by Gav Thorpe
‘Brother, don’t do this!’ the mage shouted through the blood rain.
Tyrion gave no sign of heeding the words. He flexed his fingers around the Widowmaker’s grip and swept the sword up. At once, the shadows about Malekith lengthened and the rain grew colder. Thunder cracked against the turbulent sky and dark laughter billowed in its wake. The ground shook; the skulls chattered and gibbered in sudden mirth and then fell eerily silent.
The shadow steed vanished, its magic undone by the Widowmaker’s presence, and Malekith felt the winds of magic grow thin about him.
‘I should be surprised to find you here,’ the regent said at last, turning to face his brother, ‘but little you do surprises me any longer.’ His blackened lips cracked into a cruel smile as he prodded Malekith with his toe. ‘Yet I find that I am pleased to see you. This… thing… is not yet slain, and I would like one witness to my triumph, even if it is a treacherous one.’
Thing? thought Malekith, but he had not the strength to utter a contemptuous riposte.
‘You cannot kill him,’ Teclis said urgently. ‘If you do, our people are doomed.’
Listen to your brother, Malekith willed, eyes drawn to the abysall blackness of Larhathrai. I am the saviour of our people. Pay attention!
‘Our people will never falter while I am alive to lead them,’ Tyrion laughed. ‘Or at least, to lead those who prove worthy. The coming war will winnow out all others.’
Malekith managed a grimace, recalling similar words coming from his lips for these past thousands of years. Tyrion had been so noble, so exemplary of the finest traits of elvenkind only days earlier, now as bloodthirsty and cold as Malekith after six thousand years of hate-filled war. He looked at the fire-ravaged features of the Dragon of Cothique and could not help but make comparison to himself, ragged and burned by another flame. It made the Witch King remember, painfully, that like Tyrion he had once been lauded by the greatest of elvenkind as the epitome of elven nobility.
‘Listen to yourself. These are not your words,’ warned Teclis, staring at his brother but not moving. Malekith had to wonder if they had ever really been his, or put into his thoughts by another. ‘This is our curse! This is the madness of Khaine!’ As he spoke, Teclis’s expression was desperate, betraying the doubt in his heart that his cautionary words would be heeded.
‘There is no madness. The Dark Gods are rising.’ Tyrion glanced at Malekith and the Witch King would have flinched except that fatigue and terror paralysed him in equal measure. There was unalloyed death in the prince’s eyes. ‘I see that now. Our folk are too soft to fight them as we are, but I will forge them into something better, something stronger.’
‘And who has told you that? Morathi?’ Teclis demanded, his voice raw with emotion. The words cut Malekith far more than Tyrion, who shrugged away his twin’s concern. It was too much for Malekith to believe that six thousand years had been spent fighting for the ambitions of his mother, his whole existence a mocking puppetry of life as Tyrion’s had now become. ‘She’s using you.’
‘Is she now?’ Tyrion asked amenably, but then his tone grew far darker. ‘Then how very different in your dealings you are.’ He raised the icefang high and Malekith’s dread increased, though he had thought it impossible to be more afraid a moment ago. Seven thousand years, a whole civilisation wasted because he had been too weak to beat this upstart princeling. Worse, because he had been too scared to draw the Godslayer himself, or to kill his mother when given every justification and opportunity. ‘It matters not. Today our ancient enemy dies, and a new sun rises.’
Larhathrai swept down.
Tyrion, dullard that he was, had been completely ignorant of the Hysh coalescing around Teclis. The power of light was heavy, but the archmage was well versed in tapping its deep roots, and to Malekith’s eyes was becoming a twining column of white energy.
As the icefang began its descent Teclis let free streamers of Hysh that became ribbons of pure light that snared around Tyrion’s arms, stopping the deathblow. Light magic twined about the prince’s quivering limbs, growing brighter and thicker as Teclis released more of his accumulated Hysh.
If only Malekith could have moved even a finger or murmured a word of conjuration. As it was, he stared dumbly at the two brothers, watching the dark power of Khaine spilling from His bloodied altar, staining the purity of the Hysh that struggled up through the chattering skulls and clattering bones.
The enchantment broke with a crack as the blessings of Khaine poured into Tyrion. The edge of icefang gleamed blood-red as Tyrion turned on his brother. Hurriedly, Teclis threw together a shield of pure magical energy, thrashing together power from the seven remaining winds. The golden circle hovered in front of the mage for only a heartbeat before Tyrion swept through it, the hand clasping Lacelothrai knocking Teclis to the ground with one blow.
From his position propped against the altar, Malekith could see several things that the two brothers could not, intent as they were upon each other. The eddy of shadowy Ulgu power shimmered close to one of the standing stones at the edge of the shrine, and concealed behind the cloak of shadow crouched Alith Anar. Malekith saw a glint of silvery light as the Shadow King lifted the fabled moonbow and fitted a shaft to the slender string.
A white spark was also bright against the clouds above the shrine, growing larger. Malekith watched the gleam resolve into the shape of a stooping bird – a white-and-blue feathered frostheart phoenix. The ancient magical bird, its flames turned to ice by longevity, was ridden by a figure in white and ithilmar, bearing a blazon of Asuryan upon his armour. The Witch King knew from the reports of his agents that this must be Caradryan, the captain of the Phoenix Guard, silent warden of the Shrine of Asuryan.
There seemed to be no shortage of foes ready to kill Malekith. The moment of terror, of soul-destroying failure, had passed, and the Witch King found himself in a calm mood. He was not yet reconciled to his ending, but such were the horrific consequences of his death, the infernal pacts he had made that would now be paid, the lengths he had gone to in order that he would survive as long as he had, he could not comprehend it all and instead his thoughts retreated to a banal place of utter normality. He idly wondered which of his closing enemies would finish him first, and hoped it was not Tyrion.
The frostheart phoenix swept low over the shrine and Caradryan slipped from its back, halberd in hand. He landed sure-footed amongst the detritus of bones, skidding to a stop between Teclis, Tyrion and Malekith. Past the Phoenix captain, Malekith spied Alith Anar moving position, his shot blocked by Caradryan’s arrival.
Tyrion laughed without mirth.
‘I am in no need of your aid, captain, though you might restrain my errant brother for me, if you wish to serve.’
Caradryan held his position. Malekith could not see his expression but apparently Tyrion read something there, a look of defiance perhaps. Little comfort to the Witch King that he had seemingly acquired another ally, as he watched the Shadow King emerge from the gloom on the other side of the standing stone, moonbow rising once more.
Tyrion’s eyes widened in sudden realisation.
‘All about me are traitors now?’ the regent demanded. ‘Stand aside!’
Caradryan shook his head. Then, with an effort, he uttered the first word to pass his lips in decades.
‘No.’
Tyrion laughed bitterly at Caradryan’s refusal. He half turned away, then spun back, the Widowmaker hissing out to take the captain’s head.
At that same moment, Alith Anar loosed his arrow, the shaft speeding true for Malekith’s heart.
Suddenly there was nothing.
TWENTY-FOUR
Painful Memories
The impudent mage had natural flair and unparalleled concentration, but Malekith had been a master of sorcery for more than five thousand years and had learned at the hand of Morathi, the greatest sorceress in history. It was inevitable that the Witch King’s spells would eventually break down the Sapherian’s counter-incantati
ons and shimmering protective barriers.
Malekith hardly paid any attention to the military situation. It mattered not that his champion, Urian Poisonblade, greatest blade-wielder of Naggaroth, had fallen to the sword of the asur’s own hero. The armies of the Naggarothi were too numerous, too strong for the defenders of Ulthuan, and like the duel between Malekith and the mage of the White Tower it was simply a matter of time.
The last resistance of the asur would be crushed and Malekith would finally claim the Phoenix Throne, and ever after would be lauded the day he triumphed on Finuval Plain.
The winds of magic churned, telling their own tale of curse and counter-spell, enchantment and hex. Malekith’s dark magic was a tornado of energy, whirling, destructive, a storm of all eight winds forced together into an unstoppable mass.
The Sapherian mage, the one whose wit and will had thwarted every advantage Malekith had gained on this long campaign, wielded a far subtler force. High magic was the careful distillation and blending of the opposing forces inherent in the winds of magic, like a smith smelting iron and charcoal for the perfect steel, or a chef perfecting a recipe with the smallest hint of spices and herbs.
As swordmasters crashed into the druchii spearwall and griffons tore at manticores overhead, Malekith hurled blast after blast of dark lightning at the emissary from Hoeth, trying to overcome his foe’s defences with base fury. The Sapherian redoubled his efforts, ascending into the sky upon a pillar of magic to draw in the whirling winds of power gathered high above the battlefield.
From a magic-blasted hilltop Malekith summoned forth a storm of titanic proportion, torturing the air with dark energy until it gave vent to crashes of thunder and streaked the sky with blue and purple lightning. The mage manipulated Ghyran and Azyr, turning the tempest into tatters of cloud broken by golden rays of the sun.
Malekith cared nothing for the delay. Every elf that fell beneath blade and arrow that day fed the deathly Wind of Shyish, and from this pool of lethal energy he drew the greatest strength. The druchii could afford to lose two warriors for every asur slain and the elves of Ulthuan knew it to be true.
A sudden void in the winds disturbed Malekith’s concentration. The Witch King was shocked by the rapid cessation of energy, an utter stillness in the winds of magic. Not since the likes of Caledor Dragontamer had he seen such a spell. A secret lost to history when Caledor had been swallowed by the vortex he had created.
The Sapherian soared over Malekith, clutching tight to his staff. It was as though the young, gaunt elf was listening to his magical rod, head tilted to one side in concentration. He then looked down at Malekith, and the image of the mage’s face was etched forever in the Witch King’s memories.
He saw nothing in the mage’s eyes, none of the passion and life that ruled the minds of the asur. Instead the Sapherian looked down at Malekith with all the feeling of a shark, his gaze a predatory blank stare that the Witch King had only seen before from one individual – the eyes of his father before he had set out to return the Sword of Khaine, knowing he would not return. It was the look of a person that knew the world was about to end.
The winds of magic suddenly erupted into life once more, catching Malekith totally unawares, so entranced had he been by the mage’s appearance. Only the first syllables of a counter-spell had left his ragged lips when the wave of high magic engulfed him.
At first it felt cool, like a waterfall in reverse, numbing him from foot to head, but then the heat followed. It grew from his heart, and with it brought back the memories of Asuryan’s temple and the curse of the All-king.
Agony flared, as powerful now as it had been the first moment Malekith had set foot into the sacred fires. Renewed, invigorated, the fires burned, the dulling of six thousand years wiped away.
There was triumph, cruel victory, in the eyes of the mage as he glowered down at Malekith.
The pain was too much, the damage ravaging his body too brutal and all-consuming to bear. There was no spell or balm or talisman that could save him. In half a dozen heartbeats he would be dead, consumed as if he had stayed in the flame of Asuryan. There was only one way to escape and a moment to open the portal.
With a wordless shriek, Malekith ripped open the veil between worlds and hurled himself into the beyond, abandoning his mortal shell for survival in the Realm of Chaos.
Malekith awoke alone. The touch of Ghyran lay heavily upon his body, the Wind of Life mixed weightily, ironically, with the Wind of Metal, Chamon. He raised a hand but pain lanced into him, from his chest and gut, his shoulder and arm. The memory of what had happened at the end of his confrontation with Tyrion blurred with the disaster at Finuval Plain, but it seemed a wonder he was in one piece.
He opened iron-lidded eyes and saw the dulled gaze of Teclis looking down at him. The glow of the mage’s desperate teleportation faded around them. There was white stone, walls and ceiling, and he assumed the hard floor beneath was the same. Something dark and bulky blocked out the light to the left – the barely-living Seraphon. Malekith glimpsed another figure on the edge of vision and recognised Caradryan.
‘Rest,’ said the mage, while Caradryan looked around, as amazed as Malekith to be alive.
Malekith could not argue. His wounds were many, the assassin’s poison like acid in his body. Unconsciousness was welcome.
‘Welcome back.’ The voice was sudden, jerking Malekith’s head around. In the corner sat a silver-armoured figure, his halberd held across his knees, helm laid on the white marble floor. Caradryan had spoken softly, but even his whisper seemed incredibly loud in this place, echoing from the beautifully crafted stone. ‘Teclis’s ministrations have had some effect, I see.’
‘I thought your order was sworn to silence?’
‘For their term of service,’ said Caradryan, nodding. ‘But my life was meant to have ended at the Blighted Isle.’
‘It is written on the walls, is it not? The future of everything?’
‘Not everything,’ Caradryan confessed, ‘but much that happens now has come before. You are one of the few people that witnessed the start as well as the end.’
‘I am not sure how I am alive. Tyrion…?’
‘Lives, unfortunately. Teclis tried his best to steer events along the path foretold by Lileath, but he was only partially successful.’
‘Goddesses of fate can be terribly tricksome, I am told,’ growled Malekith. ‘I thought I was dead three-ways over.’
‘Our companion’s spell deflected Anar’s arrow a fraction’, Caradryan explained, standing up. ‘It struck Tyrion in the chest, knocking him away from the altar though it did not pierce his armour. His blow fell wide of you, and in the next moment Teclis called upon Lileath to spare us and we were transported here.’
Light footsteps drew their attention to the archway, where Teclis appeared a moment later looking worried.
‘You need to rest,’ Caradryan said, pointing at the blood that oozed from Malekith’s wounds, coating cracked armour plates. The Phoenix Guard captain left with the mage and Malekith fell back into a pain-wracked sleep.
In time Malekith, aided in part by the attention of Teclis, recovered sufficient strength to leave the shrine of Lileath where they had arrived. The mage had disappeared a few days earlier, and sent a ship to bear the Witch King and Caradryan to the Island of Flame, home to the Shrine of Asuryan. Seeing the huge temple brought back one of Malekith’s oldest and bitterest memories.
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 ther
e, 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 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.’