Caledor

by Gav Thorpe

  It is for this reason that I turn to you, Imrik, and you alone. You have counselled me to decisive action in the past, and so I must entrust to you the leadership of the assembled armies of Ulthuan. There is none braver, nor accomplished upon the field of battle as you, and in Caledor resides the greatest strength of our isle. While Caledor stands firm and holds true to the ideals of our people, Ulthuan will endure.

  I shall confront Malekith with my decision before we arrive at the Isle of the Flame. I do not think he will be pleased, to say the least. He will argue in the council for control, and there is much loyalty to him amongst the other princes. Only Caledor’s ruler has equal measure of power in this debate, and I hope that I can look to you and your brothers for support in this.

  If we cannot speak on this matter, any message you have for me can be entrusted to my herald, Carathril, who bears this missive; either by written or spoken word. He is of staunch loyalty and most noble character, and I vouch for him in the highest manner.

  May the gods bless us all and protect the peace of our lands.

  Bel Shanaar, Prince of Tiranoc, Phoenix King of Ulthuan

  Thyriol took the scroll to read it again for himself, and the princes pondered long and hard over the meaning and import of Bel Shanaar’s words.

  ‘We are left with a difficult choice,’ said Thyriol. ‘The Phoenix Throne stands empty, and a dire threat rises to challenge us. Bel Shanaar may have been gifted rare prophecy in his choice of words, and his entrusting of this letter to his herald. I think it is plain that the Phoenix King would have seen Imrik succeed him if he could have known what was to occur.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Finudel. ‘Yet, we three here cannot make this decision alone. Just as it was wrong for Malekith to try to take the crown, it is not for less than a handful of princes to place it upon the head of another. Heirs there are, in those realms whose rulers now lie dead upon this floor, who have equal right to make this choice.’

  ‘Though conceived in deceit, Malekith’s lies were, like all great illusions, grounded in some truth,’ said Thyriol. ‘It is unlikely that the army of Nagarythe will march before the spring, and that, at least, gives us some time to prepare.’

  ‘I fear that Malekith was also right that we cannot afford to hesitate,’ said Thyrinor. ‘If Imrik had come, then perhaps we could have moved more swiftly, but he is still in the mountains and utterly unaware of the drastic course events have now taken.’

  ‘We must send word to him at once, and go to those other realms that now must mourn the loss of so much noble blood,’ said Finudel. ‘Though we must gather a new council, I do not think there will be any opposition to Imrik taking up the mantle of the Phoenix King.’

  ‘Except perhaps from Imrik himself,’ said Thyrinor with a resigned expression. ‘He was reluctant to lead the war against the cults when we last spoke, who is to say that he will not feel it his duty to keep Caledor safe first and foremost now that Caledrian is dead?’

  ‘Caledor is strong, that is true,’ said Finudel. ‘Yet even the strength of Caledor would not be enough to resist all of Ulthuan if the other realms should fall to Nagarythe’s power. Imrik will fight, of that I have no doubt.’

  ‘And how might we bring Imrik to the Isle of the Flame?’ asked Thyrinor. ‘Messengers could search for many days and not find him. He made it clear he does not want to be found.’

  ‘No one escapes the gaze of the raven heralds,’ said Finudel, speaking of the ancient order founded by Aenarion. The suggestion troubled Thyrinor, for the raven heralds were elves of Nagarythe. He was thankful when Carathril objected.

  ‘No!’ said Carathril. ‘I do not trust them, for they played their part in the deception at Ealith. As you say, they see all, and I cannot believe that they were so misled. Even if some are not in thrall to Anlec, we have no way of telling friend from foe, or of contacting those who would side with our cause.’

  ‘Then you must go, Carathril,’ said Thyrinor.

  ‘Me?’ gasped Carathril. ‘I have no talent for this sort of endeavour.’

  ‘Bel Shanaar had every confidence in you,’ said Thyriol. ‘I share his confidence. You will not be unaided, there are enchantments known to the mages of Saphery that will help you locate Imrik.’

  ‘I would not know where to begin,’ protested Carathril. His first thought was of returning to Lothern, to inter the body of Haradrin in the mausoleum and share in the grief of his people.

  ‘In Chrace, of course,’ said Finudel, stepping forwards to lay a hand on Carathril’s shoulder. ‘You shall have the pick of Ellyrion’s steeds to carry you.’

  ‘And a ship travels even swifter,’ said Thyrinor. ‘Many there are by the wharf, and you are welcome to whichever you choose and a crew for it.’

  Thyriol rolled up the scroll and held it in his outstretched hand towards the captain. Carathril looked at the other princes and saw that they were in agreement. A protest stirred in his breast but he quelled it for the moment.

  ‘Most assuredly you have the blessing of Asuryan,’ said the mage. ‘Who else of those here has been through so much turmoil of late and emerged unscathed?’

  Carathril sought for an argument, a reason why he should not go. He longed to return to Lothern, which would reel again at the news that another of its rulers was dead by violence. He was scared, though he could not admit that in such noble company; the wilds of Chrace were dangerous enough in normal circumstances and on the very borders of Nagarythe. He would have to sail past the Isle of the Dead and search in the monster-infested mountains.

  Then he remembered the words in Bel Shanaar’s letter. Pride and duty stirred within Carathril, burning through the fear in his stomach. He recalled the tattooed and scarred cultists and their depraved rites, his loathing for what would become of Ulthuan if they should be victorious outweighing his dread at the task ahead. He took the letter from Thyriol.

  ‘I shall go,’ said Carathril. ‘There is no time to waste.’

  ‘We are not so sorely pressed that you cannot spare time to prepare,’ said Thyriol. ‘You shall not go alone, so we must choose a company of soldiers to guard you, and tomorrow will serve us as well as today. There is much we must make ready, for you and for other messengers.’

  SIX

  THE HUNTERS SET FORTH

  As Carathril began his voyage across the Inner Sea, the Isle of the Flame was alive with activity. Ships were sent to gather more soldiers to protect the surviving princes and other heralds despatched to warn the kingdoms of what had happened and the proposed election of Imrik. Unknown to those at the Shrine of Asuryan, Bathinair and the Anlec knights bore the body of Malekith westwards. By sorcerous means they arranged for a caravan to meet them on an isolated stretch of the Ellyrian coast and in secrecy they passed over the plains and across the mountains.

  They travelled to Tor Anroc, and cloaking the events at the shrine in lies, spread the news of the massacre. In the dismay and confusion, Morathi was allowed to leave with the body of her son and they travelled north to Anlec.

  As they passed through one of the massive gatetowers of the city, Morathi sat upon a carriage next to Malekith. She had said nothing since leaving Tor Anroc, and simmered with a rage that surpassed even the anger she had felt when Bel Shanaar had been chosen over her son to be Phoenix King.

  ‘This is no slight on your character,’ she whispered. ‘This is no mere insult. This is an attack upon Nagarythe, and assault upon the memory of your father. I have been too lenient with these fools. Your death will be avenged.’

  She laid a hand upon the shrouded body as tears of fire rolled down her cheeks. She pictured Ulthuan ablaze with war, the usurpers and their petty princes screaming their apologies as her warriors put them to the sword. She would raise monuments to her son as grand as those dedicated to her late husband, and every elf would pay homage to his greatness.

  So wrapped up in these thoughts was Morathi that she almost did not notice the quiver of movement beneath her fingertips.


  Unsure if she had imagined it, she sat immobile for a dozen heartbeats, her hand resting on the covered chest of Malekith. She decided it had been the carriage jostling over the pavement and was about to take away her hand.

  It came again, the slightest tremble.

  With a gasp of joy and relief, Morathi pulled back the shroud to reveal Malekith’s ravaged face. Where once he had been so dashing, so handsome, a ruin remained. Bone and charred flesh were fused, sinew exposed.

  ‘You are as strong as your father,’ she whispered, lowering her mouth to the ragged remnants of her son’s ear. She cradled his head against her cheek, and kissed Malekith’s burnt flesh. ‘You are Aenarion’s heir, true king of the elves.’

  There was a rattling hiss of breath from the lipless mouth.

  As charred skin cracked and flaked, an eye opened, a pale orb in the dark ruin. It stared ahead, sparks of mystical energy dancing in the pupil. The sparks became an ember, became a tiny flame of magic. The flame grew and darkened, the whole eye becoming a flickering hole of dark fire. At its depth, a pinprick of redness appeared.

  The skinless jaw opened. A rasp escaped, wordless. Fingers twitched beneath the shroud.

  ‘Lie still, my brave son,’ said Morathi, her tears now of relief, dropping like liquid pearls onto Malekith’s face. ‘Save your strength. I will look after you. You will be restored. I swear it by my own life.’

  A ravaged arm pushed up past the edge of the shroud, shedding blackened skin, thin rivulets of blood streaming from the hand. Fingers little more than charred bone curled around the back of Morathi’s head, pulling her closer, stroking her hair.

  The world was a blur of light and dark, noise and silence, pain and numbness. Voiceless screams echoed in Malekith’s ears, shrieking to the slow beat of his heart. Everything burned. Every part of his body was a fire of agony. Even his mind, his spirit, was consumed over and over by the flames, searing into the core of his being.

  He welcomed the blackness.

  Yet oblivion did not last. There was no respite from the torment heaped upon his body; no pause in the frustration and anger that ate at his thoughts. Every breath he took was like taking the fire of the sun into his lungs. Every slight draught was a gale of razors on his flesh. And the whispers would not stop; the voices on the edge of hearing, goading and laughing, cackling at his folly. Wisps of dust swirled about him, each tiny mote a leering face with pointed teeth. The walls sang to him; sonorous dirges that spoke of bottomless blackness. The light through the window, painfully bright, danced upon his withered form, leaving tiny footprints of ash across his chest.

  And so much pain. Unbearable pain. In every pore and muscle, every shredded nerve and scorched artery. To live was to experience unending agony.

  The blackness came for him again. He greeted it with open arms.

  He revived again. He stood upon the edge of an abyss and stared down into the dark of eternal death. It was so inviting, to take a single step, to fall into the peace of ending. One step. One small step and the agony would cease.

  ‘No,’ he snarled, the single word sending shivers of fresh pain through his body.

  On a bronze mirror, a scene played out in ruddy monochrome. Ships plied the waters of the Inner Sea, coming and going to the Isle of the Flame. The island itself was shrouded in a fog, obscured from Morathi’s viewing by the enchantments of the priests. What went on within the walls of the Shrine of Asuryan was unknown to her, but such frenetic activity on the sea nearby told her everything she needed to know; the rest could be assumed.

  Morathi waved a hand to dismiss the image; it was replaced in the full length mirror by her reflection. She took a moment to admire what she saw, running a hand over the curve of her waist and hip, tracing a finger along the delicate line of cheek and jaw. She raked slender fingers through her lustrous hair, shuddering at her own touch.

  The moment was interrupted. In the reflection a figure appeared in the doorway behind Morathi. She turned to see Bathinair.

  ‘Thyriol rallies the princes,’ he said. He held up a bloodstained, torn parchment. ‘Our agents took this message from a Sapherian herald. They seek to elevate Imrik to the Phoenix Throne, your majesty.’

  Morathi plucked the tattered letter from Bathinair’s hand and glanced at it. She could smell the blood, the ink, and fragrant oil from Bathinair’s skin.

  ‘An obvious choice,’ she said. ‘Why was he not slain with the others?’

  ‘He did not attend the council,’ Bathinair explained. ‘He ignored Bel Shanaar’s invitation to go hunting in Chrace with his cousin.’

  ‘Then we still have opportunity to sow harm upon our enemies,’ said Morathi, the letter bursting into black flame between her fingers. ‘Go to the high priest of Khaine, and bring me the deadliest killers in Anlec.’

  ‘Assassinate Imrik before he can be made king?’ said Bathinair. ‘I like it.’

  Morathi stalked across the chamber and seized the prince by the throat, her long black-painted nails drawing blood from skin.

  ‘I do not care for your likes and dislikes,’ she snarled, letting a little of the dark magic within her seep into the scratches. Bathinair hissed and spat like a serpent that had itself been bitten, writhing in Morathi’s unnaturally strong grip. ‘Bring me the assassins and offer no opinion.’

  She let go of Bathinair and he stumbled back, hands rubbing at the wounds on his neck.

  ‘At once, your majesty,’ he said, eyes fearful.

  When the prince had gone, Morathi went to the adjoining chamber. Upon a bier covered in many sheets Malekith lay immobile. He whispered and murmured words too faint to hear. His fists clenched and opened, his head jerking slightly from side to side. She laid a hand on his brow, pained by his delirium. There was no sorcery she possessed that could heal these wounds, inflicted by divine flame.

  She smiled. For all Malekith’s feverish madness, he was recovering. Day by day she watched him, seeing the tiniest extra life creeping back into ruined flesh. It would take years for him to be restored, if there were no setbacks; time enough to bring all of Ulthuan under the rule of Nagarythe and keep the Phoenix Throne secure for Malekith’s triumphant return.

  There was a stool beside the bed and she sat down, hand still on his brow. She talked constantly and softly to him, telling the same tales she had told him when he was a child: tales of Aenarion and gods and daemons.

  The afternoon passed and Morathi comforted her wounded son. She stopped and went back to the main chamber when she detected the presence of eight elves in the passageway outside, drawing a curtain across the doorway to conceal Malekith from prying eyes.

  Bathinair entered, seven others following him through the archway. The assassins had the look of lean, hungry wolves, with pinched faces and tight muscles. Morathi could feel the touch of dark magic like a cloying fog, dripping from their swords and blades, pulsing from vials of poison and rune-crafted jewellery. Blood stained their skin red and slicked their hair. Tiny skulls and runes of Khaine pierced their flesh on rings and studs.

  She looked each in the eye, seeing no compassion, no mercy, no kindness, only cold death.

  ‘Good,’ she said to Bathinair, stroking his cheek. The prince shuddered for a moment, ecstatic at her touch. ‘You may return to the Athartists and cavort with them until I summon you again.’

  ‘Thank you, your majesty,’ said Bathinair, leering at the prospect of attention from the hedonistic priestesses and cultists.

  When he had gone, Morathi commanded the assassins to kneel. They did so, in a semicircle around her.

  ‘Imrik must be slain,’ she told them. ‘You will find him and kill him.’

  ‘Where will he be found?’ asked one of the killers, revealing teeth filed to points.

  ‘In Chrace,’ replied Morathi.

  ‘An elf could get lost for a lifetime in those peaks,’ said another. ‘How are we to find Imrik?’

  ‘Will your scrying guide us to him?’ asked a third.

  ‘The
vortex is too strong in the Annulii,’ Morathi said. ‘No spell can pierce the magical winds.’

  ‘Then you have some trail for us to follow?’ said a fourth.

  ‘Close your eyes and I will show you,’ Morathi said with a smile.

  She chanted, calling on the patrons of the dark winds to bless her spells. She named them in turn, and with each title the magic in the chamber thickened and swirled. Morathi felt it coiling about her, sliding across her flesh, warm and chill, dry and slick. She spat the words of the incantation she had prepared, each syllable like a fizzing on her tongue, each sound a clear note in her ears.

  Morathi flexed her fingers and arched her back as the dark magic flowed into and through her. It pulsed along her nerves, setting every sense alight. With centuries of practice, she calmed herself, forcing the magic to her bidding, shaping it with her words and thoughts.

  The assassins had their faces turned up to her, eyes closed. She thrust out her hands, bolts of black energy leaping from her fingertips into the eyes of the Khainites. Each thrashed and screamed, falling to the floor with flailing limbs as the sorcery poured into them, fusing with their bodies.

  When the spell was cast, Morathi slumped back into a chair, panting and spent. With a fingertip, she wiped a bead of sweat from her brow, eyes closed, breath coming in ragged gasps. She touched the fingertip to her tongue, and tasted the sweet residue of magic on her skin.

  Groaning, the assassins recovered, each holding his head, cursing and swearing at the pain. Morathi opened her eyes and stood up. She walked along the line of supine elves, towering over them imperiously.

  ‘You shall know such pain as I feel at Imrik’s continued life,’ she told them. Stepping over the last, she turned back down the line. ‘The pain will lessen with every step closer to your prey, and will grow with every step further from him. I have laid my mark upon you and you shall not know sleep or thirst or hunger until Imrik is dead. Look at me!’