by Gav Thorpe
Thyrinor was so incensed by the accusation, words failed him. Before he could speak, another prince was making his voice heard.
‘Be careful of what you say, your arrogance does you a disservice,’ warned Haradrin.
‘I say these things not as barbs to your pride,’ explained Malekith, unclenching his fists and sitting down. ‘I say them to show you what you already know; in your hearts you would gratefully follow where I lead.’
‘I still say that this council cannot make such an important decision on a whim,’ said Elodhir. ‘My father lies dead, in circumstances yet to be fully explained, and you would have us hand over the Phoenix Crown to you?’
‘He has a point, Malekith,’ said Haradrin.
‘A point?’ screamed Malekith as he surged to his feet, knocking over the table and sending the cloak and crown upon it flying through the air. ‘A point? Your dithering will see you all cast out, your families enslaved and your people burning upon ten thousand pyres! It has been more than a thousand years since I bent my knee to this council’s first, wayward decision and saw Bel Shanaar take what Aenarion had promised to me. For a thousand years, I have been content to watch your families grow and prosper, and squabble amongst yourselves like children, while I and my kin bled on battlefields on the other side of the world. I trusted you all to remember the legacy of my father, and ignored the cries of anguish that rang in my blood; for it was in the interest of all that we were united. Now it is time to unite behind me! I do not lie to you, I shall be a harsh ruler at times, but I will reward those who serve me well, and when peace reigns again we shall all enjoy the spoils of our battles. Who here has more right to the throne than I do? Who here–’
‘Malekith!’ barked Mianderin, pointing towards the prince’s waist. In his tirade, Malekith’s waving arms had thrown his cloak back over his shoulder. ‘Why do you wear your sword in this holy place? It is forbidden in the most ancient laws of this temple. Remove it at once.’
Thyrinor felt Caledrian tense next to him. Remembering his cousin’s words, the dragon prince moved his gaze to the Anlec knights. They too had weapons at their hips, their gauntleted hands upon the hilts.
Malekith stood frozen in place, almost comic with his arms outstretched. He looked down at his belt and the sheathed sword that hung there. He gripped his sword’s hilt and drew it free. The Naggarothi prince looked up at the others with eyes narrowed, his face illuminated by magical blue fire from the blade.
‘Enough words!’ he spat.
Thyrinor sat rigid, transfixed by the glow of fabled Avanuir in Malekith’s fist. Caledrian moved behind his chair, grabbing hold of the back in both hands. Thyrinor felt the waves of magic flowing from Malekith’s blade, mixing with the mystical draught that poured from the sacred flame, tinged with an aura that now spread from Thyriol.
‘You were overlooked before,’ said the mage, holding out his hands in a placating gesture. ‘I bear in part the responsibility for that choice. Let us do nothing hasty, and consider again our positions.’
‘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.
The knights started forwards and Caledrian leapt to meet the closest, crashing his chair into the Naggarothi’s helmed head to send the knight slamming against the wall. Out of instinct, Thyrinor rose to his feet and reached to his belt, but there was no sword there, for all the princes save Malekith had obeyed the strictures of Asuryan.
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.
The knight Caledrian had attacked recovered quickly, deflecting the prince’s next blow with a raised arm before shoving the Caledorian against a table. In a moment, the knight’s sword was in his hand.
Confusion reigned. As Bathinair crouched panting over the body of Elodhir, figures appeared at the archway behind Malekith; more 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 the hands and advanced with sinister purpose.
Thyrinor launched himself at the warrior confronting his cousin, tackling him to the ground. The knight swung an armoured fist, stunning Thyrinor with the blow. He staggered back, vision spinning as the knight surged to his feet and loomed over Caledrian. Past his cousin, he saw the mage, Thyriol, smashed to the ground by an armoured fist while the other princes tried to wrest weapons from the Naggarothi knights.
Malekith walked slowly through the melee 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. Thyrinor threw himself groggily at the closest knight, grasping hold of his sword arm as it descended, trying to twist the weapon free.
The knight’s elbow struck Thyrinor on the chin, sending him sprawling. The distraction gave Caledrian time to recover himself, holding the chair in front of him as a shield. The knight’s sword hacked through the chair in a shower of splinters, Caledrian reeling back from the blow.
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.
As Thyrinor lunged again, the knight turned, sword swinging. The blade’s tip scored across Thyrinor’s chest and arm, spraying blood. With a wounded cry, Thyrinor fell to the ground, clasping his good hand to the injured limb. Through the haze of pain, he saw Caledrian seize the knight from behind, wrapping an arm around his throat.
The knight flailed but could not dislodge the Caledorian prince. Thyrinor tried to stand, but his legs gave way and he slumped back to the flagstones. With his other hand, Caledrian wrested the sword from the knight’s grip, the weapon clattering to the floor.
A shadow loomed up behind Thyrinor’s cousin. He tried to shout a warning, but was too late.
Blood fountained as another knight hacked Caledrian’s head from his body with one sweep of his sword. The first knight recovered his weapon and turned on Thyrinor.
Unable to defend himself, he rolled away from the blow, trailing blood, a cry of pain wrenched from his lips. He dived under a table, which shuddered a moment later from an impact. Between armoured legs, Thyrinor glimpsed bloodied bodies on the ground. Entranced by the slaughter, he turned his gaze up and saw Malekith.
His hands held out, palms upwards in supplication, the Naggarothi prince walked forwards and stepped into the flames.
A moment of silence and stillness engulfed the shrine and every pair of
eyes turned to the sacred fire. 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.
Thyrinor heard a dull rumble, as of thunder, which returned with greater ferocity. The floor trembled beneath him and motes of mortar dust sprinkled down from the ceiling. Pieces of tile pattered onto the table above him and shattered on the flagstones.
With a lurch that flung Thyrinor into a table leg, the ground heaved. Stones erupted across the paved floor, hurling broken fragments. Prince, priest and knight alike were tossed around by the great tumult. 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 cloud of dust and rock that choked Thyrinor.
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 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 pain of that cry pierced Thyrinor’s heart, a shrill wail of agony so sickening, so filled with rage and frustration, it twisted his gut and gnawed a path into his mind, where it would dwell forever. 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 burnt 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.
The knights rushed to their prince’s aid, while the bloodied and battered princes took what shelter they could as debris continued to fall around them. Lifting up the body of their master, the knights pushed towards the entrance. Several princes tried to bar their escape and were swiftly cut down, their blood spilling onto the dusty flagstones.
Thyrinor staggered out from under the table, and witnessed a scene of stomach-wrenching carnage. Bodies and limbs, of princes and priests, littered the floor. Pools of blood and piles of gore were slick underfoot as he numbly paced around the shrine room looking for survivors.
‘So many killed,’ he muttered, staring into dead face after dead face.
The princes of Ulthuan were slain. The elite of elven nobility lay dismembered and torn all about Thyrinor and he wept; for what had happened, for what he saw and what he feared would next come to pass.
PART TWO
The Treachery of Malekith; Race to Chrace; Imrik Becomes King; The Siege of Lothern; Avelorn Burns; The War Takes its Toll
FIVE
A KING IS CHOSEN
The interior of the shrine was awash with the blood of princes; the walls cracked and broken by the earthquake; the floor littered with debris and bodies. Carathril picked his way through the ruin, a hand over his mouth in horror. The ghastly scene was bathed in a deep red glow from the flame of Asuryan, lending it an even more disturbing sheen.
With a groan, Finudel sat up, pushing aside the armoured body of a Naggarothi knight. His robe was slashed across his right shoulder and blood leaked from a long wound as he staggered to his feet. Carathril dashed to his side and helped him to stand. Finudel looked at Carathril, his eyes glazed and distant, incomprehension written across his features.
‘He was the best of us,’ murmured Finudel. ‘How could he betray us?’
‘Who?’ asked Carathril, righting a chair with his free hand and lowering the prince onto it. ‘Who has betrayed us?’
‘Malekith…’ Finudel whispered.
A groan attracted Carathril’s attention and he left Finudel to search through the morbid pile of corpses, blood slicking his hands and sleeves as he pushed aside the bodies. A hand grabbed at the hem of his robe and Carathril turned to see Thyriol, his face even paler than usual. There was a cut across his forehead and dried blood caked the mage’s eyes.
‘It is Carathril,’ the captain said softly. ‘You are safe now.’
‘No,’ said Thyriol, his voice a hoarse rasp. ‘None of us are safe. Malekith will unleash the darkness of Nagarythe upon us all.’
‘Malekith is dead,’ a voice rang from the far end of the shrine. Carathril glanced up to see Thyrinor, prince of Caledor, where he knelt upon the floor cradling the headless body of his cousin, Caledrian.
‘How so?’ asked Thyriol, his voice regaining some of its former strength and timbre.
‘I saw him step into the sacred flame,’ Thyrinor told them. ‘Asuryan judged him to be tainted and burnt him alive before casting his body back to us. His knights fled with the remains.’
‘I saw them,’ said Carathril. ‘And Bathinair also.’
‘Yes, Bathinair killed Elodhir, with a concealed blade,’ said Thyrinor. ‘Who can say how long he has been a puppet of Nagarythe?’
They digested this news in silence, until Finudel stirred himself and stood shakily to his feet. He walked hesitantly towards the shrine entrance, one hand gripped to his injured shoulder.
‘I thank Asuryan and all gods that Athielle was not here for this butchery,’ the Ellyrian said quietly.
‘There are too few who were absent,’ said Thyriol. ‘More than half the ruling princes of Ulthuan lie dead in this chamber. Of those that remain, most are lords of Nagarythe. Malekith’s treachery has bitten deep, inflicting a wound from which we might never recover.’
‘Malekith may be dead, but Nagarythe remains,’ said Thyrinor. ‘I fear that Morathi knows full well what her son intended, and even now Nagarythe readies for invasion of the other realms.’
‘She will take the death of her son gravely, and will vent her grief and anger upon the rest of us,’ said Carathril. ‘I see now that the divisions between mother and child were feigned, and that these past months we have been led upon a deadly dance of deception.’
‘But there is no one left to lead,’ growled Finudel. ‘Who will muster the militia? Who will call the spears and bows to war against Nagarythe when the best of our commanders lie dead within this chamber?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Thyriol. ‘Many died here, but there are those alive still that might stand against Nagarythe.’
‘You speak of Imrik,’ said Thyrinor.
At the mention of the Caledorian prince’s name, Carathril remembered a letter entrusted to him by Bel Shanaar. He ran from the temple, leaping nimbly and without second thought over bodies and rubble. He noticed that Malekith’s ship had departed, along with the knights and cultists, having hurriedly left their unloaded stores upon the quay. Compelled by nameless worries, Carathril sped between the pavilions of the camp, which were in tumultuous uproar as servants and soldiers dashed about, panicked by the earthquake. He ducked beneath streaming banners and leapt over tent ropes in his haste, dodging effortlessly through the milling throng.
Reaching his tent, Carathril tore aside the door and delved into his pack, seeking the scroll. Pulling it free from its hiding place, he turned back towards the shrine. A warrior in the garb of Eataine recognised him and snatched his arm as Carathril ran past.
‘Where is the prince?’ the soldier demanded.
Carathril hesitated before replying.
‘Prince Haradrin is dead,’ he said quietly, lifting the elf’s grip from his bloodied sleeve. ‘Gather as many soldiers as you can and await my return.’
Carathril ignored the elf’s desperate questions and ran back to the shrine, vaulting over the fallen columns in his haste. Entering once more, he saw that several priests had escaped the slaughter, and they were even now tending to the bodies and the devastation, shock and
grief scored upon their faces. Thyriol and Finudel were having their wounds bathed and dressed, and Thyrinor picked his way through the fallen princes and their counsellors seeking any still alive. His grim face betrayed his lack of hope in this task.
‘What do you have there?’ asked Thyriol, as Carathril held up the scroll.
‘Perhaps the last wishes of the rightful Phoenix King,’ panted Carathril. ‘Bel Shanaar entrusted me with this message for Prince Imrik before I left Tor Anroc.’
‘Open it,’ said Finudel, but Carathril was reluctant.
‘Bel Shanaar was adamant that Imrik alone read whatever is contained within,’ said Carathril. ‘I was to keep it secret from you all.’
‘Bel Shanaar has been murdered and Imrik is not here,’ said Thyrinor sternly. ‘I think it is safe to say that those who have sided with Nagarythe are not here, either, and that we who have survived remain loyal to Ulthuan.’
Though he was not wholly convinced, Carathril relented and broke the wax seal upon the scroll. He read aloud the Phoenix King’s letter:
To the Esteemed Prince Imrik of Caledor,
You must forgive me the subterfuge that surrounds the delivery of this letter, for as you are aware, we live in distrustful times. Events in Nagarythe lead me to believe that the cults and sects that have so plagued our people these many years are but one thread of a dark tapestry woven by those who rule in Nagarythe. Morathi’s turn to darkness is absolute, and I cannot bring myself to trust Malekith, though he seems most earnest in his endeavours to bring peace to Ulthuan. I cannot say that there are any in the Northern Realm who remain loyal to the Phoenix Throne.
While my heart hopes that war can yet be averted, my head tells me otherwise. Malekith is determined to prosecute a military campaign against the Naggarothi, and in this I am in accord with him. Where our opinions differ is in who is best chosen to lead this action. I cannot wholly trust Malekith, for even if he is not complicit in these events in some way, he is the prince of Nagarythe and son of Morathi and I fear that his resolve may not endure the calamity of fighting those whom we must face; friends and trusted peers of his, and folk of his own realm.
