by Gav Thorpe
Within was a bustle of courtiers and servants. At the centre of the chamber a tall figure in bloodstained armour stood over another in gilded plate. There was blood on the floor and apothecaries and mages shouldered and fussed at each other, competing in their attempts to attend the wounded knight.
‘Let me see,’ Malekith growled.
The crowd parted at once, save for a female mage who knelt beside the forlorn figure, channelling waves of rejuvenating Ghyran into the injured warrior’s body. The knight flailed a crimson-covered hand at the sound of Malekith’s voice, beckoning him closer. He turned his head, revealing the features of Imrik, ashen-faced and drawn.
‘What happened?’ the Phoenix King demanded, striding along the hall. He directed the question at the other Caledorian prince, whom he recognised as Marendri, an older cousin of Imrik.
‘The usurper came upon us at the shores of Lake Calliana, in Saphery,’ Marendri explained, his gaze moving quickly between his prince and his king, brow furrowed. ‘He must have marched day and night for five days or more. Possessed he was, falling upon a host five times the size of his own with just a vanguard and the griffon-knights. Tyrion led the attack, killing dozens, driving into the heart of the army before we could reform.’
‘Imrik attacked, didn’t he?’ Malekith said grimly. ‘He ignored my orders and confronted Tyrion.’
‘He saw no other way to save the battle,’ Marendri admitted. ‘He did not seek prolonged engagement, but thought that if he could but drive Tyrion back for even a few moments, our knights and spears would reset and be better prepared.’
Malekith looked at Imrik and saw that his dragonplate armour was cut from left shoulder to the centre of his breastplate. The female mage was trying her best while others were unbuckling pieces of bloodied armour and cutting away the padded jerkin beneath to see the wound more clearly.
‘He struck a fine blow,’ Marendri said earnestly, kneeling to lay a hand on his prince’s leg. ‘It pierced Tyrion’s breastplate, I swear. Any other warrior would have been slain.’
‘Tyrion is no ordinary warrior, not even before he took up the Widowmaker.’
‘It was terrible, like a slash of midnight. It shattered Imrik’s shield like glass…’ Marendri started to weep, a display that made Malekith’s lip curl in disgust. ‘Neremain, Astalorion and Findellion were on the usurper in moments, while I snatched Imrik away to safety. They died, as did three fine dragons.’
Malekith baulked at this thought – that even after being wounded Tyrion had single-handedly killed three dragon princes and their steeds. If Imrik died Malekith would have to lead the army himself. He looked at Imrik, seeing only the barest hints of life remaining despite the healer’s efforts.
‘Your life magic will not avail here,’ Malekith declared, waving the maiden aside. ‘He has been marked by a far darker power. One that must be matched tooth for tooth and claw for claw.’
A nimbus of dark magic coalesced around Malekith’s outstretched hands, forming a pulsing cloud of purple and black. The attending nurses and apothecaries scattered at the display of sorcery, some running wailing for the doors, others whispering mantras of protection against evil.
‘Settle yourselves,’ snarled the Phoenix King. ‘A little sorcery like this is child’s play.’
‘You seek to bring him back from the dead?’ The female mage was aghast.
‘You have a crude view of life and death,’ Malekith told her. He unleashed the dark magic into Imrik, sending it rippling through every part of his body. The prince convulsed, armour clattering on the bloodied tiles, his life fluid spilling from the gash in his armour, head arched back in a silent scream.
Malekith knelt beside the broken prince and poured on more energy, willing severed arteries and veins shut, forcing blood to clot and muscles to knit.
‘You’re killing him!’ screamed the mage. Marendri intercepted her as she lunged towards the Phoenix King, fireballs glowing in her hands. Malekith darted a look in her direction and she shrunk back as if struck, her spell steaming away under his burning stare.
‘He is nearer dead than alive. What the life-giving forces of Ghyran cannot mend, sorcery can reanimate. How do you think I stand here, seven thousand years after my birth, through all of the trials this mortal form has faced?’
So he spoke, and so it was seen in the body of Imrik. Dead tissue came back to life, flooded with freshly pumped blood from a jolted heart, colour returning to the skin. Imrik opened his eyes with a pained gasp, his gaze roving madly around the room for a few moments before it settled on Marendri. Familiarity brought calm. The prince panted as he sat up, his gaze moving to Malekith.
‘I couldn’t run,’ the prince croaked.
‘You were weak,’ Malekith replied, standing up. ‘I still need you. Be stronger next time.’
The Phoenix King turned and marched from the hall, his mood at its blackest for a long time.
TWENTY-NINE
The Bringer of Silence
The day finally arrived, on the cusp of the season of ice, when Fovendiel arrived from Vaul’s Anvil, accompanied by a procession of lesser priests, carrying a rune-etched casket of white wood. Teclis had arrived the night before, bidden, he claimed, to attend the Phoenix King by Lileath – the reason becoming clear when news of Fovendiel’s arrival came to them.
The High Priest of Vaul was admitted to audience with the Phoenix King, but Malekith was in a poor mood and sent away his entourage of smith-priests with thinly-veiled threats, leaving himself with the high priest and Teclis.
‘Does it have a name?’ Malekith asked, as Fovendiel worked the clasps of the casket.
‘Asuryath,’ Teclis answered before the high priest could speak. The bringer of silence. ‘Asuryan’s sword is named Asuryath.’
‘Give it to me,’ rasped Malekith, snatching the box from Fovendiel.
He wrenched open the lid with clawed fingers, breaking the intricate bronze clasps and hinges, to reveal a shard of purest white. To the elves white was the colour of death, purity and silence, the three being indivisible. Thus was Asuryan the true guardian of their spirits, despite Ereth Khial’s rulership of Mirai. His was the last word, His flame was the purifier and His colour – or lack of it – was the blank sheet upon which new futures were written by Morai-heg and the other goddesses of fate.
‘Asuryath…’ Malekith breathed the word, tasting it, savouring it as his fingers closed around the hilt of the bringer of silence. He lifted the sword clear, its blade bursting into pale flame in his grasp. The weapon felt as light as air in his grasp, effortless to swing and thrust and parry. Carving sigils of flame around him, Malekith wove the tip of Asuryath in a complex series of feints, attacks and killing blows, artfully spelling out his own name with wisps of fire as he did so. He laughed, holding up the sword. ‘Hotek is indeed Vaul reborn. This is the blade to match the Widowmaker. Send him my deepest compliments and break his shackles. Tell him he is free to roam wherever he wishes.’
‘Hotek is dead, your majesty,’ said Fovendiel, head bowed. ‘We found him this morning, this blade sheathed in his chest, his hands about the hilt.’
‘He killed himself with it?’ Teclis recoiled from the blade, looking at it as though it were a serpent about to strike.
‘He anointed it,’ Malekith said, shaking his head in disbelief, new-found appreciation for Hotek’s dedication rising. ‘Vaul gave his own blood for the last tempering of the blade, and he will forge no more weapons for the gods.’
‘This is timely,’ Teclis announced, recovering his composure. ‘Tyrion’s army marches for Lothern.’
‘Leave us,’ Malekith told Fovendiel, not wishing to discuss his mind in front of the priest. He could barely bring himself to confide in Teclis, but there was no alternative. When the high priest had said his farewell and departed, the Phoenix King confronted Teclis. ‘Is it enough? Can I beat your brother with this sword?’
‘You fear to face him, even with Asuryath?’
‘I w
ould expect you to be the last to throw accusations of cowardice,’ Malekith replied. There was a white-enamelled scabbard decorated with rubies like drops of blood in the casket. Malekith sheathed his sword. ‘You know that if I perish all will be lost – I must weigh every risk. I will face Tyrion when I must.’
‘It was a genuine question, not an accusation,’ Teclis said. ‘I cannot give you an answer. We shall only know if you are ready when the time comes. Fortunately, that time is not yet here. I am certain that Tyrion has left his army. He has gone north with Morathi, seemingly content after besting Imrik, and has left the prosecution of the war to Korhil.’
‘The name is unfamiliar to me,’ admitted the Phoenix King.
‘The captain of the White Lions. Stubborn, strong, courageous. He is a competent strategist, far more patient than my brother. He musters for a final assault on Lothern and must be stopped.’
‘Must?’ Malekith hung Asuryath on his armour, tying the silver hangers to his belt. It felt as natural as the Destroyer had done ever since he had lost Avanuir at Maledor. ‘That sounds like instruction, nephew.’
‘No, your majesty, simply a statement of strategic imperative. If Lothern falls Lord Aislinn will reunite his fleet and sweep away our ships in the Sea of Dreams. From Lothern they can attack Caledor directly. If we do not stop their advance at Lothern, Tor Caleda will be besieged before midwinter.’
‘The geography lesson is appreciated,’ Malekith growled. ‘Your assessment is pessimistic. The defences of Lothern are strong and our fleet outmatches any seaborne-attack Aislinn can muster. Why must I intervene now?’
‘The warriors of Lothern will not fight for long for a cause that is, at best, nebulous to them. It is only the presence of the Caledorians that stiffens their resolve for the moment, and only Imrik that led the Caledorians. However, unless you wish to see a reversal of the events at Eagle Gate, the people of Eataine need a focus for their loyalty. The time has come to reveal to them and all of Ulthuan that they have a Phoenix King, and it is not Tyrion.’
Malekith accepted this appraisal without comment, and after some time Teclis interpreted his silence as dismissal and left the Phoenix King to ponder his decision.
The king had been quick to quash any thought of cowardice, but alone in that hall he was free to admit to himself a very physical, mortal fear. He could hide it behind talk of surviving to lead his people, and justify his continued absence from the battlefield as sound strategy, but the truth was that he was afraid to test himself against Tyrion again. He had barely survived the last encounter and, Asuryath or not, he was in no hurry to repeat the experience.
Tyrion was every bit the swordmaster that Aenarion had been and now he wielded the Sword of Khaine. There was no deadlier fighter in the world.
It did not matter that Tyrion was not at Lothern in person. Malekith could break the siege, he was sure of it, but the moment he revealed himself the future would be set, the wheel would turn along the rut that led to the fight between Asuryan and Khaine, Malekith and Tyrion. Was there any more that he could do to prepare himself for that confrontation?
THIRTY
The Battle of Lothern
The war was within view of Lothern’s walls. To the east the fields burned and the skies darkened with smoke. To the north the flotsam of sea battles, timbers and corpses, washed towards the city on lapping waves. The wind carried the clamour of battle, the crash of weapons, the curses and war cries, distant yet all-consuming.
The corpses of dragons mouldered on the hillside meadows, iron-hard scales pierced by hundreds of arrows and the bolts of war engines. Griffon bodies lay beside the feathered remains of phoenixes and harpies, figures cloaked in lion pelts and sea dragon hide, casualties of Ulthuan and Naggaroth combined, slashed and stabbed, decapitated and burned.
The air danced with Azyr lightning and Hysh thunderbolts. Sorcery and high magic whirled in multicoloured thunderheads and opened chasms lined with jagged boulder-fangs. Trees enervated by Ghyran magic uprooted themselves and hurled their branches at any creature encroaching on their woodlands, while walls of fire incinerated farms and hostelries, fed by growing waves of Aqshy. Bear, lion and panther followed the call of Ghur, and unseen lurking things crept in the shadows of Ulgu. Ancient spirits wailed their laments, their chill weapons freezing the hearts of those that came near their mausoleums, and the lodestones that powered the vortex crackled and fizzed with discharging magic, unable to beat the huge influx of magic pouring from the Northern Wastes.
The archers and spear-wielding militia on the walls of Eataine’s capital tightened their grips and looked east, seeing the first ranks of the retreating columns marching into view. The dragons appeared overhead, manticores amongst them, duelling with skycutters and great eagles.
The banners of Caledor and Eataine fluttered at the head of the returning army, but there were other standards too – grisly icons of the Cytharai, dire runes carved into steel and bone, wound about with thorny branches and hung with entrails. These were the marks of the druchii, vicious and depraved, but made uneasy allies by some means by which a great many within the city were unsure. Their princes vowed for the alliance and they fought for the princes, but it was unsettling to see the black-and-purple-clad legions of Naggarothi bearing down upon the landside gates.
And the enemy were almost on the heels of the returning host, many thousands of knights on horseback, the chariots of Tiranoc rumbling through the fields and along the white-paved roads. The banner of Cothique flew high above many of the advancing regiments, along with those of Yvresse and Chrace. White Lions and Phoenix Guard, once symbols of Ulthuan’s unyielding defence, now threatened to sack Lothern.
Across the Inner Sea came Aislinn and his fleet, and this caused even greater consternation. Born of Eataine, the Sea Lord now seemed content to see his own city ruined rather than held by another. Magical bolts flew from the decks of his ships to crash against the stones of the sea walls, while seaguard loyal to Aislinn unleashed volleys of arrows against former companions that remained true to the defence of their city.
No order was given for the gates to open, and none demanded. The Caledorian dragons turned and formed a rearguard, passing across the lead elements of the following host with fire and claw, driving back the enemy for a short while, until press of numbers and threat of being overwhelmed caused them to fall back. The task was complete, however, and the army that now fell under the command of the Naggarothi corsair Lokhir Fellheart formed for the final battle for Eataine, perhaps even the last meaningful battle for Ulthuan.
Flying at speed across the city, Malekith sensed the changing tide of war as a prickling on the skin. He had not felt as invigorated as he did now since the Battle of Maledor, when first his plans to rule Ulthuan had been crushed. More than that, it was at Maledor that he had come to believe Asuryan had rejected him, and it had been that revelation that had soured his ambition for the following millennia. Now that he had been accepted again by the king of the heavens, Malekith felt enlivened, dedicated to his cause by a fresh enthusiasm that could sustain him for another six thousand years of war.
His laugh was carefree, and something of his old flair for exhibition filled him. Beneath him Seraphon sensed his mood and let out a roar. Just as she had been raised from a captured egg by his hand, she had been restored to full health by his dedication and sorcerous attendance.
Malekith drew Asuryath and laughed again, buoyed by the flame of Asuryan that burned from the blade. The sword left a trail of silver and white across the grey skies, and bathed both black dragon and rider in a pale halo.
The Phoenix King realised just what it was that he felt, and he marvelled that he had missed it for so long.
Righteousness.
It had been stripped from him that day on the field of Maledor, tainting his ambition, perhaps fuelling an inner doubt ever since. Now he knew that he fought not only for himself but for Ulthuan and for the elves.
For an instant, a fleeting heartbeat, h
e was wholly at peace with himself.
He swooped down upon the oncoming army like a comet, a dozen black dragons in his wake. At his arrival Lokhir Fellheart signalled the counter-attack and trumpets blared across Lothern, ordering the gates open and the companies within to spill forth. On the western horizon the looming shapes of massive black arks, each a castle brimming with warriors and war machines, closed on the fleet of Lord Aislinn. Fellheart’s own black ark, the Tower of Blessed Dread, led the seaborne charge, bearing directly for the gates of Lothern.
The clarions of the attacking army quickly changed from calling the advance to sounding the retreat. On the Sea of Dreams Aislinn’s fleet quickly hauled about and set to the east, fleeing for the shallower waters of the Sapherian coast. Imrik, though not fully recovered, had insisted on accompanying the Phoenix King and he joined his dragons in pursuit of the breaking ships while Malekith’s black drakes savaged the fleeing elements of the land-bound host.
After the initial exhilaration of the charge, three dozen foes cut effortlessly apart by Asuryath, as many again torn to shreds by Seraphon, Malekith’s mood deflated. He broke off his attack, uncharacteristically bored by the mindless butchery. The battle had been won at the moment of his arrival, that much was clear, and it seemed pointless to slaughter his new subjects to settle the point.
It was then that he did something entirely against his normal judgement. He signalled his forces to stand fast, ordering them to marshal the thousands that had surrendered. This allowed Korhil and the rest of Tyrion’s force to flee eastward. Imrik responded after a time, returning from his pursuit to find the Phoenix King atop Seraphon in the shadow of the eastern wall watching the captives filing back into the city.
‘We had them!’ barked Imrik, stowing his lance behind his saddle-throne. ‘We could have crushed them, destroyed all resistance in one attack. What madness in Asuryan’s name has taken your senses?’
