by Gav Thorpe
As the priests burned incense and made offerings to Asuryan, the oracles began to sing quietly, their verses almost identical but for a few words here and there, which rose into a joyful harmony as Bel Shanaar was ushered towards the flame of Asuryan. The Phoenix King-to-be turned and looked back towards the princes, with no sign of trepidation or exultation.
With a respectful nod Bel Shanaar faced towards the centre of the shrine and walked forwards, slowly ascending the shallow steps that led up to the dais over which the god’s cleansing fires gleamed. All present then fell hushed in anticipation as Bel Shanaar stepped within the flame, which turned to a glaring white and forced the onlookers to cast their gazes away lest they be blinded by its intensity.
As their eyes grew accustomed to the bright burning of the flame, they could see the vague shape of Bel Shanaar within, arms upraised as he offered fealty to Asuryan. Then the Phoenix King turned slowly and stepped back out of the flames unharmed. There was a sighing of exhalation as the princes expressed their relief that all went well. The Naggarothi remained silent.
The entourage left, laughing and chattering, save for Malekith, who stayed for a long while gazing at the flame and pondering his fate. The sacred fire had returned to its shifting colours, now seeming dim after its dazzling eruption. To Malekith it seemed as if they had been diminished, tainted by the presence of Bel Shanaar.
Unaware of anything but that burning shrine, Malekith walked slowly forwards, his mind a swirl of conflicting emotions. If he but dared the flame and survived, without the spells of the priests to protect him, then surely it was the will of Asuryan that he succeed his father. Yet what if he was not strong enough? Would the burning of the flames devour him? What then would be left of his hopes and dreams for Nagarythe?
Without realisation Malekith stood directly before the fires, mesmerised by their shifting patterns. The urge to reach out gripped him and he was about to place his hand into the flame when he heard the footsteps of the priests re-entering the temple. Snatching his hand away, Malekith turned from the sacred fire and strode quickly from the shrine, ignoring the priests’ inquiring glances.
There were to be many days feasting and celebration, but Malekith left as soon as the ceremony was complete, his duty having been fulfilled. He felt no urge to linger here, where his father had first thrown himself upon the mercy of the greatest god and been reborn as the saviour of his people. If Bel Shanaar wished to be Phoenix King, then Malekith was satisfied to acquiesce. There were more than enough challenges ahead for him to overcome, Malekith knew, without inciting rivalry and discord. Content for the moment, he journeyed back to Anlec to take up his rule.
As he strode down the plank of their barque, every sinew, muscle, plate and rivet of his body screamed pain but Malekith ignored it, drawing on the immense willpower that had sustained him against such hurt for so long.
The sea surrounding the Shrine of Asuryan was thick with warships, but Teclis’s spells had shrouded their arrival. The Dragon of Lothern blazoned upon every sail. Their crews pounded the ancient walls with every spell and siege engine at their command. These were Lord Aislinn’s vessels, high admiral of the harbour city, the finest ships in Ulthuan. Another section of the shrine’s outer walls collapsed into the sea under the bombardment.
The Shrine of Asuryan was not entirely defenceless. A chorus of screeches split the air as a flock of phoenixes winged across the water. Flames billowed in their wake and washed over a dragonship, timbers and sails catching light almost immediately. The fires spread hungrily, outstripping the crew’s ability to quench them. Archers on neighbouring vessels loosed their volleys skyward, but the swirling phoenixes broke apart, reformed and dived against the next vessel in line.
Caradryan winced as the whine and crack of another volley struck the walls. Teclis hurried out from the depths of the temple, robes and cloak billowing around him.
‘Well, this is glorious,’ Malekith declared. The shrine shuddered, and he reached out to steady himself on a wall lining the road.
‘It is insanity,’ Teclis countered, his irritation palpable. Caradryan said nothing, though the worry on his face was plain enough.
‘Come,’ said the mage. ‘We have no time to waste.’
Progress through the shrine was painfully slow, and every step was punctuated by the strike of an artillery bolt upon the walls, or the bellow of distant merwyrm. By the time Malekith and his companions had reached the entrance corridor’s far end, the clamour of steel upon steel had joined the cacophony outside as Phoenix Guard vied with Aislinn’s marines for control of the island beyond the temple walls. Malekith read in Teclis’s concerned features a sorry conclusion – that the Island of the Flame would soon be overrun.
‘Your plan seems to be failing, mage,’ Malekith mocked as they passed through into the inner sanctum. Two-score Phoenix Guard marched past them and back through the closing gates.
‘I had planned to bring you here at once,’ Teclis reminded him, reliving the bitterness of that particular failure. ‘But you would not be swayed, were determined to follow your pride. Who knows how many have died needlessly because of that hubris?’
The Sapherian took a deep breath. ‘Now we shall both have to hope you are strong enough, despite your injuries. My brother has become Khaine, or something very like him. You know the legends. Only Asuryan can defeat Khaine – Asuryan, or his chosen vessel.’
‘The flame rejected me once,’ Malekith said. ‘Why should it not do so again?’
‘There was no rejection. You simply weren’t strong enough. Asuryan always intended for you to succeed your father. Think on it. Why do you suppose every Phoenix King was shielded by mages in their passage through the fire? Even then, they all passed into madness of one kind or another. It was not just Aethis and Morvael – even those my people revere were consumed by the power or the guilt of a stolen throne.’
‘And what proof have you of this?’ Malekith demanded.
‘Finubar told me,’ he said. ‘Why do you suppose he hardly fought you at the end? He, at least, was good-hearted, but the guilt ate away at him. That is why he so rarely led his people to war. He knew he was but the continuance of a subverted tradition. He was glad to die.’
Without warning, a new sound joined the battle outside: the deep, primal roar of dragons. Teclis gave a small smile. ‘Imrik has come,’ he said quietly. ‘You owe him much, though I doubt you will ever accept that.’
‘Even now, when you know I have no other choice, still you attempt to manipulate me,’ said Malekith.
‘It is my right to be Phoenix King,’ growled Malekith. ‘It is not yours to give, so I will gladly take it.’
‘Traitor!’ screamed Elodhir, leaping across the table in front of him, scattering goblets and plates. There was uproar as princes and priests shouted and shrieked.
Elodhir dashed across the shrine, and was halfway upon Malekith when Bathinair intercepted him, sending both of them tumbling down in a welter of robes and rugs. Elodhir punched the Yvressian prince, who reeled back. With a snarl, Bathinair reached into his robes and pulled out a curved blade, no longer than a finger, and slashed at Elodhir. Its blade caught the prince’s throat and his lifeblood fountained across the exposed flagstones.
As Bathinair crouched panting over the body of Elodhir, figures appeared at the archway behind Malekith: black-armoured knights of Anlec. The priests and princes who had been running for the arch slipped and collided with each other in their haste to stop their flight. The knights had blood-slicked blades in their hands and advanced with sinister purpose.
At last they came to the chamber of the flame. At Caradryan’s nod, the chamber’s guards stepped aside and opened the heavy brass-bound doors. They, like the rest of the Phoenix Guard within the shrine, seemed to think nothing odd of the Witch King’s presence. On the other side of the doors, a broad marble stair led upwards. The chamber was far grander than when Malekith had last been here. At the top burned the flames of Asuryan.
They seemed dimmed to Malekith’s eye, from what he remembered. Did that bode good or ill?
‘Why do you think that Imrik fights for you?’ Teclis asked as the doors slammed closed behind them. ‘Why do you think that the Phoenix Guard have allowed you within these walls? Why was Caradryan ready to die for you? Imrik has learned the truth of things, and the Phoenix Guard have always known it.’
‘Then why do so many of them march under Tyrion’s banner?’ Malekith demanded. Now that he was standing before the flame his uncertainties grew. Why after all this time were his dreams suddenly shared by so many others?
‘They have fallen under Khaine’s sway, like so many others. They knew that if they followed Tyrion, they would join his madness. But they knew also that it was their fate, and so went anyway.’
‘A pathetic excuse.’
‘No, it is an honourable sacrifice,’ Teclis argued. ‘To pledge yourself to the Phoenix Guard is to be haunted, every day, with the knowledge of how you will fail, no matter how flawless your service.’ Teclis closed his eyes briefly. ‘It is not a path I could have chosen. I need hope, and the Phoenix Guard know only certainty.’
‘Weakness.’ As he said the word Malekith felt blood bubbling up in his throat and he degenerated into a terrible, wracking cough. Bloody spittle oozed out through his helm’s mouthpiece to drip to the floor. The Witch King stumbled, and would have fallen had Caradryan not moved to support him. Malekith pulled free. He took three staggering steps towards the flame, then stopped.
‘If I pass into the fire,’ he said without turning, ‘my every striving has been a lie.’
Teclis waited for a moment before speaking, then chose his words carefully. ‘Does that cause you to regret your deeds?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Malekith softly, without thought, but then his voice grew harder. ‘No. I would do it all again.’
‘Then nothing about you was ever a lie,’ said Teclis, ‘and by your words you prove yourself no better than those who stole the throne.’ He sighed. ‘But you are Asuryan’s choice nonetheless. All that is left of our creator waits for you in the fire. If you can withstand the pain, there is perhaps a chance for us all.’
‘And if I cannot?’ Malekith asked.
‘Then the last spark of Asuryan will fade, and those of our people who survive Tyrion’s madness will be consumed by the Dark Gods.’
Malekith was serene; all trace of his earlier anger had disappeared. He walked slowly forward as his knights cut and hacked at the princes around him, his eyes never leaving the sacred flame in the centre of the chamber. Screams and howls echoed from the walls but the prince was oblivious to all but the fires.
Out of the melee, Haradrin ran towards Malekith, a captured sword raised above his head. With a contemptuous sneer, the prince of Nagarythe stepped aside from Haradrin’s wild swing and thrust his own sword into Haradrin’s gut. He stood there a moment, the princes staring deep into each other’s eyes, until a trickle of blood spilled from Haradrin’s lips and he collapsed to the floor.
Malekith let the sword fall from his fingers with the body rather than wrench it free, and continued his pacing towards the sacred fires.
‘Asuryan will not accept you!’ cried Mianderin, falling to his knees in front of Malekith, his hands clasped in pleading. ‘You have spilt blood in his sacred temple! We have not cast the proper enchantments to protect you from the flames. You cannot do this!’
‘So?’ spat the prince. ‘I am Aenarion’s heir. I do not need your witchery to protect me.’
Mianderin snatched at Malekith’s hand but the prince tore his fingers from the haruspex’s grasp.
‘I no longer listen to the protestations of priests,’ said Malekith and kicked Mianderin aside.
His hands held out, palms upwards in supplication, Malekith walked forwards and stepped into the flames.
Prince, priest and knight alike were tossed around by a great heaving. Chairs were flung across the floor and tables toppled. Plaster cracked upon the walls and fell in large slabs from the ceiling. Wide cracks tore through the tiles underfoot and a rift three paces wide opened up along the eastern wall, sending up a choking spume of dust and rock.
The flame of Asuryan burned paler and paler, moving from a deep blue to a brilliant white. At its heart could be seen the silhouette of Malekith, his arms still outstretched.
With a thunderous clap, the holy flame blazed, filling the room with white light. Within, Malekith collapsed to his knees and grabbed at his face.
He was burning.
He flung back his head and screamed as the flames consumed him; his howl of anguish reverberated around the shrine, echoing and growing in volume with every passing moment. The withering figure silhouetted within the flames pushed himself slowly to his feet and hurled himself from their depths.
Malekith’s smoking and charred body crashed to the ground, igniting a rug and sending ashen dust billowing. Blackened flesh fell away in lumps amidst cooling droplets of molten armour. He reached outwards with a hand, and then collapsed. His clothes had been burned away and his flesh eaten down to the bone in places. His face was a mask of black and red, his dark eyes lidless and staring. Steam rose from burst veins as the prince of Nagarythe shuddered and then fell still, laid to ruin by the judgement of Asuryan.
He looked at Teclis. There was concern on the face of the mage, and sympathy too, for it was plain which event plagued Malekith’s thoughts at that moment.
‘Courage,’ said the mage. ‘The courage of your convictions. See through that which you began so long ago, and do not be afraid.’
Malekith hesitated a moment longer and gazed levelly at the loremaster. Now that Tyrion had drawn the Widowmaker, what use did the mage have for Malekith in his schemes? Malekith’s thoughts moved to Imrik. His forefather had been a usurper – perhaps it was the intent to replace Malekith again with the accursed line of the Dragontamer.
‘If Lileath desired you dead your corpse would be an ornament for the Shrine of Khaine,’ said Teclis, guessing Malekith’s line of thought. ‘I could easily have allowed my brother to kill you to seal his pact with the God of Murder. We need a Phoenix King, and you are Aenarion’s heir.’
‘What about the blessings of the priests? The enchantments of the mages?’ If it had served the usurpers well enough, it would serve now. Every fibre of Malekith warned against stepping into the flames.
‘You were right – one of Aenarion’s true lineage needs no protective spells to survive the flame.’ Teclis moved to lay a hand upon Malekith’s arm as the king-to-be took a step towards the flame, and flinched back from the gesture at the last moment, feeling the heat that emanated from Malekith’s armour. ‘You must be ready. Asuryan demands sacrifice and your rebirth is not without pain.’
‘Tell me of pain?’ sneered Malekith. Fire flared between the plates of his armour. ‘It was you that awoke the burning of Asuryan’s curse at Finuval Plain, so tell me, Teclis, what you know of pain?’
Malekith remembered a battle long before Finuval Plain when the nature of Asuryan’s touch had become clear to him, a time when rule of Ulthuan had been moments away from his grasp.
Sulekh’s body slammed into Malekith, crushing him into the ground. Pinned by her massive weight, he heaved at her mass, trying to free himself, letting out a bellow of frustration. He dropped Avanuir to the ground so that he could use both hands to push at the massive corpse that lay on top of his legs and waist.
A prickle of sensation shuddered through Malekith: the touch of magic. He turned his head to the left seeking the source.
A wave of white fire poured towards him. It was beautiful, glittering like moonlight on the sea, flecked with gold and silver. He recognised the flames. He had stood within them to receive Asuryan’s blessing. Now the lord of gods had come again to aid Malekith, as he had Aenarion.
With a surge of power, Malekith heaved free the body of Sulekh. He stood up and faced the oncoming fire, arms spread wide to receive Asuryan’s blessi
ng. The white flames crackled closer and closer, a chill wind against his red-hot armour. He closed his eyes as the fire engulfed him, waiting for the release from the agony that had been his companion for more than two decades.
Fresh pain seared through his chest and arms. Malekith gave a cry and opened his eyes.
It was not the flames of Asuryan that surrounded him, but the halberds of the Phoenix Guard. Each blade burned with the white fires of Asuryan, every blow they landed upon the Witch King igniting the flame that had been set within his flesh by the lord of gods.
The physical pain was as nothing compared to the pain of betrayal. As his iron flesh was rent and ripped by the swinging halberds of the Phoenix Guard Malekith realised he had not received Asuryan’s blessing. His father had not endured the agony he had endured.
The Witch King’s delusion fell away and he saw his punishment for what it was. Asuryan had shunned him, cursed him with everlasting torment. The shock of it brought Malekith to his knees as more blows rained down upon him, carving furrows in his black armour.
‘You must endure,’ Teclis insisted, ignoring Malekith’s barbed words. ‘You will be destroyed and renewed. When you last stepped into the flame you were almost destroyed, and if you had but remained for a few more moments the rebirth would have begun.’
Malekith looked down at the mage, head tilted to one side.
‘I was not cursed?’ He said the words quietly, slowly, trying to digest the importance of Teclis’s message. ‘Though I profaned Asuryan’s temple with blood and sought dominion over my kin? Though I killed Bel Shanaar with my own hands, the Lord of the Cadai would have blessed me if I had endured for a few heartbeats longer? This… This pain… The wars… Six thousand years of grief, because…’
He could not bring himself to voice what he thought, but the mage knew exactly that which vexed him and spoke the concern out loud.
‘Because you were weak, Malekith.’
Hundreds had died agonising deaths simply because they had thought such a sentiment and it shook the Witch King to hear it plainly spoken, but in that moment he felt no anger for Teclis, only a sensation he had not felt for more than six millennia: shame.
