by Gav Thorpe
So it was under cover of darkness – Malekith swathed in a voluminous cloak, greeted by a handful of servants hand-picked by Imrik – that the Phoenix King arrived in Tor Caleda.
The city of the Dragon Princes sat high in the peaks of the southern Annulii; To the north, south and west the mountains and precipitous cliffs barred any approach save from the air; to the east a single pass held by many towers became an elevated road leading to the barbican of a mighty gatehouse.
Not much more than a high citadel with a broad curtain wall, it was the smallest of the elven capitals, a pale imitation of the former seat of power at Tor Caled. The ruins of Caledor Dragontamer’s birthplace could be visited, several days north, petrified forever when the volcano on which it was built had erupted during the Sundering, burying city and elves alike in a torrent of fire and ash. Caledor had never been a populous realm and there had been little will to rebuild such a large settlement. The outpost at Tor Sarath had naturally grown to accommodate its new importance and taken the name Caleda in honour of the fallen city.
Now it was straining to contain the host of elves that wished to find refuge there. The causeway leading to the gate was thronged with crowds from dawn to dusk, pleading with the guards at the gate for entry. Prince and farmer alike, driven south by the fighting in Ellyrion, were all turned back by order of the newly arrived Phoenix King, though the order had been voiced by Imrik. There was too much risk that Tyrion’s agents were concealed amongst the genuine refugees. What food and shelters could be provided were despatched, but it was little to help and the lords of the city were glad that it was summer – when the season of ice came the causeway would become a snow-covered graveyard if no other sanctuary was found for the dispossessed of Tiranoc and Ellyrion.
Malekith held his first court two days after coming to the city from the Island of Flame. The Phoenix King favoured only three elves to share counsel, even amongst those that knew of his arrival: Teclis, Imrik and Caradryan. All others were sent away with harsh words from their new ruler. Wine and food was left, along with a sturdy throne for the king fashioned by the city’s foremost smithy, for no ordinary chair in the citadel could bear him.
‘War.’
Malekith allowed the word to hang in the air, ringing from the crystal lanterns that hung from the vaulted ceiling. His councillors, standing around the throne, looked at each other, expressions grave.
‘You told me that you wanted a guard of dragons when you became Phoenix King,’ said Imrik. ‘You have them. Lead us into the battle and we will see Tyrion defeated.’
‘Not yet,’ said Teclis. He gestured to the empty scabbard at Malekith’s waist. ‘Urithain was destroyed. You have no blade, your majesty.’
‘Have my sword if that is all you lack,’ said Imrik. He moved to draw his blade but Malekith stopped him with an upraised hand.
‘The Phoenix King does not ride to war with some hand-me-down heirloom of Caledor,’ Malekith snapped. ‘Tyrion already wears my father’s armour and bears his sword – what further indignity do you wish to heap upon me?’
‘What blade would be suitable?’ asked Caradryan.
‘I can answer that,’ said Teclis. He had under his arm a wrapped bundle. Moving aside platters of meats, he made space on one of the tables to unroll his burden. Contained within were shards of bluish-black metal, which Malekith immediately recognised.
‘The remnants of the Destroyer,’ he said, reaching out his gauntleted fingers to touch one of the splinters. It was lifeless, all of the magic gone. ‘How did you come by them?’
‘They were brought with us when Lileath transported us from the Blighted Isle. I kept them, believing the goddess intended something to be done with them.’
‘What can be done with a few broken pieces of sword?’ said Imrik. ‘Tyrion wields the Widowmaker, made by Vaul himself.’
‘He calls it the icefang,’ Malekith told them. ‘I heard him name the blade as he drew it.’
‘The name is irrelevant,’ said Imrik. ‘How does one fight a god-forged blade?’
Malekith looked at Teclis, guessing that the mage already had the answer. Teclis smiled and moved to a long, narrow chest he had brought with him.
‘Do you remember, Imrik, the bargain you struck with our king to secure your alliance?’ the mage asked as he started to unfasten the locks of the casket.
‘All of the dragon eggs that were stolen, and the surviving weapons of Vaul forged in secrecy by Hotek for Malekith’s army.’
‘Indeed.’ Teclis opened the chest and a magical blue glow coloured his face. He lifted out the box’s contents, a heavy smith’s hammer with a golden head emblazoned with a symbol of lightning bolts.
‘The Hammer of Vaul,’ whispered Imrik, eyes widening in amazement.
‘Did you think I had thrown it away, or perhaps lost it?’ said Malekith. He addressed Teclis. ‘Now I understand why you insisted that it was included, in secret, with the artefacts Hotek created for me. Unfortunately, if you had told me your intent at the time I would have avoided today’s embarrassment.’
‘Embarrassment, your majesty?’ Teclis frowned as Malekith stood up and plucked the Hammer of Vaul from his fingers. The Phoenix King swung the Smith God’s divine instrument a few times, leaving a faint auric trail in the air as he walked down the hall. ‘Your majesty, that is not a child’s toy…’
‘It’s useless!’ barked Malekith, spinning to face the others, the hammer pointed at Teclis. ‘With Hotek gone there is nobody left that can wield it, you fool. Do you think that if I had been able to make armour and weapons with the Hammer of Vaul for the last four and a half thousand years I would have sent my troops into battle with iron spears and chainmail? I would have unleashed a legion ten thousand strong with blades that could cut the thickest armour and plate that resisted dragonrage!’
Malekith let the hammer drop from his grasp, cracking the dark stone floor where it fell at his feet.
‘We have priests of Vaul…’ suggested Imrik.
‘So did I,’ Malekith replied with a sigh, returning to his throne. ‘Acolytes of Hotek himself.’
‘They could not wield the power of the hammer?’ said Teclis, picking up the artefact with a disappointed expression. ‘They failed to forge anything?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ replied the Phoenix King. ‘They were deafened and crippled after one stroke. A few, after suitable prompting, tried a second, but they all died. Very grisly.’
‘The world turns and Morai-heg reveals her intentions,’ muttered Imrik, shaking his head.
‘Speak clearly,’ Malekith told him. ‘What do you mean?’
The dragon prince looked at Teclis with an expression of disbelief and fear. ‘Perhaps Lileath does guide your acts, in some fashion. I do not think I can tell you – I must show you.’
‘Show us what?’ demanded Malekith, losing his patience altogether.
‘We must go to the Shrine of Vaul,’ said Imrik. ‘There is someone I think you need to see.’
A fine summer’s evening greeted four mighty guests to Vaul’s Anvil, greatest shrine to the crippled Smith God of the elves. Malekith flew upon Seraphon, who like the others had been saved by Lileath’s translocation, and with him was Imrik on the back of Minaithnir, followed by Caradryan astride Ashtari the phoenix and, below, Teclis borne swiftly over the mountain tracks by his steed of shadow magic. The evening was settling fast when Malekith saw a bright fire in the distance. Situated at the very end of the Dragon Spine range, separated by a wide valley from the rest of the mountains, a solitary peak cast its shadow over the water’s edge, shrouded with cloud and fume. To the northern slope the dragons turned, where steps were carved into the black rock, winding back and forth up the steep incline leading to a carved opening flanked by two gigantic pillars. Atop the columns were statues of bent-legged Vaul. On the left the god of craftsmen laboured over an anvil, a hammer of thunderbolts in his hand. On the right he was bound in chains, weeping over the Sword of Khaine he had forged
.
Before these pillars landed the dragons. Their arrival did not go unnoticed, and acolytes garbed in heavy aprons and thick gloves came out of the shrine’s opening to assist the dragon riders in dismounting. When they saw Malekith they recoiled in horror and some turned to flee.
‘Stay!’ Imrik commanded them. ‘Behold your new Phoenix King!’
This caused some consternation, but Imrik was well known to the priests of Vaul and the presence of Caradryan and Teclis, both renowned for their loyalty to Ulthuan, mitigated their fears a little.
‘It is strange that you should come to us on this day of all days, princes and king,’ said one of the priests. He was older than the others, blinded eyes covered by a band of iron, though he moved without guidance.
‘How so?’ asked Malekith as they ascended the steps.
The priest hesitated before replying, and addressed his words to Imrik. Malekith ignored the insult for the moment, more eager to hear what the priest had to say than chastise his poor manners.
‘The prisoner started ranting this morning, shouting to all that would listen that Vaul had forgiven him.’
‘Prisoner?’ Teclis said, and Malekith exchanged a look with the mage, unsettled by his surprise. If the herald of Lileath did not know what was occurring, was any of the Sapherian’s plan truly god-sent?
‘Take us to him immediately,’ said Imrik, hastening through the arch into the ruddy chamber beyond.
They followed their guides down several levels cut into the rock of the mountain, and stopped beside a metal door at the end of a winding passageway. The door was barred by a dozen bolts, six to each side, and another thick metal spar across the width padlocked at both ends.
They said nothing as word was sent for the high priest to attend, and to bring the keys with him, but Malekith eyed the door suspiciously. He could feel waves of Chamon beating against the iron from the other side.
‘Vaul’s energy, the Wind of Metal,’ Teclis said, slender fingers fidgeting on his staff. He narrowed his eyes towards Imrik. ‘What have they got hidden in there?’
‘He was found in the maze of tunnels beneath the shrine, many centuries ago. Lost, it seems, though how he came to enter them is a mystery,’ explained one of the priests. ‘We could see that he was blinded in the fashion of our order, but none recognised him. I think he must have been from the colonies.’
‘Go on,’ urged Teclis.
‘He was mad, almost dead of thirst. He speaks little, but mutters the great incantations of Vaul. Much of what he says is nonsensical – even our most learned loresmiths can make nothing of it.’
The high priest, Fovendiel, arrived and set about unlocking and unbolting the door, visibly unnerved by the presence of Malekith. He turned before casting aside the final bolt, and looked directly at Malekith, his hand moving to within just a short distance from the king’s chest.
‘Dark work,’ the priest said, fingers flinching from the heat of the armour of midnight. ‘But a miracle, all the same. That we could once furnish such gifts to our allies. Our power is much diminished.’
‘Open the door,’ snapped Malekith, in no mood for reminiscing. Imrik’s coyness angered him, as did the mystery of the prisoner.
Fovendiel did as he had been told, stepping aside to swing the door outwards.
The figure in the room was dressed in a plain robe of black, his white hair swept back by a worn band of black leather studded with ruddy bronze. His features were severe, with high cheekbones and brow sharp. Most remarkable were his eyes, of pure white, just like those of the high priest.
He sat on a stool next to a plain bunk, surrounded by piles of tattered parchment covered with runes, writing and diagrams. Muttering, the elf was fixed upon the contents of a page on his lap.
‘How long ago did you say he arrived?’
‘That’s the miracle,’ said the high priest. ‘He has been here for more than four thousand years. Some greater power sustains him.’
The prisoner looked up, blind gaze drawn straight to Malekith as the Phoenix King stepped across the threshold.
The burning would not stop. It raged in Malekith’s mind long after his body was dead to the pain of the flames. Had his father felt like this? Is this what drove him to the Sword of Khaine, to escape the touch of Asuryan’s blessing?
The thought calmed the prince of Nagarythe. As his father had endured, so would he. What was his torment but another chance to prove his superiority? When he next stood before the princes to declare his right to be Phoenix King none of them would argue. It would be plain for them to see the strength of his character. Who of them could deny that he had passed Asuryan’s test? He smiled at the thought, cracked flesh creasing across the remains of his face.
Their resistance was fuelled by jealousy. The usurper, Bel Shanaar, had groomed Imrik like a prize stallion, though in truth he was nothing more than a plodding mule. The other princes had been blinded to the truth by the whispers of Bel Shanaar. When the evidence of Malekith’s acceptance by Asuryan was presented, they would see through the falsehoods woven by the Caledorian and his supporters. Perhaps even Imrik would bend his knee, as Malekith had so graciously done at the foot of Bel Shanaar.
The curtain surrounding the bed stirred and Morathi bent over him. Malekith tried to rise to kiss her cheek but his body failed him. A spasm of pain along his spine trapped him beneath the covers, as though a great weight was laid upon him. His mouth twisted into a snarl of anguish.
‘Be still, my beautiful son,’ said Morathi, laying a hand on his brow. ‘I have someone you should greet.’
An emaciated elf moved up beside Malekith’s mother, face almost white, eyes pale and unseeing though they fixed upon the prince.
‘Greetings, your majesty,’ he said. ‘I am Hotek.’
‘Hotek?’ Malekith whispered the name, knowing it was impossible that the ancient High Priest of Vaul could be in the same chamber, there and then. He glared at Imrik. ‘This must be some kind of trick?’
‘This is Hotek?’ replied the prince, his surprise as genuine and as deep as Malekith’s. He looked at the prisoner with wide eyes. ‘How can that be possible?’
The old priest laughed, the lines on his face deepening, but there was no madness in the sound as Malekith had feared, only humour. Hotek stood up, setting aside his studies to appraise each of his visitors in turn with blind eyes. He sneered at Fovendiel and bowed his head to Imrik, and then stopped as his unseeing gaze fell upon Teclis.
‘Another godhead,’ said the priest, cracked lips twisting into a smile. ‘I smell moonlight and mystery. Lileath has touched you, my friend.’
‘More than that,’ Teclis replied. He reached out a hand and laid it on Hotek’s shoulder, but drew it back sharply when sparks erupted from the mage’s fingertips. ‘Vaul fills you with the Wind of Chamon.’
‘I am his vessel,’ Hotek said with a nod. ‘I tried to tell these fools but the words would not come properly until now. It is as though a gag was lifted from my lips.’ He looked at Malekith and moved splayed fingers towards the king’s armour. ‘May I?’
Malekith hesitated, but consented. The priest ran his hands over the armour of midnight, the cracks and welds, the scars and rivets, almost caressing the king, his fingers long since inured to the heat of furnaces and forge. When he was done there was a look of satisfaction on Hotek’s face.
‘It has lasted well,’ said the priest, ‘but alas my sense of time has become a little unfocused. I know that when I last set eyes on you, a thousand years had passed since the fall of Nagarythe. I came back here to reclaim the notes I had abandoned during my flight, and the rest is very hazy.’
‘More than four millennia have passed since you left Naggaroth,’ said Malekith.
‘I see,’ said Hotek, receiving this news with admirable calm. ‘I see that my master’s works take time. He came to me, Vaul, and said that I had despoiled his legacy, and that I had to make amends, on my behalf and his.’
‘Is that so?’ s
aid Teclis. ‘How are you to achieve this feat?’
‘By forging the blade that can match the Widowmaker,’ said Hotek. ‘Vaul has gifted me his power and I can sense that you have brought me his hammer. There is something else I will need.’
Teclis was about to reply when Imrik stepped forward, standing between the priest and the other elves. He looked intently at Malekith.
‘We cannot trust this traitor,’ said the prince. ‘He has betrayed Caledor before, to great detriment. What guarantee can he give that he will not do so again?’
‘Because I am willing to pay the price for my previous ill-dealings. Always Vaul loved the mountains and dragons. Oh, I will need a dragon, if you can arrange it, while it occurs to me. Nothing smelts magical steel like dragonfire! Anyway, you will cripple me and chain me to the anvil, and my last deed will be to make the blade that can stand against the Sword of Khaine.’
‘You seem very sure of this,’ said Malekith, pushing Imrik aside to confront the priest. ‘You served me before because you were promised the secrets of the dwarfs, to be wrested from their holds by our conquering armies. What do you want from me now?’
‘All that is ancient history, my king,’ said Hotek, dropping to one knee. ‘You are Asuryan and I am Vaul, and you will need a blade fit for the king of kings. It will happen as I have seen.’
‘You seem awfully quiet, nephew.’ Malekith glared at Teclis. ‘Your mistress did not reveal this to you?’
‘No, but she did speak to you of this moment, did she not?’ the archmage replied. ‘Do you recall her third prophecy?’
‘And comes forth the Crippled One’s bane, the forgotten maker shall be found. On mercy’s anvil shall hope be forged, and silence shall be unbound.’
Malekith hated this talk of gods and avatars, even though he had been through the flame of Asuryan and become one himself. The mythic tales were cycles, and he had no desire to repeat the war of the gods on the mortal plane, not at the dawn of the Rhana Dandra. But that was perhaps the whole point, to be mortal and to break the old cycles of treachery and death. He had been granted the opportunity to be the hub around which the spokes of the future might revolve.
