by Gav Thorpe
‘It matters not if the horsemasters of Ellyrion stand ready to ride forth,’ said Prince Bathinair of Yvresse. ‘Who are they to ride forth against, my dear Finudel? You can hardly lead a cavalry charge through every village and town in Ulthuan.’
‘Perhaps you seek to upset the harmony between the realms for your own ends,’ added Caladryan, another of Yvresse’s nobility. ‘It is not secret that of late the fortunes of Ellyrion have waned. War suits those with little to lose, and it costs those who have the means. Our endeavours across the oceans bring us wealth and goods from the colonies; perhaps Ellyrion is jealous of that.’
Finudel opened his mouth to speak, his anger etched in creases across his brow, but Athielle quickly laid a hand on her brother’s arm to still him.
‘It is true that we have perhaps not prospered as much as some,’ the Ellyrian princess said quietly. ‘In part that is because we of the Inner Kingdoms must pay the taxes of Lothern to pass our fleets into the Great Ocean. If not for those taxes, I suspect that the Outer Kingdoms would perhaps have less of a monopoly of trade.’
‘We cannot be held to account for the quirks of geography,’ sneered Prince Langarel, one of Haradrin’s kin from Lothern. ‘The sea gates must be maintained, and our war fleet stands ever ready for the benefit of all. It is fitting, then, that all should contribute to the cost of maintaining these defences.’
‘And against whom do you defend us?’ growled Finudel. ‘Men? Hut-dwelling savages who can barely cross a river, and an ocean divides us from them. The dwarfs? They are content to dig in the mountains and sit in their caves. The slaves of the Old Ones? Their cities lie in ruins, their civilisation swallowed by the hot jungles. Your fleet is not required, a token of the hubris of Lothern kept gilded by the labours of the other realms.’
‘Must every old slight and rankle be dredged up before me every day?’ demanded Bel Shanaar, his calm voice cutting sharply through the raised voices of the princes. ‘There is nothing to be gained from this bickering, and everything to be lost. While we argue over the spoils of our growing colonies, our cities here at hand are being devoured by decadence and forbidden pursuits. Would you have us abandon our roots and settle in the newly grown branches of our realm? The world has riches enough for us all, if we could set aside these incessant arguments.’
‘The power of the cults grows, that much is clear,’ said Thyriol, from where he sat upon one of the ring of innermost benches surrounding the hall. All turned to the mage in expectation.
‘The vortex holds the winds of magic in check for the moment, but dark magic is gathering in the mountains. Strange creatures have been seen in the highest peaks, unnatural things spawned from the power of Chaos. Not all things of darkness were purged by the blade of Aenarion and the vortex of Caledor. Hybrid monsters of flesh, mutant and depraved, dwell still in the wilderness. The dark magic feeds them, emboldens them, makes them stronger and cannier. Even now, the passes become ever more dangerous to travel. In the winter when the hunters and soldiers cannot keep these growing numbers of beasts at bay, what then? Will we have manticores and hydras descend into the lowlands to attack farms and destroy villages? If we allow the cults to grow unchecked, perhaps even the vortex itself will fail and once more plunge the world into an age of darkness and daemons. Is there one here with the will to prevent that?’
The assembled princes stood in silence, eyeing each other, avoiding the gaze of the Phoenix King. Imrik felt the weight of expectation upon his shoulders. He had known this moment would come and done everything he could to avoid it.
He closed his eyes, picturing his son at play, hardening himself to another duty thrust upon him. He opened his mouth to answer.
‘There is one perhaps that has the will,’ a voice called out, echoing along the audience chamber from the doorway. Its timbre was firm and deep, filled with authority.
A ripple of gasps and whispers spread through the court as Imrik opened his eyes to see a newcomer striding purposefully across the lacquered floor, the fall of his boots sounding like the thunder of war drums. He was dressed in a long skirt of golden mail and his chest was covered with a gold breastplate etched with the design of a dragon, coiled and ready to attack. He wore a cloak of shadow black across his shoulders, held with a clasp adorned with a black gem set into a golden rose. Under one arm he carried a tall war helm, fixed with a strange circlet of dark grey metal that had jutting, thorn-like spines. A complex headband of golden threads swept back raven hair that fell about his shoulders in twisted plaits tied with rings of rune-etched bone. His eyes were piercing, dark, as he stared at the nervous princes and courtiers. He radiated power, his energy and vigour surrounding him as surely as light glows from a lantern.
The princes parted before the newcomer like waves before a ship’s prow, treading and stumbling upon robes and cloaks in their eagerness to back away. A few bowed stiffly or nodded heads in unthinking deference as he swept past to stand in front of the Phoenix King, his left hand, gloved in supple black leather, resting on the silver pommel of a sword hanging in an ebon scabbard at his waist.
Imrik felt relief and anger war within him at the sight of the newly arrived prince; relief that another was willing to take up the mantle of leadership, anger that he had not done so before.
‘Prince Malekith,’ said Bel Shanaar evenly, stroking his bottom lip with a slender finger. ‘Had I known of your coming I would have arranged suitable welcome.’
‘Such ceremony is unnecessary, your majesty,’ replied Malekith, his tone of voice warm, his manner as smooth as velvet. ‘I thought it prudent to arrive unannounced, lest our enemies be warned of my return.’
‘Our enemies?’ said Bel Shanaar, turning a hawkish look upon the prince.
‘Even across the oceans, as I fought against vile beasts and brutal orcs, I heard of the woes that beset our home,’ Malekith explained. He paused and turned to face the princes and their counsellors. ‘Alongside the dwarfs, beside their kings, I and my companions fought to keep our new lands safe. Friends I had that gave their lives protecting the colonies, and I would not have their deaths be in vain; that our cities and our island here would fall to ruin even as we raise sparkling towers and mighty fortresses across the length and breadth of the world.’
‘And so you have returned to us in our hour of need, Malekith?’ said Imrik, stepping in front of Malekith with his arms crossed. The Naggarothi prince’s overly dramatic entrance summed up everything Imrik believed about Aenarion’s son.
‘You must also have heard that which vexes us most,’ said Thyriol softly, standing up and pacing towards the prince of Nagarythe, stepping between Malekith and Imrik. ‘We would wish to prosecute our war against these insidious evils across all of Ulthuan. All of Ulthuan.’
‘That is why I have returned,’ replied Malekith, meeting the mage’s keen gaze with his own piercing stare. ‘Nagarythe is gripped by this torment no less than other lands; more I have heard on occasion. We are one island, one realm under the rule of the Phoenix King, and Nagarythe will not be party to insurrection, nor shall we tolerate black magics and forbidden rituals.’
‘You are our greatest general, our most sound strategist, Prince Malekith,’ said Finudel, his voice hesitant with hope. Imrik bit back a retort at this sudden change of allegiance. ‘If it pleases all present, would you take up the banner of the Phoenix King and lead the fight against these miserable wretches?’
‘In you runs the noblest blood of all princes,’ gushed Bathinair, his tone sickly in the extreme. Imrik shook his head in disgust, unseen by the others, for all eyes were on Malekith. ‘As you fought the darkness alongside your father, you could again bring the light back to Ulthuan!’
‘Eataine would stand by you,’ promised Haradrin with a clenched fist held to his chest.
Imrik stepped away, distancing himself from the others as a chorus of pleading and thanks bubbled up from the assembled nobles. They fell silent the moment Malekith raised a hand to still them. The Naggarothi pri
nce turned his head and looked at Bel Shanaar, saying nothing. The Phoenix King sat in thought, his lips pursed, steepling his slender fingers beneath his chin. Bel Shanaar then looked at Imrik’s stern expression, an eyebrow raised in question upon the Phoenix King’s face.
‘If it is the will of the Phoenix King and this court, then Caledor will not oppose Malekith,’ Imrik said slowly, before turning away and stalking from the room.
It was with a bitter heart that Imrik arrived in Tor Caled with news of Malekith’s return. So fortunate was the timing, he suspected the Naggarothi prince to be involved in the rise of the cults. For Imrik, events now seemed too neat to be coincidence. The affair had the stench of artifice about it; created and managed for the further aggrandisement of Malekith.
He said as much to Caledrian, though his brother confessed some measure of relief that Malekith would restore order to Nagarythe. The ruler of Caledor called together the most powerful nobles of the kingdom to discuss his response to the development.
‘We have no need to get involved,’ Imrik told the council. ‘Malekith has taken the duty upon himself. Let him stamp his rule again upon his rebellious people.’
‘There is a course of reason that suggests we should not let Malekith operate without counter,’ said Thyrinor. ‘With the mandate of Bel Shanaar and the blessings of the other kingdoms, he might turn such power to mischief. If Caledor had representation in the army, a force to match Malekith’s veterans, balance will be maintained.’
‘A wise course, but one that will founder,’ said Caledrian.
‘How so?’ replied Thyrinor.
‘Who here will fight for Malekith?’ Caledrian addressed the assembled princes and nobles.
‘I will not,’ said Imrik; a sentiment echoed by the others.
‘I will raise no blade beneath a Naggarothi banner,’ said Dorien. ‘It is an insult to the memory of the
Dragontamer to fight with the outcasts of the north.’
Caledrian smiled grimly at Thyrinor, his point made.
‘Will you, cousin?’ said the ruling prince. Thyrinor glanced at the rest of the council and shook his head. ‘Then the matter is settled. No house of Caledor will join Bel Shanaar’s army, and the dragons will not fly the skies of Ulthuan.’
‘A choice that is yours alone to make,’ said Hotek, who had remained silent since the discussion had begun. ‘Yet Caledor should show some support to the venture, lest our kingdom be accused of forgetting our duties to the Phoenix King.’
‘You have a suggestion, Hotek?’ said Caledrian.
‘Make a gift of weapons to the cause,’ said the priest of Vaul. ‘As your grandfather did for Aenarion, let the artifice of Vaul’s Anvil be your offering to Bel Shanaar.’
Caledrian looked to the others and received nods of assent.
‘It shall be as you say,’ he said. ‘What must I do?’
‘You need do nothing,’ replied Hotek. ‘I shall see to the forging and delivery on your behalf. It would be fitting if you would travel to the shrine with me to make offering to the priests.’
‘Of course,’ said Caledrian. ‘Whatever you desire shall be yours.’
‘For Vaul,’ Hotek said pointedly.
‘Yes, for Vaul,’ Caledrian swiftly corrected himself.
Though the times that followed were anxious, the path chosen by the princes of Caledor seemed to be wisest. At first troubling news reached them from the north. Malekith’s first attempt to restore his rule in Nagarythe ended in failure. This Caledrian and Imrik and the other princes heard from Carathril the herald, who had ridden alongside Malekith on the ill-fated venture.
Though this setback caused some consternation in Caledor, the noble and the wise of that kingdom again decided not to intercede in the war. The first weapons from Vaul’s Anvil were finished, six rune-enchanted swords, and were delivered with due ceremony to Bel Shanaar. The gift was accepted graciously, though the Phoenix King was saddened that the dragon princes would not lend their might to the battle.
Though Malekith’s first foray into Nagarythe had nearly ended in disaster, much had been learnt of the enemy. Morathi was indeed the chief architect of the cults, and had usurped her son to take control of Nagarythe. Strengthened by the confirmation of this belief, the other princes doubled their efforts to rouse the cults from their cities and towns, declaring them outlaw. They sent more troops to Malekith as he prepared for a fresh offensive in the spring.
During the bleak winter days, Imrik was able to forget the troubles of the north and spend much time with Tythanir. Unlike his brothers and the other princes, he cared nothing for news of Malekith’s affairs, believing his part in the unfolding war to have been settled.
One day he took his son into the mountains, onto the peaks above Tor Caled. He showed him the view of the city and told tales of the city’s founding by Tythanir’s great-grandfather.
‘Our blood is in these rocks,’ said Imrik, stamping a foot on the frosted ground. ‘Beneath it is the fire of the mountains and the caves of the dragons. From the mines in these peaks was brought forth the first ithilmar. Caledor Dragontamer took this wondrous metal to the smiths of Vaul and bade them to forge a blade and a shield and armour for Aenarion.’
‘And the other weapons too?’ said the boy.
‘Later, yes,’ said Imrik. ‘The first were for Aenarion, who had passed through the flame of Asuryan and been reborn. Next, Caledor gave instruction for the making of his staff, wrought of gold and silver and iron. For his son Menieth, my father, a sword was forged upon the smith god’s anvil.’
Imrik drew his sword from its sheath. The blade glittered with inlaid ithilmar, wrought into runes of sharpness and death. In Imrik’s hand it weighed no more than a feather, and so keen was its edge, the lightly falling snow could not settle upon it.
‘This is the wrathbringer, Lathrain,’ said Imrik. He crouched and took Tythanir’s hand and wrapped it about the worn hilt, so that the two of them held the sword together. ‘To your uncle, Caledrian, your grandfather gave the kingdom. To your other uncle, Dorien, he gifted the standard of Caledor. To me he gave this blade. He died with this weapon in his hands. To wield it is the greatest honour in Caledor, but to bear it is to carry the honour of the kingdom also.’
‘How many daemons did grandfather slay?’ asked Tythanir, eyes wide with excitement.
‘Countless,’ replied Imrik.
‘What about orcs, and beastmen?’
‘Beyond number,’ said Imrik.
The child looked at the sword with amazement. He reached a finger towards the blade but Imrik stopped him.
‘The edge need never be sharpened,’ said the prince. ‘Watch.’
Imrik took the sword in his fist and stood up. He pointed to an outcrop of rock, dusted with snow. With an effortless swing, Lathrain sheared off the top, sending it tumbling down the slope. Tythanir laughed at the demonstration.
‘Cut something else!’ the boy cried out.
‘No,’ replied Imrik, sheathing the blade. ‘It is not a toy.’
Tythanir’s lip trembled and his eyes filled with tears.
‘I want to see you cut something else,’ he said, his voice breaking with sadness.
‘One day it will be yours, and you will understand why it is no plaything,’ Imrik said, pulling the boy close to embrace him.
‘But...’ the child started, but Imrik’s unflinching stare ended the protestation as it began.
‘It is not right to argue,’ said Imrik. ‘Your mother is too indulgent.’
The boy scuffed his feet and pouted as they walked hand in hand back down the path. It pulled at Imrik’s heart to see his son so crestfallen, but he could think of nothing that would ease Tythanir’s childish disappointment.
It reminded Imrik of the long days of his own youth, when his father had been away. He had studied diligently, eager to show his father how much he had learnt when Menieth infrequently returned. Great was his father’s praise on those occasions, but always paired with
a reminder to Imrik of his duties as a prince of Caledor. Imrik remembered how his father would tell him that though Caledrian was the heir, Imrik was the strongest of the three brothers. When Caledrian ruled, Imrik would have to be the protector of the family.
Such thoughts brought Imrik to his happiest memory and he smiled at the recollection. He tugged at Tythanir’s hand to get the boy’s attention. Tythanir looked up with a scowl, so deep it could have been Imrik’s own, and the prince could not help but laugh. This only served to annoy Tythanir further, but as he pulled to get away, Imrik gently dragged him back.
‘Would you like to see the dragons?’ he asked, and received a wordless shout of excitement in reply, all thoughts of magical swords gone from the boy’s mind.
THREE
THE FLAMES ARE FANNED
To visit the dragon lairs was no simple expedition, and Imrik was forced to wait until the spring on the vehement instructions of his wife. Tythanir was excited for the whole winter, asking his father every day if they were going to see the dragons. Such was his anticipation, the boy handled every disappointing reply with forced dignity, fearful that the offer would be withdrawn altogether if he made too much of a fuss.
Though Imrik tried to avoid all news of wider Ulthuan, he could not help but hear of the travails from the other kingdoms from his family and other nobles. The cults had risen up against the princes, burning and murdering and bringing anarchy to many towns and cities. Even in Tor Anroc, cults were found, but still the kingdom of Caledor was free from the presence of the cytharai-worshippers.
When the first sun of spring finally touched Anul Caled above the city, Imrik announced that the weather was fair enough to set out for the dragon caves. Though he did not know it, another expedition was setting forth at the same time; Prince Malekith’s army marched across the Annulii, destined for the Naggarothi capital of Anlec and a confrontation with his mother.
Dorien and Thyrinor joined Imrik’s family on the journey, along with several other nobles whose sons had yet to see the dragons of their homeland. To witness the creatures in their lairs was a birthright and a privilege known only to the Caledorian nobility, and so it was unsurprising that there was much ceremony and celebration surrounding the trip.