

  “He is dead!” snarled Malekith. “Killed by his weakness of spirit.”

  “That cannot be so!” exclaimed Elodhir, his voice strangled and fraught with anger.

>   “It is,” said Malekith with a sigh, his demeanour suddenly one of sorrow. “I promised to root out this vileness, and was shocked to find that my mother was one of its chief architects. From that moment on, I decided none would be above suspicion. If Nagarythe had become so polluted, so too perhaps had Tiranoc. My arrival here was delayed by investigations, when it was brought to my attention that those close to the Phoenix King might be under the sway of the hedonists. My inquiries were circumspect but thorough, and imagine my disappointment, nay disbelief, when I uncovered evidence that implicated the Phoenix King himself.”

  “What evidence?” demanded Elodhir.

  “Certain talismans and fetishes found in the Phoenix King’s chambers,” said Malekith calmly. “Believe me when I say that I felt as you did. I could not bring myself to think that Bel Shanaar, our wisest prince chosen to rule by members of this council, would be brought so low. Not one to act rashly, I decided to confront Bel Shanaar with this evidence, in the hope that there was some misunderstanding or trickery involved.”

  “And he denied it of course?” asked Bathinair.

  “He admitted guilt by his deeds,” explained Malekith. “It seems that a few of my company were tainted by this affliction and in league with the usurpers of Nagarythe. Even as I confided in them, they warned Bel Shanaar of my discoveries. That night, no more than seven nights ago, I went to his chambers to make my accusations face-to-face. I found him dead, his lips stained with poison. He had taken the coward’s way and ended his own life rather than suffer the shame of inquiry. By his own hand he denied us insight into the plans of the cults. Fearing that he would not keep their secrets to himself, he took them to his grave.”

  “My father would do no such thing, he is loyal to Ulthuan and its people!” shouted Elodhir.

  “I confess to having deep sympathy with you, Elodhir,” Malekith replied. “Have I not been deceived by my own mother? Do I not feel the same betrayal and heartache that now wrenches at your spirit?”