by Gav Thorpe
But Malekith did not stop there.
He was Phoenix King, the Lord of Lords, and to him was owed every oath of fealty and dedication ever sworn upon Ulthuan. With Asuryath a storm of white fire, he called forth every hero and heroine that ever laid down his or her life for the cause of the elves, from Eltharion the Grim who had died only a year before trying to rescue Tyrion’s daughter, to Yeasir, his lieutenant from ancient Anlec, killed when he had stood up to Malekith’s soldiers to protect the heir to Tiranoc before the Sundering had flooded that kingdom.
With these ancient heroes to lead them, the Phoenix King and Everqueen at the forefront of the fight, the army of Malekith surged forwards into Tyrion’s host, possessed of a righteousness of spirit that eclipsed the blind blood-thirst of their foes.
Seeing that the battle turned against him Tyrion was at last forced to come forward himself. His sword arm never ceasing in its rise and fall, he cut his way through the throng, heading directly for the Phoenix King.
‘Finally,’ Malekith said to Seraphon. ‘A foe worth fighting.’
A panicked thought intruded upon the Phoenix King’s mind and in the moment of distraction he noticed that the vortex was almost free, riding and crashing like a ship on storm-tossed waves that had broken its moorings. The sense of another close at hand announced a message from Teclis.
‘Summoning the kings of old has upset the balance of our incantations!’ bellowed the mage into Malekith’s thoughts. ‘Look what your meddling has wrought!’
Malekith glanced towards the lodestones and saw that a handful of the mages were dead, their desiccated corpses propped up against the waystones they had been controlling. Like ribbons in a storm the winds of magic fluttered free and fierce.
The white of Malhandir streaked towards Malekith through the melee, the Dragon of Cothique on the horse’s back a vision of destruction.
‘I have more pressing matters, nephew. I am playing my part, mage, now play yours!’
Taking to the air, Malekith watched as the Phoenix Kings of old tried to confront Tyrion. Each in turn fell to the Widowmaker, speared and sliced by the shard of icy death in his hand. Tyrion plunged onward, reckless in his haste, trampling friend as well as foe beneath the hooves of his steed.
It was then that Malekith realised his error. Tyrion rode not for him, but for Teclis.
Seraphon swooped at his command and magic rained from Malekith’s sword, but Malhandir was swifter even than dragon or bolt or fireball. Cursing himself for his lapse, Malekith strained every nerve to ensnare Tyrion with a spell while Seraphon, urged on by her master, almost tore herself apart in her efforts to catch the blur of white and gold on the ground below.
Teclis was unaware of the doom descending upon him, arms reaching into the air as though he tried to seize hold of the winds of magic like reins. Oblivious to his brother bearing down, the mage howled his enchantments into the vortex.
But there was to be one last turn of allegiance. No mere horse was Malhandir, but descended from the father of horses in the time before the Everqueen. He had borne Tyrion across countless battlefields and almost died a dozen times for his master, but now at the last the Lord of Steeds sensed that it was not Tyrion he carried but a far darker creature.
As Malekith dropped like a comet, Malhandir pranced, tossing Tyrion from his back to fall onto the hard rock of the outcrop where the bases of the lodestones met. The Dragon of Cothique lashed out with the icefang but Malhandir was already galloping away. The Widowmaker in his grasp, Tyrion stalked on, eyes fixed on Teclis.
Malekith smiled as Seraphon flexed her claws. Enslaved to the rage of Khaine, Tyrion had turned his back on the Phoenix King, possessed by the thirst for vengeance against his brother. He was but moments from death.
A piercing shriek cut across the clamour of battle, a warning scream that caused Tyrion to turn when Seraphon was but a heartbeat from snatching up the Dragon of Cothique. Malekith recognised the voice as his mother’s but had no time to curse her interference as Tyrion spun with supernatural speed and speared the Widowmaker towards the diving black dragon, rolling beneath the outstretched claws.
Seraphon needed no command and banked fast, pouring forth a billow of noxious vapour from her maw.
Purple lightning erupted around the dragon and her rider, crackling across scales and armour. Screeching agony from Morathi’s spell, Seraphon spasmed, wings folding as she fell. Malekith leapt clear a moment before she hit the rock, wings and spine cracking, scales and flesh torn by the jagged stone upthrusts.
Landing lightly, Malekith turned to find Tyrion almost upon him. The Widowmaker flashed for the Phoenix King’s throat. Asuryath moved as though of its own accord and the two godly blades clashed with a shower of icy sparks and white fire.
So did Malekith and Tyrion, Asuryan and Khaine, finally meet to decide who would prevail.
THIRTY-FIVE
One King to Rule Them
Tyrion’s sword was in constant motion, but no slower was Malekith’s blade. Ice and fire wreathed the pair, the toll of enchanted steel sounding out with every heartbeat as the two demigods fought.
Malekith was aware that the winds of magic were almost undone, and in this moment stuck true to his task, defending and engaging Tyrion rather than forcing the fight for a kill one way or the other. For Tyrion the duel was a venting of a bloodlust long in the making, his red eyes fixed on his foe, every lick and lash of the Widowmaker intended to maim and kill, only centuries of unthinking instinct moving the Godslayer in defence when Malekith counter-attacked.
Malekith was wounded first, taking a cut to his left arm that bit deep to the bone. Had it not been for Hotek’s craft the arm would have been lost altogether, though the limb hanging dead at his side caused the Phoenix King some difficulty. In retaliation Malekith swept his sword towards Tyrion’s throat. The avatar of Khaine eluded the blow but at the expense of his jaw as the tip of Asuryath raked across his face.
They parted for but a moment and then flew at each other again, their swords a blur to all that watched. Malekith circled, keeping his good side presented to his foe, while Tyrion unleashed a blistering set of strikes both high and low, seeking any gap in the Phoenix King’s defences.
Each was cut a dozen times and more from glancing blows, their suits of armour streaming with blood, their blades hissing with magic. Malekith renewed his efforts, sensing that he was tiring, knowing that he had to overwhelm Khaine’s incarnation quickly. The vortex was almost freed, and in a few more heartbeats Teclis’s spell would be complete.
Tyrion weathered the Phoenix King’s offensive with hasty parries and dodges, always just ahead of the next blow. Malekith could not help but remember the result of their earlier encounter and fear crept into his heart as he looked into the unthinking, raging gaze of his foe. The dread crept through his body like ice, seeping from the wounds inflicted by the Widowmaker, sapping his spirit as well as his stamina.
It was then that Malekith knew he could not win.
The efforts of his earlier sorcery and the wounds he had received had taken too much of a toll. He could defend himself for a time more, but not long enough, or he could try to end Tyrion with one last effort.
His first blow took the avatar of Khaine back a step, his second rang against Tyrion’s helm, almost shearing through his skull. The armour of Aenarion held against the blow, however, and the impact sent shock tingling up Malekith’s weary arm.
As before, Malekith became aware of a presence near at hand – a familiar coiling of Ulgu that he now recognised as the shadow-walking of Alith Anar. Between flurries of sword strokes, he scanned the piles of dead and dying heaped upon the lodestones, searching for the Shadow King.
He finally spied Alith Anar in the shadow of a waystone, calmly watching the fight with the moonbow drawn, an arrow unerringly following Malekith’s heart. Distracted, the Phoenix King could manage only a clumsy parry of Tyrion’s next attack, and to his horror Asuryath shattered from the blow.
&n
bsp; Tyrion’s backswing caught Malekith across the breastplate, rending through the armour of midnight and slicing open his fire-ravaged chest. Hurled to his back, Malekith gasped for air, sucking in hot lungfuls, hands scrabbling in the blood and mud.
Spitting blood, he pushed himself to his feet, the remnant of Asuryath still in his hand.
‘I regret nothing!’ snarled Malekith, raising the bladeless hilt of his sword in mocking salute.
Tyrion replied with a salute of his own, cross-hilt to his chin, before raising the Widowmaker high above his head for the deathblow. As his arm extended, Tyrion turned, and right before Malekith was revealed a tear in Aenarion’s armour where Imrik’s lance had wounded the prince.
Alith had seen it also. While Morathi’s triumphant laughter echoed over the killing ground, a black shaft sped from the shadows and buried to the fletching in Tyrion’s chest. Malekith’s strength fled as he fell back, mirroring Tyrion’s fall as his last life’s blood spurted from the mortal wound.
Morathi’s laughter became a drawn-out shriek of despair, but her cries sounded distant, muffled.
Crashing to the ground face-first, Malekith barely felt his fall. There was a pain in his back, but soon all he felt was numbness. Overhead the winds of magic danced and writhed, finally freed from the vortex.
His heart fluttered and then stopped.
A lifetime and a moment later, Malekith felt himself lifted up, elevated into the sky upon Ulgu the Wind of Shadow. It wrapped about him and pierced him, passing through limb and artery, becoming part of him.
He opened his eyes, still lying on the ground, and felt different.
The winds of magic were no more. As though the sun had burned away a morning mist, their presence had been washed from the world. Inside he felt Ulgu writhe, trapped within his immortal flesh, bound to his body as it had once been bound to the waystone.
All had become still, the sounds of fighting washed away by a clear sea breeze. He heard footsteps and though there was no sensation yet in his body, he swivelled his eyes to see Alarielle picking her way through the falling waystones to hasten to the spot where Tyrion and Malekith lay. Her face was distant and unreadable, while around her the eyes of elves who had hovered on the brink of death snapped open as the Everqueen passed, their broken bones reknitting and their agonies receding.
Alarielle stooped briefly at Malekith’s side. This close, he could feel the raw Ghyran that filled her. Always she had been a queen of life, and now the bargain was made whole, the wind of magic finding home in her. The Phoenix King realised that there was an arrow in his back and though his memory was dim now recalled that Anar had loosed another shaft as he fell, but even this had not finished Malekith. The Everqueen brushed the arrow-shaft protruding from his back and the wood burst into a fine cloud of seeds. They hung in the air for a moment, gossamer against the light. Then the wind scattered them across the rock. The seeds took root wherever they landed, shoots bursting from the husks to burrow into cracks. Alarielle’s presence was all the nourishment the seeds required. Decades of growth occurred in seconds, and soon a thin but glorious glade of oaks stood at the isle’s heart.
Malekith’s fists clenched and unclenched as the strange forest unfurled about him, but he otherwise made no move. Alarielle paid him no further heed. Without a word, she knelt in the dust beside Tyrion. Malekith watched as a single tear spilled from the Everqueen’s cheek, splashing across the prince’s brow. In death, all the malice and cruelty had faded from the prince’s face, and his aspect was again that which had brought hope to his people.
The ground rumbled and a short distance from where Alarielle knelt, a waystone collapsed, showering the ground with dust and shards of stone. The rock where the vortex had once stood fell away, replaced by a seething cauldron of white water.
Malekith, at last roused, staggered to his feet. No one moved to help and as blood splashed to the wet rocks he noticed that not all of his wounds were healing. The shaft of the arrow had been transmuted by Alarielle’s touch, but the tip remained, lodged close to his heart. Every motion was agony, but Malekith was no stranger to pain. He reached out for the Widowmaker, which lay where it had fallen from Tyrion’s hands. Malekith’s Ulgu-wreathed form blurred as he moved, every motion leaving an afterimage of shadow in its wake.
It was Alarielle who first saw Malekith moving towards the icefang. She cried out in alarm and moved to block his path. Others heard the warning and started forward, but were all too late. The shadowy fingers of Malekith’s right hand closed around the Widowmaker’s hilt, and the Phoenix King gave a snort of triumph.
For a long moment, Malekith stood silhouetted against the billowing sea spray, the Widowmaker outstretched.
‘Naught but steel,’ he declared, feeling nothing of Khaine’s power remaining in the blade. ‘Just metal, nothing more.’
The Phoenix King turned and hurled the sword into the frothing waters. For a heartbeat, the Widowmaker glinted darkly. Then it was gone to the depths of the ocean. With its master’s passing, the legendary Sword of Khaine could neither command Malekith, nor offer him anything that a dozen other blades could not provide.
As the Widowmaker vanished, another great tremor struck the Isle of the Dead. Jagged spurs of rock burst from the ground, and waystones sank into the whirling waters. Stone by stone, inch by inch, the island began to slip into the sea. It was the same all across Ulthuan. For thousands of years, only the magic of the Great Vortex had kept the continent above the waves. Now, with the magic scattered, the hungry ocean laid claim to a prize long denied.
‘You have work to do. Save our people,’ Malekith told the Everqueen, sparing a brief glance for dead Tyrion. ‘He really is the very image of my father, you know.’
Malekith managed a few more paces before his injuries and weakness proved too much. He stumbled and then collapsed and his unconscious form was carried from the Isle of the Dead by the survivors of the Shadowfire Guard.
EPILOGUE
His every footstep was silent, his movements precise. He had tracked his quarry for hours, and confrontation was at last here. Silently, the hunter entered the glade, approaching the Phoenix King from behind. The hunter’s bow was slung upon his shoulder, but his hand was on his sword’s pommel.
It was pathetic really. Twice before the Phoenix King had detected the approach of Alith Anar, on the Blighted Isle and the Isle of the Dead. Malekith had become the embodiment of Ulgu, the power of shadow, but the so-called Shadow King still thought that he could sneak up on the former ruler of Nagarythe.
It was strange to Malekith that Alith had survived so long, being nearly as old as he was. Malekith had done so only through the armour of midnight and daemonic pacts, his mother, now swallowed up by the Realm of Chaos trying to prevent Teclis unleashing the power of the vortex, had sustained herself with blood-rites and sorcery, while others like Ariel had been divine embodiments, fragments of the gods on the mortal plane. Alith had spent much time with the raven heralds in his youth, devotees of Morai-heg, so perhaps he was the incarnation not of Drakira the queen of vengeance as some suspected, but of capricious fate itself.
Whatever the source of the Shadow King’s longevity, he had not matured at all, and Malekith saw him as the same broken child pretending to be a prince he had confronted and sent running into the darkness before the Sundering had destroyed Nagarythe.
He had advanced to within a dozen paces when Malekith’s voice broke the silence.
‘I have been expecting you,’ the king announced without turning. Clichéd, but Alith Anar seemed to have turned his life into a long cliché in recent years. ‘Have you come to finish what you began?’
At last Malekith turned, his gaze falling across the other.
‘I do not know,’ said Alith Anar, and there was uncertainty in his voice while suspicion vied with hope in his eyes. ‘I should kill you, avenge the horrors you have wrought…’
His words faded into the darkness.
‘And yet your sword r
emains sheathed,’ Malekith noted, with a faint trace of mockery.
‘As does yours,’ remarked the Shadow King.
‘Perhaps we are neither of us what we used to be.’
‘Perhaps,’ Alith conceded. ‘I wish I could believe that.’
‘Then you have come as my assassin.’
‘No, but I do come bearing a message.’
Alith Anar took a step closer, his gaze hardening as he stared up at Malekith. The Phoenix King smiled, remembering the same resolute look on the youngster’s face moments before Malekith had revealed the fact that he and the tyrannical Witch King of Nagarythe were one and the same, shattering every illusion the boy had held about the world and his former prince.
‘My arrow tip rests next to your heart, and you will never be able to remove it. The agony it causes shall suffice as my vengeance for as long as you serve our people. Fail them, and my next shot will take your life.’
‘Your threats mean nothing,’ Malekith growled.
‘Then you have nothing to fear,’ Alith Anar replied. The moon passed behind a cloud. The Shadow King departed, leaving Malekith alone with his thoughts.
Not long after Alith had left, another entered the clearing. Alarielle stopped beside her husband and held a hand to his arm.
‘It is done?’ she asked.
‘Yes, he was here just now.’
‘It is better this way. If you simply kill him, others will try to avenge him. We are one people again, the aesenar included.’
‘He thinks he has me on a leash,’ Malekith said quietly.
‘Good, it will stop him doing something rash that we would all regret.’ Alarielle slipped something into Malekith’s metal hand and turned away. ‘We will control our own destiny from now on – Morai-heg will tug the strands of fate no more.’
