[Sundering 02] - Shadow King

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  “I agree,” said Malekith. “At a time when it is difficult to know friend from foe, I commend your caution. Now, with your pardon, I must see my mother.”

  At this Bel Shanaar paused. Alith knew that Malekith had visited Morathi on several occasions since her incarceration two decades earlier, and it seemed an expected request considering Nagarythe was in such disarray. Even so, the mere mention of the former sorceress-queen sent a shiver of fear through Alith, mixed with a deep-rooted hate. The hall was silent as the elves waited in expectation of the Phoenix King’s reply.

  “Of course,” Bel Shanaar said eventually. “Though I have no love for Morathi, I would not deny you.”

  Malekith again bowed in thanks and, accompanied by Elodhir, strode from the hall. Bel Shanaar and Carathril left by another archway, and as soon as the Phoenix King had gone chattering broke out amongst the crowd.

  “What has happened?” Alith demanded, grabbing the arm of the nearest elf. The page looked at him with astonishment.

  “Cultists have retaken Anlec and Prince Malekith has been deposed,” said the elf, with a haughtiness held by those who consider themselves important for having heard news moments before any other. “It seems those Naggarothi fiends are fighting amongst themselves again.”

  Alith stayed his tongue at this remark and instead walked quickly from the hall. He made his way back to his room in the servants’ quarters and there sat on his bed, staring at the stone floor. He could make no sense of it. How could the cults have gathered such power unseen? How had they survived Malekith’s diligent purging? Unable to comprehend what had occurred, Alith’s mind was blank, numbed by the dire news.

  For three days the palace was chaotic. Rumours and claims spread through the residents and servants alike. Lodgings were found for the small army Malekith had brought south with him, and Alith was busy attending to the errands of his masters and mistresses. Yrianath was preoccupied with matters pertaining to Tiranoc’s trade and how it might be affected by the situation in Nagarythe, which held considerable power in the Elthin Arvan colonies. Distracted, Yrianath often overlooked Alith’s presence, allowing the heir of the Anars to overhear things that in normal times would have remained secret.

  Malekith called upon the Phoenix King to assemble the princes of Ulthuan in council. They were to meet at the Shrine of Asuryan upon the Isle of Flame: the most sacrosanct of places where Aenarion and Bel Shanaar had been elevated to Phoenix King. Alith watched Carathril leave along with many other messengers, the chief herald’s expression grim and distant.

  Alith had his own distractions. His ignorance of how affairs in Nagarythe were unfolding was driving him to the point of madness and he spent each night unsleeping, toying with the idea of breaking his oath to the Phoenix King and fleeing Tor Anroc. Yet each morning he realised that the means by which his house might be saved lay here at the capital, not in the north, and so he remained.

  Preparations were made for the Phoenix King’s expedition to depart for the Isle of Flame. Elodhir had already departed and when Bel Shanaar left, control of the palace would fall to Yrianath, as the next prince of mature age. This made for much work for Yrianath’s councillors and servants, who were kept busy at all hours to apprise themselves of every development. Despite his exhaustion, Alith still found no solace in sleep and became so irritable that others avoided him when they had the chance.

  Frustration almost spilled into violence when Alith overheard a group of nobles speaking foully of the Naggarothi, blaming them for every ill that had befallen Ulthuan in recent centuries. It was only the accidental intervention of one of the stewards, calling upon Alith to attend to Yrianath, which prevented the young Anar from striking the nobles.

  All of this frenetic activity reached a calm equilibrium the day before the Phoenix King was due to leave. In a rare moment of peace, Alith was in the gardens, staring wistfully at a marble sculpture of a waterfall. It was refined and finely detailed, but lacked all of the majesty of the real thing. Rivers cascaded down the mountains of Elanardris with thunderous power, sending spray and fog across the surrounding slopes. The gentle tinkling of this fountain seemed ludicrous and trite in comparison. “There you are.”

  Alith turned and found Milandith sitting beside him on the white bench. She wore a green silken dress, her braids woven into showers of hair that spilled across her shoulders. In the autumn sun she was as pretty as Alith had ever seen her and for a moment he was lost in admiring her beauty.

  “Why such worries?” asked Milandith, running a hand across Alith’s brow as if to smooth away the creases of his frown.

  “Do you not think these are dark times?”

  “They are,” she said, grasping Alith’s right hand in both of hers. “Yet what is there that we can do? The princes will meet to decide, and we will be ready to help them.”

  She laughed, a peculiar sound to Alith’s ear given the grimness of his mood.

  “I would not like to have such responsibility,” she said. “Can you imagine? Trying to decide what to do about all of this? Raising armies and waging wars are not in my nature.”

  But they are in mine, Alith thought. He was a son of House Anar and if battle was to be waged, he would be there to wage it. He looked at Milandith, soaking in her innocence and beauty. How simple it would be, he thought, to make the masquerade real. He could live in peace as Atenithor of Chrace, a servant to Prince Yrianath and nothing more. He could renew his relationship with Milandith, and perhaps they would wed and have children. Bloodshed and murder, darkness and despair would be the realm of princes and he would live out his life as a simple soul.

  But that could not be. Not only did guilt gnaw at his heart, duty ingrained in him since he had been born stiffened his resolve. He could no more hide from this than a rabbit could hide from one of his arrows. He was Alith Anar, heir to a princedom of Nagarythe, and he could not pretend otherwise.

  “You are distracted,” said Milandith, unhappy. “Perhaps I am boring you?”

  “I am sorry,” said Alith, forcing a smile. He ran his fingers lightly over Milandith’s hair and cheek, his fingertips coming to rest on her chin. “I am distracted, but not by the sort of distraction I would like.”

  Milandith returned his smile and stood, pulling him up by the hand.

  “I think I can find just the sort of distraction you need,” she said.

  Alith dozed, feeling the heat from Milandith beside him. In his half-asleep state he could hear doors banging elsewhere in the servants’ quarters and feet running outside but he chose to ignore them. The moment had passed though, and the real world was beginning to intrude again upon the blissful ignorance brought about by Milandith’s attentions. Hoping to set aside his pain for a while longer, Alith leaned across the bed and nestled his face in her unkempt hair, kissing her lightly on the neck. She murmured wordlessly and, eyes still closed, laid a hand upon his back, gently stroking his skin, tracing the whip-scar with a finger.

  Suddenly there was a furious knocking at the door. A moment later it crashed open. Both of them shot upright as Hithrin, Steward of Halls, burst into the room. There was a wild look in the elf’s eyes, bordering on terrified hysteria. His wide gaze settled on Alith.

  “There you are!” he cried, running across the room and grabbing Alith by the arm. “Your master calls for all his servants to attend!”

  Alith snatched his arm away and shoved Hithrin backwards, though the steward was supposedly his superior.

  “What?” snapped Alith. “Can I not have a moment’s peace? What could be so urgent?”

  Hithrin stared dumbly at Alith for a moment, his mouth opening and closing without sound. He swallowed hard and then blurted out his news.

  “The Phoenix King is dead!”

  ——

  Darkness Descends

  The great hall was in pandemonium. Elves of all ages and stations had come from across the palace to hear what had happened. Yrianath stood beside the Phoenix Throne, Palthrain and many othe
r nobles and councillors with him. As Alith pushed his way through the throng, there was an air of panic and desperation. Some elves were shouting, others weeping, many stood in shocked silence, waiting to hear the words of Yrianath.

  “Be calm,” he cried out, raising his hands, but the cacophony continued until Yrianath raised his voice to a roar. “Silence!”

  In the stillness that followed only the rustle of robes and quiet sobbing could be heard.

  “The Phoenix King is dead,” Yrianath said solemnly. “Prince Malekith found him in his chambers early this morning. It would seem that the Phoenix King took his own life.”

  At this there was another outburst of anger and woe, until Yrianath signalled again for the elves’ attention.

  “Why would Bel Shanaar do such a thing?” demanded one of the nobles. It was Palthrain who stepped forwards to answer the question.

  “We cannot know for sure,” said the chamberlain. “Accusations had come to Prince Malekith that the Phoenix King was embroiled with the cults of pleasure. Though Malekith disbelieved such claims, he has sworn in this very hall to prosecute all members of the cults, regardless of station. His own mother is still imprisoned in this palace. When the prince went to Bel Shanaar’s chambers to confront him with the evidence, he found the Phoenix King’s body, with the marks of black lotus on his lips. It seems that the charges were true and Bel Shanaar took his own life rather than face the shame of discovery.”

  The hall shook with a rising clamour as the elves surged forwards, making demands of Palthrain and Yrianath.

  “What charges?”

  “What evidence was presented?”

  “How can this have happened?”

  “Are the traitors still here?”

  “Where is Malekith?”

  This last question was asked several times, and the call grew louder and louder.

  “The prince of Nagarythe has departed for the Isle of Flame,” said Yrianath when some measure of order had been restored. “He seeks to inform Elodhir of his father’s demise, and to take guidance from the council of princes. Until Elodhir returns from the council, we must remain calm. The full facts of what has occurred here will be brought to light, rest assured.”

  Though still much distressed, the elves were somewhat quietened by this statement and instead of angry shouts, a conspiratorial murmuring filled the hall. Alith ignored the buzz of gossip and the tearful lamentations and turned to Milandith. Her cheeks were wet with tears and he clasped an arm around her and pulled her close.

  “Do not be afraid,” he said, though he knew his words to be a lie.

  A strange atmosphere enveloped the palace over the following days. There was little activity and Alith could sense that his fellow elves were each trying to come to terms with what had transpired. Few were willing to talk about their shock and grief, which was unusual in itself, and fewer still would mention the circumstances surrounding Bel Shanaar’s death. There was an undercurrent of suspicion, formless and unspoken but palpable.

  Alith’s first thought was to leave the city, now that he was no longer bound by his oath to Bel Shanaar, but he decided against this course of action. Though events could threaten to expose him, he heard no hint or rumour concerning his arrival not long before Bel Shanaar’s demise. To leave hastily would perhaps invite more attention than staying.

  Instead, Alith stayed close to Yrianath, as required by his position and as his curiosity desired. The prince was as shocked as any by the tragic turn of events and seemed content to await Elodhir’s return rather than take any lead himself.

  Bel Shanaar’s body was made ready for interment in the great mausoleum of his family in the depths of the mount beneath Tor Anroc. The funeral proceedings could not start without Elodhir, and so the elves found themselves in a spiritual limbo, unable to publicly express their grief. For once, Alith missed the idle chatter that used to distract him so much. In the echoing quiet of the palace his dark thoughts resounded all the more.

  Sixteen days had passed when new arrivals caused a great stir in the palace. Alith had been attending to Yrianath, who was in discussions with Palthrain concerning the funeral arrangements of Bel Shanaar. A herald entered hastily, announcing that he had come from the Isle of Flame.

  “What news of Elodhir?” asked Yrianath. “When can we expect his return?”

  At this, the herald began to weep.

  “Elodhir is dead, among many other princes of Ulthuan,” he wailed.

  “Speak now, tell us what has happened!” demanded Palthrain, grabbing the messenger by the arms.

  “It is a disaster! We do not know what happened. A mighty earthquake shook the Shrine of Asuryan, and there were signs of violence. When we entered, only a few princes had survived.”

  “Who?” insisted Palthrain. “Who survived?”

  “A handful only came out of the temple,” said the herald, almost buckling at the knees. “So many nobles dead…”

  The herald swallowed hard and straightened, wiping a hand across his eyes.

  “Come,” he said, turning towards the door.

  Alith followed a little way behind Palthrain and Yrianath, and they seemed content to allow him, if they even noticed his presence. The herald took the group across the courtyard and out of the great gate of the palace where a large crowd had gathered. There were many carriages, each draped in white awnings. Tiranoc soldiers held back the throng, casting their own shocked glances back towards the coaches. Palthrain forced his way through the crowd and Alith followed in his wake.

  The chamberlain pulled back one of the white curtains and Alith caught a sight of Elodhir, lying upon a bier inside the carriage. His face was as white as snow and he was laid upon his back, arms folded across his chest. Yrianath gasped and looked away. Just before Palthrain allowed the curtain drop back, Alith thought he saw the red mark of a wound across the dead prince’s throat, but so brief was the glimpse that he could not be sure.

  Another elf came striding through the carriages. She was clad in silver armour and a black cloak. Alith immediately recognised her as Naggarothi and shrank back towards the other elves, though he did not know her. She spoke briefly to Palthrain and pointed at one of the other carriages. An expression of dread passed over Palthrain’s face before he composed himself. Without a word, he turned and hurried back into the palace.

  Yrianath sent the captains of the guard to bring more soldiers from the city. With a stone-faced expression the prince gave instructions for the staff of the palace to begin moving the dead Tiranocii nobles inside. Alith was pleased not to be counted amongst the number tasked with this unpleasant chore, and stayed out of sight as best he could.

  The grisly labour was interrupted by shouts of dismay from the crowd around the gates. Alith turned to see Palthrain ordering elves out of his path. He was followed by a contingent of the Naggarothi warriors who had come with Malekith. They created a line through the thronging elves and behind them strode another.

  She was tall and stunningly beautiful. Her long black hair fell in lustrous curls about her shoulders and back, and her alabaster skin was as white as the stone of the gate towers. Her dark eyes were fierce and Alith flinched from their gaze as the elf stared scornfully at the assembled watchers. Alith knew her immediately and felt fear grip his heart.

  Morathi.

  The crowd fell back in fear as she swept through the gate, the train of her purple dress streaming behind her, boots ringing on the flags of the road. Her full lips were twisted in a sneer as she surveyed the frightened mass. As soon as she came within sight of the carriages, her entire attention was fixed upon them and so swift was her stride that Palthrain had to run to keep pace.

  He led her to one of the coaches and Morathi threw back the coverings with a beringed hand. She fell to her knees and uttered a shriek, an awful wail that pierced Alith’s mind and echoed from the walls of the palace. Looking beyond Morathi, Alith saw what lay upon the board of the wagon.

  It was a blackened mess and at fi
rst Alith did not recognise what it was. As he forced himself to look closer, Alith saw streaks of gold that had melted into rivulets and then solidified, and links of chainmail burned into charred flesh. It was the figure of an elf, obscene in its desecration. Two unblinking, unmoving eyes stared out and half of the elf’s body was seared down through flesh and muscle, revealing burned bone. Dark flakes fluttered from the corpse, drifting on the wind. Alith stepped a little closer and could make out something of the design on the figure’s breastplate, though it was much disfigured. It was the remnants of a coiling dragon.

  At that moment Morathi rose to her feet and wheeled towards the watching elves. Her eyes were orbs of blue fire and her hair danced wildly in an unseen gale while sparks erupted from her fingertips. With cries of fear, the crowd turned and ran from the sorceress.

  “Cowards!” she shrieked. “Look at this ruin! Face what your meddling has brought about. This is my son, your rightful king. Look upon this and remember it for the rest of your wretched lives!”

  Elves were shouting and screaming as the stampede continued, pushing and pulling at each other as they tried to press back through the gatehouse. Alith ignored them, transfixed by the apparition of Malekith’s corpse. He felt sick, not just from the sight, but also from a foreboding that welled up in his stomach and froze his spine.

  The tramp of many booted feet echoed around the plaza, joined by the clattering of hooves. Such elves as remained scattered ahead of a column of black-clad spearmen and knights: the rest of Malekith’s warriors. Like a black snake they advanced from around the palace and for a moment Alith feared that they would attack. They did not.

  Instead they formed a guard of honour three thousand strong around the carriage as Morathi climbed aboard. Alith looked to the Tiranocii warriors to intervene, but those that had remained were afraid to confront the grim-faced soldiers in front of them. He did not blame them, and was rooted to the spot by the stern lines of spears and the immobile knights. Morathi signalled to the driver and the carriage moved away with a rattle of wheels and the crunch of the marching Naggarothi.