by Gav Thorpe
‘I cannot condone this,’ said Malekith, stepping protectively in front of his mother.
Imrik tensed, but stayed his hand. He watched Malekith intently, alert for any violence.
‘You swore to me in this very chamber that you would be ready for such an end,’ said Bel Shanaar. ‘Now you renege on your oath?’
‘No more than I renege on the oath that I would show mercy to all those who asked for it,’ said Malekith. ‘My mother need not die. Her blood would serve no purpose but to sate the Caledorian’s vengeful thirst.’
‘It is justice, not revenge,’ said Imrik. He was reminded of Carathril’s tale of the mass suicide of Aeltherin’s cult. ‘Blood for blood.’
‘If she lives, she is a threat,’ said Finudel. ‘She cannot be trusted.’
‘I cannot decide this,’ said Malekith, addressing the princes. He then turned his eyes upon the Phoenix King. ‘I will not decide this. Let Bel Shanaar decide. The will of the Phoenix King is stronger than the oath of a prince. Is the word of the son of Aenarion to be as nothing, or is there yet nobility enough in the princes of Ulthuan to show compassion and forgiveness?’
Bel Shanaar gave Malekith a sour look, knowing that all that had passed here would be reported by means both open and secret to the people of Ulthuan. Imrik thought that to let Morathi live would be weakness, but he remained silent. He had voiced his opinion on the matter, but the decision rested with the Phoenix King.
‘Morathi cannot go unpunished for her crimes,’ Bel Shanaar said slowly. ‘There is no place to which I can exile her, for she would return more bitter and ambitious than before. As she enslaved others, so shall she forfeit her freedom. She shall stay in rooms within this palace, under guard night and day. None shall see her save with my permission.’
The Phoenix King stood and glared at the sorceress.
‘Know this, Morathi,’ said Bel Shanaar. ‘The sentence of death is not wholly commuted. You live by my will. If ever you cross me or seek to harm my rule, you will be slain, without trial or representation. Your word is of no value and so I hold your life hostage to your good behaviour. Accept these terms or accept your death.’
Morathi looked at the gathered princes and saw nothing but hatred in their faces, save for Malekith’s which was expressionless. Imrik sneered at her glance, wishing to be away from her presence. Even now the stench of sorcery hung about the former queen,
‘Your demands are not unreasonable, Bel Shanaar of Tiranoc,’ she said eventually. ‘I consent to be your prisoner.’
Following the imprisonment of Morathi, a measure of peace was restored. With Malekith again in control of Nagarythe and the support of the pleasure cults curtailed the unrest and violence that had marred Ulthuan subsided. As he had wished, Imrik spent the years in Tor Caled with his wife and son, watching Tythanir grow to become a proud and able youth. The time did not heal the growing estrangement between Imrik and Anatheria; it appeared that as much as she had chastised her husband for his long absences, his continued presence was just as demanding for her.
Despite this, Imrik was content, if not altogether happy. After a life of war and duty, he could not relax wholly and would often visit Maedrethnir to speak of old battles and conquests. The ancient dragon confirmed what Imrik had suspected; the others of his kind were unwilling to leave their lairs and soon he too would join them in the long sleep.
Imrik also found time to travel, to see parts of Ulthuan he had not visited since his childhood. Thyriol hosted Imrik and his family for a season in the floating city of Saphethion. Over a summer, Imrik was the guest of Prince Charill in mountainous Chrace, where he hunted the wild monsters of the Annulii with his distant cousin, Koradrel. The two became friends, Koradrel happy with Imrik’s quiet nature and of a taciturn disposition himself.
Throughout, Imrik set about to distract himself from the long pass of days, and came to understand, if not sympathise with, the malaise of boredom that had drawn so many to the cults of the undergods. He even considered returning to the colonies, but on sending letters to his allies in Elthin Arvan learned that there was little challenge remaining for one of his skills.
After more than two decades, the harmony of Ulthuan was shattered again.
FOUR
THE COUNCIL OF PRINCES
‘Malekith has been ousted from power.’
Imrik could scarcely believe the messenger sent by Bel Shanaar. The Tiranocii stood patiently in the great hall of Tor Caled, addressing Caledrian and his brothers.
‘Bel Shanaar knows this as a fact?’ said Dorien.
‘Even now, Malekith has fled Nagarythe with a body of loyal warriors and takes sanctuary in Tor Anroc,’ said the herald. ‘Some believe the architect of this rebellion to be Eoloran Anar, a dissident who lives in the mountains in the east of Nagarythe.’
‘Impossible,’ said Imrik. ‘All should know Eoloran Anar, standard bearer of Aenarion. His loyalty to Ulthuan is beyond question. Bel Shanaar knows him as an ally.’
‘Which is why the Phoenix King does not pay heed to these rumours,’ the messenger replied smoothly.
‘Though this is distressing, I cannot see how this involves my kingdom,’ said Caledrian. ‘Have we not been here before, and did not Malekith resolve the situation for himself?’
‘With this coup there has been resurgence in the activity of the cults,’ said the herald. ‘There are riots and burning in cities across Ulthuan. Several princes and lesser nobles have been murdered or taken hostage.’
‘They have bided their time,’ said Imrik. ‘They waited for the others to become lax.’
‘It seems so,’ said the herald. ‘The Phoenix King wishes this renewed unrest to be dealt with swiftly. The proposal to form a united army under his banner will be revisited. However, this time there will be no delays. All princes are instructed to gather at the Shrine of Asuryan on the Isle of the Flame, to appoint the commander of this army. You are to set out at once.’
‘Not I,’ said Imrik, looking at Caledrian. His brother opened his mouth to speak but Imrik talked across him. ‘I have been invited to Chrace by Koradrel and I will go. You have avoided the other princes for too long.’
Caledrian looked as if he would argue, but Imrik glared at his brother to forestall any complaint. The ruler of Caledor reluctantly nodded and turned to Thyrinor.
‘I will go to the Isle of the Flame to attend this council, and you will attend me,’ he said.
‘I have no objection,’ said Thyrinor. ‘I have never seen inside the Shrine of Asuryan. It will be a privilege to gaze upon the sacred flame that blessed Aenarion.’
‘I leave tomorrow,’ said Imrik. ‘We can ride together to the coast. I will take ship to the north and you to the east.’
‘We will send word of the proceedings,’ said Caledrian.
‘Please do not,’ replied Imrik. ‘I am not interested. History simply repeats itself. I will be in the mountains.’
Caledrian frowned at this news.
‘But should I need your aid, what will I do?’ he said. ‘No messenger will find you.’
‘That is my intent,’ said Imrik. ‘You will have to deal with this, brother. I cannot help you.’
Arrangements were made with Bel Shanaar’s herald, who departed that evening with Caledrian’s acceptance of his position at the council. Imrik spent the night with his family, promising Tythanir the head of a hydra as a gift on his return. In the morning, he left the city with Caledrian and Thyrinor, pleased to have avoided embroilment in further intrigue that did not concern him.
The chatter around the horseshoe of tables and chairs in the shrine was of the delay in the arrival of Bel Shanaar and Malekith. Elodhir had arrived from Tor Anroc with the news that his father and the prince of Nagarythe would follow shortly, but even the heir to Tiranoc’s throne was now perturbed by their failure to arrive.
‘What if the cultists know something of what they plan?’ Elodhir said to Thyrinor.
The two of them stood by a table near
to the entrance to the pyramidal shrine, the multicoloured pillar of fire known as the flame of Asuryan burning at the centre of the temple. Other princes and their aides had seated themselves in preparation for the council, as they had done several times over the last few days. Seated directly in front of the sacred flames was the high priest 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 confectioneries.
‘I would not fear,’ Thyrinor said as soothingly as possible. ‘Your father is the Phoenix King, and Prince Malekith the most accomplished warrior in Ulthuan. It is most likely fresh information from Nagarythe that delays them.’
‘You are right,’ said Elodhir. He was about to return to his seat when a young priest entered the shrine.
‘A ship bearing the flag of Tiranoc draws in to the wharf,’ the elf announced before taking position with his fellows along the white stone walls.
There was a hubbub of discussion and Thyrinor joined Caledrian at the seats and table set aside for the Caledorian representatives.
‘About time,’ said Caledrian. ‘It is probably for the best that Imrik did not come. These delays would have frustrated him to the verge of violence, I suspect.’
‘And I expect much wrangling to be the business of the next few days,’ replied Thyrinor. ‘My cousin’s absence has been remarked upon several times. There are those who think he should be here to receive the nomination as general.’
‘He made his opinion clear on that before,’ said Caledrian. ‘If he wishes to have no association with this campaign, I cannot blame him and will respect his wishes. Caledor has taken much from him already.’
‘Dorien and I spent almost as much time fighting in the colonies,’ said Thyrinor.
Caledrian smiled and patted his cousin reassuringly on the arm.
‘And it is remembered,’ said the prince. ‘Yet it was Imrik my father named as the sword bearer of Caledor, and that is a weighty burden to bear.’
The two of them fell silent as new figures appeared at the shrine door.
Malekith entered and walked behind the table reserved for Bel Shanaar, earning himself frowns from Mianderin and a few of the princes. Thyrinor felt Caledrian’s grip on his arm tighten. Something was amiss; Thyrinor had felt it from the moment Malekith had appeared. The Naggarothi prince was flanked by two knights who carried wrapped bundles in their hands. Malekith stood leaning on the table with gauntleted fists, and stared balefully at the assembled council.
‘Weakness prevails,’ spat the prince of Nagarythe. Thyrinor shuddered at the venom in Malekith’s voice. ‘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.’
Panic choked Thyrinor, his throat tightening against the shout of dismay that rose from him. He looked to Caledrian, whose face had paled, jaw and fists clenched tightly.
‘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.
Thyrinor could not comprehend what he was hearing. He moved to rise to his feet, but Caledrian pushed him back to his chair.
‘Watch the knights,’ Caledrian hissed in his ear.
Thyrinor turned his attention to the black-clad knights of Anlec, who had stepped back and now filled the doorway with their armoured forms, dark eyes glaring from the visors of their high helms, arms crossed over their carved breastplates.
‘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.
Thyrinor was in agreement, but a glance at his cousin showed that Caledrian was not paying attention to Malekith, his eyes instead roving across the other princes, gauging their reactions.
‘Bathinair is with Malekith,’ Caledrian whispered, quietly pushing his chair away from the table.
‘What do you mean?’ Thyrinor whispered back, but received no reply.
‘I confess to having deep sympathy with you, Elodhir,’ Malekith was saying. ‘Have I not been deceived by my own mother? Do I not feel the same betrayal and heartache that now wrenches at your spirit?’
‘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.
Voices erupted across the shrine and princes stood up, gesturing madly at one another. Malekith watched the tumult without emotion. Thyrinor followed his gaze, which was fixed upon the sacred flame.
‘I really wish Imrik was here,’ Thyrinor admitted.
‘Cease this noise!’ roared Caledrian, getting to his feet. ‘Be calm!’
His shout stilled the shrine.
‘We will not find the truth with this anarchy,’ Caledrian continued in quieter tones.
‘Does Caledrian put himself forward for the Phoenix Throne?’ said Bathinair.
The prince of Caledor was stunned by the suggestion.
‘I have no su
ch ambition,’ he said, looking pointedly at Malekith. ‘Yet if there are others here who would stake such a claim, it should be made plain and we should consider it.’
‘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.’