[Sundering 01] - Malekith

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  “I must admit I also find this somewhat perturbing,” said Thyriol. “It seems… convenient.”

  “And so, in death, Bel Shanaar continues to divide us, as was his intent,” countered Malekith. “Discord and anarchy will reign as we argue back and forth the rights and wrongs of what has occurred. While we debate endlessly, the cults will grow in power and seize your lands from under your noses, and we will have lost everything. They are united, while we are divided. There is no time for contemplation, or reflection, there is only time for action.”

  “What would you have us do?” asked Chyllion, one of the princes of Cothique.

  “We must choose a new Phoenix King!” declared Bathinair before Malekith could answer.

  As he approached the quay, Carathril watched the Naggarothi labouring on Malekith’s ship. Amongst the throng, he spied a familiar face: Drutheira. Her hair was bleached white with a few blackened locks, but still the herald recognised her. Carathril pushed his way through the servants to where she stood on the dock, picking up a bale of cloth. She saw him approach and smiled.

  “Carathril!” she gasped, grabbing his hand in both of hers. “I thought perhaps never to see you again! Oh, this is joyous indeed!”

  “Perhaps you can tell me what has happened to the Phoenix King?” said Carathril, and her smile faded.

  “Why would you care about him?” she asked. “Are you not happy to see me?”

  “Of course,” said Carathril, uncertain. Seeing Drutheira had suddenly muddled his thoughts. Her eyes were glistening like mountain pools. Carathril struggled to concentrate.

  “How is it that you come to be here?” he stammered. “Why are you in the employ of Malekith?”

  “He is a most noble prince,” she said, laying her hands upon Carathril’s shoulders. A shiver of energy ran through him, setting his nerves alight at her touch. “Glorious and magnanimous! When he is Phoenix King we shall all be well rewarded. You too, Carathril. He thinks very highly of you.”

  “Malekith, the Phoenix King?” stammered Carathril. Something was wrong but he could think of nothing but Drutheira’s pale flesh and the fragrance of her hair. “Bel Shanaar is Phoenix—”

  “Hush now,” said Drutheira, her voice a sighing breath. She stood on tiptoe so that her face was in front of his, her breath a breeze upon his cheek. “Do not trouble yourself with the affairs of princes. Is it not marvellous that we can be together?”

  “Together? What?” said Carathril, stepping away from her.

  This attraction was not natural. Something thrashed inside Carathril’s head, screaming for freedom. As soon as he broke her touch on him, his mind began to clear.

  “You shall be his captain and herald, and I one of his handmaidens,” Drutheira said patiently, as if explaining herself to a child. “We can live together in Anlec.”

  “I am not going to Anlec,” said Carathril. “Whatever Athartist enchantment she had woven was beginning to fade. Carathril’s thoughts raced to catch up with what she had said. What has happened to the Phoenix King?”

  She laughed, a sinister sound, and the gleam in her eye stirred fear in Carathril’s heart.

  “That fool Bel Shanaar is dead,” she said. “Malekith will be Phoenix King, and he will reward well those that support him.”

  Carathril stumbled back a few more paces, his mind reeling. In his confusion, he tripped over a coil of rope and sprawled to his back. Drutheira was over him in a moment, crouching close, her hand cupped to his face.

  “Poor Carathril,” she purred. “You cannot stop destiny, you must embrace it.”

  Once again her touch dazzled Carathril before a moment of clarity engulfed him, as if a distant voice spoke to him: “Bel Shanaar was dead and Malekith sought to become Phoenix King in his place. This cannot be allowed,” the voice said, “Malekith is not fit to rule.”

  With a snarl, Carathril pushed Drutheira backwards and regained his feet. He stumbled into a run, heading back down the pier.

  “Treachery!” he called. “Beware!”

  A few of Malekith’s retainers tried to grab him, but he barged them aside and slapped away their grasping hands as he sprinted down onto the dock.

  “To arms!” he shouted. “Infamy is afoot!”

  The Anlec knights drew their swords. Some turned towards Carathril, the rest advanced upon the shrine. Ahead of them the Phoenix Guards brought their halberds up to the ready.

  “Is that your intent?” asked Thyriol with a glance at the other princes. “If the council wishes it,” Malekith said with a shrug.

  “We cannot choose a new Phoenix King now,” said Elodhir. “Such a matter cannot be resolved quickly, and even if such a thing were possible, we are not our full number.”

  “Nagarythe will not wait,” said Malekith, slamming his fist onto the table. “The cults are too strong and come spring they will control the army of Anlec. My lands will be lost and they will march upon yours!”

  “You would have us choose you to lead us?” said Thyriol quietly.

  “Yes,” Malekith replied without hesitation or embarrassment. “There are none here who were willing to act until my return. I am the son of Aenarion, his chosen heir, and if the revelation of Bel Shanaar’s treachery is not enough to convince you of the foolishness of choosing from another line, then look to my other achievements. Bel Shanaar chose me to act as his ambassador to the dwarfs for I was a close friend with their High King. Our future lies not solely upon these shores, but in the wider world. I have been to the colonies across the oceans, and fought to build and protect them. Though they come from the bloodstock of Lothern or Tor Elyr or Tor Anroc, they are a new people, and it is to me they first look now, not to you. None here are as experienced in war as am I. Bel Shanaar was a ruler steeped in wisdom and peace, for all that he has failed us at the last, but peace and wisdom will not prevail against darkness and zealotry.”

  “What of Imrik?” suggested Finudel. “He is every bit the general and fought out in the new world also.”

  “Imrik?” said Malekith, his voice dripping with scorn. “Where is Imrik now, in this time of our greatest need? He skulks in Chrace with his cousin, hunting monsters! Would you have Ulthuan ruled by an elf who hides in the mountains like a petulant, spoilt child? When Imrik called for an army to be gathered against Nagarythe, did you pay him heed? No! Only when I raised the banner did you fall over each other in your enthusiasm.”

  “Be careful of what you say, your arrogance does you a disservice,” warned Haradrin.

  “I say these things not as barbs to your pride,” explained Malekith, unclenching his fists and sitting down. “I say them to show you what you already know; in your hearts you would gratefully follow where I lead.”

  “I still say that this council cannot make such an important decision on a whim,” said Elodhir. “My father lies dead, in circumstances yet to be fully explained, and you would have us hand over the Phoenix Crown to you?”

  “He has a point, Malekith,” said Haradrin.

  “A point?” screamed Malekith as he surged to his feet, knocking over the table and sending the cloak and crown upon it flying through the air. “A point? Your dithering will see you all cast out, your families enslaved and your people burning upon ten thousand pyres! It has been more than a thousand years since I bent my knee to this council’s first, wayward decision and saw Bel Shanaar take what Aenarion had promised to me. For a thousand years, I have been content to watch your families grow and prosper, and squabble amongst yourselves like children, while I and my kin bled on battlefields on the other side of the world. I trusted you all to remember the legacy of my father, and ignored the cries of anguish that rang in my blood; for it was in the interest of all that we were united. Now it is time to unite behind me! I do not lie to you, I shall be a harsh ruler at times, but I will reward those who serve me well, and when peace reigns again we shall all enjoy the spoils of our battles. Who here has more right to the throne than I do? Who here—”

  “Malekith
!” barked Mianderin, pointing towards the prince’s waist. In his tirade, Malekith’s waving arms had thrown his cloak back over his shoulder. “Why do you wear your sword in this holy place? It is forbidden in the most ancient laws of this temple. Remove it at once.”

  Malekith stood frozen in place, almost comic with his arms outstretched. He looked down at his belt and the sheathed sword that hung there. He gripped Avanuir’s hilt in one hand and pulled it free, then looked up at the princes, his eyes narrowed, his face illuminated by magical blue fire.

  “Enough words!” he spat.

  Carathril ducked beneath the sword of a Naggarothi knight and then rolled forwards, back onto his feet, before leaping aside to dodge another blade swung at his chest. He had no weapon of his own; why would he have come armed to such a council? It was a decision he was swiftly regretting.

  Another knight thrust his sword at Carathril’s throat and the captain swayed aside just in time and grabbed the knight’s arm. With a twist, he broke the Naggarothi’s elbow, the sword cascading from his enemy’s grip to embed itself point first in the marble tiles of the shrine’s surrounds.

  He swung the knight around into the path of another blade, which lanced between his captive’s shoulders and jutted from his chest just a hand’s span from Carathril’s face. Hurling the dead knight backwards, Carathril snatched up the fallen sword and parried another blow. Risking a look over his shoulder, Carathril saw that he was still more than a hundred paces from the shrine, and everywhere the Phoenix Guards fought against the knights. The only noise they made was the clash of their halberds upon sword and armour. With a grunt, Carathril shouldered aside another foe and made a break for the entrance.

  * * *

  “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 the hands and advanced with sinister purpose.

  Malekith was serene; all trace of his earlier anger had disappeared. He walked slowly forwards 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 fire.

  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 fire.

  “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.

  Carathril leaned against a column, catching his breath. He had seen several knights enter the shrine, but the fighting outside was almost done. White-robed corpses littered the plaza alongside black-armoured bodies. Pushing himself upright, his heart hammering, Carathril took a step towards the shrine.

  At that moment the ground lurched and flung Carathril from his feet.

  The earth beneath him shook violently and columns toppled around him as the Isle of Flame was gripped by an earthquake. The isle heaved violently, tossing Carathril to the left and right before sending him hurtling into a falling pillar. He narrowly rolled aside as more masonry showered down from the cloister, crashing upon the cracking marble tiles.

  Overhead dark clouds instantly gathered, swathing the island in gloom; lightning flickered upon their surface and a chill descended. Thunderous growling shook the earth underfoot as the herald forced himself back to his feet. Amongst the roaring and crashing, Carathril heard a terrifying shriek: a drawn-out wail of utter pain that pierced his soul.

  Within the shrine, prince, priest and knight alike were tossed around by the 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. Soon, all of Ulthuan would burn.

  GLOSSARY

  Aeltherin - Prince of Eataine who oversaw the construction of the first dragonships.

  Aenarion - The first Phoenix King, saviour of the elves.

  Aerenis - Lieutenant to Carathril of Lothern.

  Aernuis - Prince of Eataine, one of the first to sail across the Great Ocean.

  Alandrian - Lieutenant of Malekith.

  Alith - Grandson of Eoloran of House Anar.

  Anlec - Principal city of Nagarythe and location of Aenarion’s palace.

  Annulii Mountains - Chain of mountains separating the Inner and Outer Kingdoms of Ulthuan. Laced with magic, it is the home to many monstrous beasts.

  Astarielle - Everqueen and first wife of Aenarion.

  Asuryan - The Allfather, greatest of the elven gods.

  Athel Toralien - Colony in Elthin Arvan.

  Athielle - Princess of Ellyrion.

  Avanuir - Magical sword carried by Malekith.

  Avelorn - Oldest of the kingdoms of Ulthuan, ruled by the Everqueen. Its forests are home to many fey creatures.

  Bathinair - Prince of Yvresse.

  Bel Shanaar - The second Phoenix King, and ruler of Tiranoc.

  Blighted Isle - Lifeless island to the north of Ulthuan, site of the Shr
ine of Khaine and resting place of the Widowmaker.

  Caledor - Mountainous kingdom of Ulthuan, home to the dragons.

  Caledor Dragontamer - Mighty mage, founder of the kingdom of Caledor and creator of the great vortex.

  Carathril - Captain of the Lothern Guard.

  Charill - Prince of Chrace.

  Chrace - Wild kingdom in the north of Ulthuan, famed for its white lions.

  Circlet of Iron - Ancient artefact of immense power, discovered by Malekith in the frozen northlands.

  Cothique - Kingdom in the north of Ulthuan.

  Cytharai - The twilight pantheon, gods embodying the darker aspects of the elven psyche.

  Drutheira - Priestess of Atharti.

  Durinne - Prince of Galthyr.

  Ealith - Fortress in Nagarythe, south of Anlec.

  Eataine - Kingdom of Ulthuan. Its riches come from the great city-port of Lothern.

  Ellyrion - Kingdom of Ulthuan, famed for its horses.

  Elodhir - Prince of Tiranoc and son to Bel Shanaar.

  Elthin Arvan - Landmass across the Great Ocean, home to the dwarfs.

  Elthuir Tarai - Site of the battle where Aenarion first wielded the Widowmaker in battle.

  Elthyrior - One of the raven heralds of Nagarythe, agent of Malekith.

  Eoloran - Prince of House Anar, a powerful faction in Nagarythe.

  Everqueen - Title held by the chief priestess of Isha. Before Aenarion the Everqueen ruled all of Ulthuan.

  Finudel - Ruler of Ellyrion, brother of Athielle.

  Galthyr - Chief port of Nagarythe.

  Great vortex, the - Magical siphon located on the Isle of the Dead at the centre of the Inner Sea, where the winds of magic drain from the world.

  Grimnir - Dwarf Ancestor God who travelled north to close the gate of Chaos.

  Grungni - Dwarf Ancestor God, who taught his people mining and smithing.

  Haradrin - Prince of Eataine.

  Imrik - Prince of Caledor and grandson of Caledor Dragontamer. A famed warrior, noted for his lack of diplomacy.