by Gav Thorpe
‘Then let us be at it,’ said Malekith and he stepped into the sacred fire of Asuryan.
TWENTY-FIVE
The Flame of Asuryan
He was burning, the scream wrenched from his throat fuelled by raw agony and despair. It was every moment of six thousand years relived, the pain of six thousand years welled up into one single instant coursing through his body.
The urge to flee, to throw himself clear, to escape again to the Realm of Chaos, was almost overwhelming. What did it matter if his people were destroyed – he would survive, he was the greatest of them, they existed to be sacrificed for his continued life.
But he denied the urge, listening instead to the beat of his heart rather than the fear of his mind. He remembered that he was Aenarion’s son and held firm to the resolution that he would be reborn if he could but endure for a few heartbeats longer. Teclis had promised him as much, and if the mage sought to play him false it was better now to end his life knowing the truth than continue for another pain-wracked age beset by the doubt that he had been offered that which he desired the most and refused it.
It was not the physical pain that caused such torture. The mortal pain was only a memory of the spiritual pain. He had known in that moment he had stepped into the flames the first time that he was not worthy. The blood on his hands, metaphorical and literal, had been his guilt and he had carried it with him.
There had been no judgement laid upon him by Asuryan. The only punishment he suffered was self-inflicted.
In acknowledging that, he accepted his fate, remembering that his father had been willing to die for the protection of Ulthuan. To rule as Phoenix King one had to be raised up from the ashes of death. There was no other way.
As the fires consumed him, Malekith laughed.
The flames burned through him, touching every part of his body and spirit. There was no pain, no sensation at all. Malekith felt like a ghost, apart from the mortal world. He swore that a thousand voices were now chanting.
Malekith could see nothing but multicoloured fire. He was made of it. He lifted a hand in front of his face and saw nothing save the dancing flames.
Malekith wondered if he was dead.
His body felt as though it had wings, lifting him up, borne aloft by the flames like the phoenixes of the flamespyre. He closed his eyes but nothing changed; still the flames filled his vision. A gentle breeze washed over him, its touch smoothing away metal skin and charred flesh and broken bone, reducing him to delicate ash, all without the slightest hint of discomfort.
Sensation returned, the fire coalescing again into his form, creating body and limbs and head and fingers and every part of him from its essence. Opening his eyes, he turned and stepped out of the flames.
‘I am ready.’
The priest nodded and signalled to his attendants. Each of them carried a piece of blackened metal, curved and rune-encrusted. Some were recognisable: breastplate, vambraces, gorget, gauntlets. Others seemed utterly alien, strangely shaped, trailing sheets of black mail or fixed with awkwardly angled hinges.
The first piece was put into the furnace. The slaves were whipped to increase their labours at the bellows. Muttering prayers to Vaul, Hotek fanned the flames with magic, until they burned white-hot. Reaching his bare hand into the fires, he retrieved the piece of armour. Impervious to the heat, he carried it to Malekith, who watched the proceedings with the remains of his brow knotted in concentration.
‘This will burn,’ said Hotek.
Malekith’s reply was a shrill laugh, tinged with madness.
‘I can burn no more,’ whispered the prince. ‘Do it!’
An acolyte brought forward a smoking rivet in a pair of tongs. Hotek and his assistant crouched, the priest placing the hot piece of metal against Malekith’s flesh with a hiss of vapour. Malekith giggled.
‘Now,’ said Hotek.
The acolyte pushed the rivet into place. With a few whispered words of enchantment, Hotek struck lightly with the Hammer of Vaul, tapping the hot rivet through its prepared hole and into the bone of Malekith.
The prince snarled with pain, and swayed for a moment. He wished he could close his eyes. Instead he set his mind aside, going to the place he had created for himself in the cold depths of his thoughts.
With a start, Malekith was dragged back to reality. Two bodies lay at his feet. His body burned with fresh fire, but it was no more than he had grown used to. Acolytes moved around him, painting blood from the sacrifices into the runes carved upon the pieces of armour put in place, following each curl and line with brushes made of elven hair.
His lower legs and feet were clad in the smoking black iron. He did not remember lifting his feet, but realised he must have done so. He could feel the rivets hammered into heel and toe and laughed at the thought of being shod like a warhorse.
There was chanting. His mother looked on silently, but her adepts’ words swished around the chamber, verses overlapping, creating an arrhythmic harmony of magic. More rivets were driven into the scrawny flesh of his thighs, and links were riveted into place through the sides of his knees.
When next he perceived clearly what was happening, he was clad from foot to neck in the armour. Every part of him trembled. He could feel the energy of the spirit he had consumed slipping away.
‘Too soon,’ he muttered. ‘I am falling.’
Morathi hurriedly beckoned to an adept, who sacrificed another captive and brought the blood to Malekith in a cup of ancient silver. Malekith took the cup and then stopped. He realised he had not held a thing for more than a decade. He examined the fingers of his new hand, each perfectly articulated. He recognised the dwarf-work that inspired the design and smiled to himself. Even now, his great adventures of the past were still bearing fruit.
The fires flared anew and Malekith was brought back to the present. A film of red covered his vision. His own blood, he realised.
He blinked.
The simple motion caused him immeasurable joy. The thinnest slivers of black metal had been fashioned into eyelids. Malekith blinked again, and then closed his eyes. He enjoyed the darkness and more time passed.
‘It is done,’ announced Hotek.
Malekith flexed his arms and bent his legs, trying out his new body. It felt like his own flesh, though the burning had not lessened. Half a dozen dead elves lay sprawled at his feet, throats slit, their blood anointed upon his forged form. He could feel their spirits sliding around him, trapped within the runes of the armour.
‘Not finished,’ he said. ‘My crown.’
Hotek looked confused and turned to Morathi for explanation. She summoned an acolyte who brought forth a velvet cushion on which was placed a circlet of dull grey metal, spikes jutting at strange angles like a crown conceived by a lunatic.
Morathi reached a hand towards it, but Malekith grabbed her wrist. She howled in pain and tore free from his grip, backing away. There were burns on her flesh.
‘You cannot touch it,’ said Malekith. ‘It is not yours, it is mine.’
He took up the Circlet of Iron. It felt icy cold to his touch. While Morathi fussed over her burned wrist, Malekith raised the strange crown to his head and placed it on his brow.
‘Weld it,’ said the prince. ‘Make it a piece of the helm.’
Hotek did as he was bid, striking more rivets into Malekith’s skull before securing the circlet in place with molten metal. Malekith reached up and tugged at the circlet, assuring himself that it could not be removed.
Satisfied, he closed his eyes again. He let his thoughts free from his body, tasting the dark magic seething around the dungeon chamber. He felt the inrushing of power and rode the wave of energy, spearing up through the roof of the chamber, passing through the many floors of his father’s palace like a meteor called back to the stars. Anlec dwindled below him and he shifted from the plane of mortals into a realm of pure magic.
As at the first time he had worn the circlet, he looked at the Realm of Chaos, the domain of the Chaos Go
ds. On this occasion he had no fear. He materialised in his armoured form, burning white-hot, his presence blazing across the dominions of the Chaos Gods as a challenge.
Sentiences not of any mortal recognition stirred. Malekith felt their attention slowly drawn towards him.
‘I am Malekith!’ he declared. A flaming sword appeared in his hand. ‘Son of Aenarion, the daemons’ bane. Hear my name and know me, the rightful king of the elves!’
As a comet of power, he plunged back to his body. The runes of his armour exploded with dark flames as he re-entered his artificial form. He opened his metal eyelids, revealing orbs of black fire.
He looked down at the elves around him. They seemed small and insignificant. His voice echoed strangely from the mask of his helm, filling the room.
‘I have returned,’ he declared. ‘Pay homage to me.’
All present fell to their knees, instantly obedient to his words; save one, who fixed him with an expression of utter happiness.
‘Hail Malekith!’ cried Morathi, golden tears streaming down her face. ‘Hail the Witch King of Ulthuan!’
The flame guttered and died behind Malekith, leaving the inner sanctum in darkness.
The ground trembled, and not from the bombardment, but from a movement deep below. With a loud snap, a crack appeared in the pyramidal roof, a shaft of light breaking through to illuminate the newly-blessed Phoenix King.
‘Hail the Phoenix King,’ Caradryan said, tone uncertain, lifting his halberd in salute. Malekith stopped, shocked by the similarity to Kouran, as though he were the light from which came the shadow that was the captain of the Black Guard.
Malekith noticed Caradryan’s confused look and gazed down at himself, expecting to see pale skin, living muscle. Instead there was the same fractured and pitted metal, though the blood had stopped leaking from his wounds.
‘You said I would be reborn!’ bellowed Malekith rounding on Teclis. The mage back-stepped as the Phoenix King stalked towards him, one finger pointed in accusation. ‘Look at me. Look at me!’
‘In spirit,’ the mage replied, stopping when he was beside Caradryan. ‘Spiritually reborn.’
‘This is a mockery,’ growled Malekith, fighting the urge to fall to his knees and weep. He swayed, a hand across his face. ‘Six thousand years encased in this prison…’
The temple bucked again, a sound like thunder reverberating from below. A chunk of masonry larger than Malekith fell from the roof to crash on the tiles close to the flame, shattering into white splinters. Another piece fell a moment later, just a few paces from the Phoenix King. The steps split, letting immense blocks of marble fall to the sanctum floor. Shards like immense icicles fell from the roof around the elves.
The sunlight flickered as the silhouettes of dragons passed over, their roars mingled with the shouts of clashing warriors and the crackle of flames.
‘We should hurry,’ said Teclis, another tremor causing him to flinch and stumble as he turned towards the doorway. ‘Even if we escape the shrine, Aislinn’s forces are all over the island by now.’
‘Not that way,’ said Caradryan, pointing across the inner shrine. ‘There is another exit, known only to the Phoenix Guard.’
The former captain started across the sanctum at a run, Teclis on his heel. Malekith followed with a leisurely stride, ignoring the pieces of stone falling around him.
‘Why do you tarry?’ demanded Teclis, stopping to look back. ‘The temple is about to collapse!’
‘I do not think Asuryan invested me with his last power only to have me squashed by wayward masonry,’ Malekith replied with a laugh. It was quite overwhelming, the mixture of elation and disappointment. He held out a hand and let his essence flow. The fire inside him burned white and he laughed again, delighted by this revelation. ‘I have become the sacred flame.’
‘I would prefer it that the flame was not extinguished quite so soon,’ Teclis said, tapping his staff on the floor in impatient agitation.
‘Do you not think I look magnificent?’ Malekith said, stopping also, confounding the desires of the mage for a little more amusement. It was pleasing to see the Sapherian so uncertain for a change, after so much time dancing to the tune he called. A thought occurred to Malekith. ‘You have not yet properly welcomed me back to the land of the living, nephew.’
‘What?’ Teclis shook his head and moved to continue his retreat.
‘Teclis!’ The Phoenix King’s shout rebounded from the breaking walls, echoing in a strange way, its metallic intonation changing as it faded. The archmage stopped in his tracks, unable to ignore the call. Malekith pointed to the floor at his feet. ‘Pay proper homage, nephew.’
‘Now?’
‘Now.’
Muttering, Teclis returned to Malekith, casting frightened glances about him as more masonry continued to crash down from above. The sound of shouts was close at hand, dulled only by the doors of the inner sanctum. Metal crashed against metal just outside.
‘Hail the Phoenix King,’ the mage said hurriedly, bowing his head.
‘I am unconvinced by your display. Try harder, with more sincerity.’
Teclis glared at Malekith and the Phoenix King looked back, burning white eyes in the slit of his helm. Nodding, suddenly humbled, the mage dropped to one knee, his staff proffered before him.
‘Praise Malekith, heir to Aenarion, rightful Phoenix King of Ulthuan.’ Teclis looked up again, earnestness written across his features. ‘Saviour of elvenkind. The Defender.’
The title cut through Malekith’s cloud of self-satisfaction. He had been so obsessed with taking up his birthright it had never occurred to him what he would do as king. Now that his ascension had been achieved, he was unsure what to do next, but Teclis’s tone made it clear what was expected.
‘It is one thing to become Asuryan’s incarnation, it is another to rule,’ said the Phoenix King, gesturing for Teclis to stand. The thud of blades on the doors to the inner sanctum lent fresh urgency to Malekith’s thoughts. ‘Better that our foes do not learn yet of what has happened here. Caradryan, lead on!’
They followed the leader of the Phoenix Guard between two columns at the back of the shrine. Pausing at the wall, he ran his hand over the stone, his fingers tracing an intricate pattern while he whispered an incantation. He stepped back when he was done and the wall shimmered into a golden field, revealing a corridor beyond.
They stepped through and Caradryan restored the wall so that none would be able to follow. At the end of the passageway was a winding stair, which led further down into the island. Another corridor brought them out onto a broad loggia looking south across the Sea of Dreams. There were a handful of ships in view, but they were sailing west to the landing grounds.
Arranged along the balcony were a number of skycutters, their empty traces lying on the bare rock. Caradryan let out a shrill whistle and waited. It was not long before the flap of immense wings preceded the arrival of a mighty frostheart phoenix, the same one that had borne Caradryan into battle over the Blighted Isle.
‘Ashtari,’ said Caradryan, smoothing the feathers of the great bird’s neck as it perched on the edge of the loggia. ‘We have need to be far away and soon, and must not be seen.’
The phoenix stalked across to the nearest skycutter, claws leaving ice-rimed scratches in the floor. With Teclis’s aid, Caradryan harnessed up the bird and all three elves stepped into the skycutter’s platform. Caradryan spoke a word and the magic of the skycutter billowed into life, surrounding Malekith with a warm aura of Azyr.
‘Go,’ he commanded and Ashtari obeyed, leaping out over the waters, the skycutter lurching into motion behind.
They sped over the sea, the phoenix’s wings almost touching the waves. A loud crack caused the elves to turn, in time to see the pyramid of Asuryan explode into brilliant white light. The temple collapsed in on itself, but the destruction did not end there. Cliffs fell into the sea and great fissures split the isle, letting the waters of the Sea of Dreams race in, washing a
way thousands of soldiers loyal to both sides.
Imrik’s dragons whirled away as fire and water plumed into the sky. The ships of Aislinn’s fleet put up their sails and turned away as the Island of the Flame sank. Some were too slow, the closest sucked into the maelstrom created by the island’s demise, hulls shattered and masts split by the titanic whirl of water.
The wave created by this disaster raced after the fleeing Phoenix King, as high as a tower, a wall of dark destruction. Ashtari climbed higher, leaving a trail of ice in the spume of the tidal wave as it passed beneath them.
‘Where shall we find sanctuary now?’ Caradryan asked, sadness making his voice crack.
‘Caledor,’ said Malekith, pointing at the dragons streaming south-west. ‘We shall wage the war from the land of the Dragontamer.’
TWENTY-SIX
The Longest Road
Over the past six thousand years Malekith had spent the equivalent of many lifetimes of lesser creatures dreaming of his moment of glory. When he had been young, his visions had been filled with adoring crowds and showered adulation. After the Sundering his thoughts had become bleaker, his coronation parade taking place along a road made from the skulls of his enemies, banners made from their skins flapping along the route. In recent times he had been content to have every prince of Ulthuan, hundreds of them, prostrate themselves before him, each in turn begging for forgiveness, giving thanks that their rightful king had finally been recognised.
It was something of a disappointment that his arrival in Caledor had more in common with the coming of a thief than the arrival of a triumphant king. What was perhaps surprising was that this clandestine approach was at his behest. They had escaped the Island of Flame unseen and it seemed to the Phoenix King the most sensible course of action to conceal not only his continued survival but his elevation to Asuryan’s avatar. There would be a time to reveal his ascension, for maximum effect on morale and to dismay his foes, but it was not yet, not least because he wanted Imrik and Teclis to pave the way for the announcement, gauging the probable reactions of the other princes.