by Gav Thorpe
‘Your departure is hasty,’ the priest called out, holding up a hand to wave the king to a halt.
‘Empty oaths,’ snapped the Phoenix King, turning to face the high priest of Asuryan as he hurried up the white causeway, robes flapping. ‘Promises were made and now they argue the most eloquent way to renege on them.’
‘They are scared,’ said Mianderin.
‘Of what?’ replied Caledor.
‘Of Malekith,’ said the priest.
The Phoenix King did not know what to say to this. Mianderin took his frown of confusion as a sign of anger.
‘Do not be so harsh on them,’ said the priest, taking the Phoenix King’s arm to lead him to a curving bench on an immaculate lawn beside the road. ‘Some of them saw Malekith emerge from the flames, and even if not for that remarkable survival, his reputation cannot be ignored.’
‘He scares me as well,’ admitted Caledor, pulling aside his cloak of feathers to sit down. ‘That is why we must be united and strike first.’
‘Your fear drives you to action,’ said Mianderin, seating himself beside the Phoenix King, hands held neatly in his lap. ‘Their fear makes them cautious. Something they once believed true has proved false and every other doubt they have is magnified.’
Caledor rubbed his chin and considered this. It had not occurred to him that the other princes would react in this way.
‘You must allay their fears and dispel their doubts,’ said Mianderin. ‘They will follow you, they have shown that, but you cannot drag them with you.’
‘As we speak, the druchii could be on the march,’ said Caledor. ‘We do not have time for endless debate.’
‘And in this, you show your fear to them.’ Mianderin turned his head to look at the shrine. ‘You cannot bully them, as Malekith found out. No matter how weak you think them to be, they are princes of Ulthuan, rulers of their kingdoms, and they have their pride.’
‘Vanity.’
‘Perhaps, but no more than yours,’ said the high priest. ‘What else but vanity would make you believe that they will follow you without question?’
‘Necessity,’ replied Caledor.
‘They see the world differently. They look only at what they have to lose, while you see what can be gained. That is why they chose you, to provide them with the vision they lack.’
‘I am not that sort of leader,’ said Caledor. ‘I do not make speeches or waste words.’
‘And you do not have to,’ said Mianderin. ‘But your actions can be misinterpreted. What does the council think at the moment? Have you abandoned them? They do not know your thoughts.’
Caledor looked at the gleaming pyramid of the shrine like it was a fortress to besiege, his heart heavy. He took a deep breath and stood up with a glance at Mianderin.
‘Let them know my thoughts?’ said the Phoenix King.
The priest nodded with a smile of encouragement.
‘I can do that,’ said Caledor.
He strode back to the shrine, the Phoenix Guard at the door parting their halberds to allow him entry. The Phoenix King stopped and looked at the two silent warriors.
‘Summon your captain, I will speak with him shortly,’ said the king. The guards nodded their assent and Caledor passed into the shrine.
He strode back to his chair but did not sit down. The conversation of the princes died away and all watched him closely. The Phoenix King took off his winged helm and set it on the seat of the throne. He then opened the clasp of his ceremonial cloak and cast the mass of feathers over the throne’s back. Caledor turned to face the others, arms crossed.
‘I am Imrik again,’ he said. ‘Forget the cloak and the crown. Forget the Phoenix King. Listen to Imrik, dragon prince of Caledor, who you all turned to in your time of desperation.’
He strode purposefully across the shrine, armoured boots ringing loudly on the tiles, filling the silence. He stood before the table where Thyriol sat and leaned forwards, fists on its wooden surface.
‘Did you choose me to be your king?’ said Caledor.
‘I did,’ Thyriol replied with a nod.
‘Why?’
The mage looked at the others before he answered.
‘You were the best suited to it,’ said Thyriol. ‘Your skills as a warrior and a general, your determination and your principles made you the best of all the princes.’
‘Is there another that now surpasses me in that regard?’ Caledor’s eyes bored into the mage’s as he waited for the answer.
‘No,’ said Thyriol.
Caledor straightened and looked at the other princes.
‘If any of you disagree with Thyriol, who alone amongst us has chosen two kings, speak your mind now.’
None of the princes spoke. A few exchanged glances. Finudel smiled and nodded, while Koradrel raised a fist in salute. The Phoenix King walked back to his throne and put on the cloak and war helm before sitting down.
‘I am Caledor, the Phoenix King, your ruler,’ he said leaning forwards, fists on the arms of the throne. ‘While I live, we will not be defeated. That is my oath.’
Heartened by this bold declaration, the council agreed to halt the discussions until the next day, when they would hear the Phoenix King’s proposal. As the princes left the main chamber of the shrine, a tall warrior entered, his silver armour gleaming, halberd in hand, flowing white cloak trimmed with embroidered flames of red and gold: the captain of the Phoenix Guard, Elentyrion.
Caledor sat down and waved for the shrine’s chief protector to approach.
‘You are sworn to the protection of Asuryan’s flame,’ said the Phoenix King. ‘Malekith will extinguish that flame if given the chance. He will suffer no other to pass through it. Do you understand?’
The captain nodded once, his eyes not leaving Caledor’s.
‘Your defence of Asuryan’s shrine cannot start and end at the Isle of the Flame,’ the king continued. ‘Should I fail, should we all fail, Ulthuan will be overrun, including this shrine. The Phoenix Guard must fight alongside the Phoenix King if they are to do their duty.’
The commander of the Phoenix Guard considered this for some time, his face expressionless. Caledor thought the warrior’s passive response was a refusal but he eventually bowed to one knee and nodded, placing his halberd at the feet of the Phoenix King. Caledor picked up the weapon – it weighed almost nothing, forged of ithilmar – and told Elentyrion to rise. Handing the captain the halberd, Caledor allowed himself a brief smile. Malekith might have kept an army hidden, but how would they fare against the sacred warriors of Asuryan?
The council was called together early the next day. Caledor was keen to say what he wanted before the princes had time to start their own discussions. As a concession to the time of day, Mianderin had food brought into the shrine and the atmosphere was one of a convivial breakfast as Caledor spoke.
‘We must not underestimate Malekith,’ said the Phoenix King. ‘Yet we must not also overestimate him and his army. There have been times when all has seemed lost. Remember those first years, when the dragons slept and Lothern was besieged. Remember the peril we all felt as Avelorn burned. Remember the dread of Cothique left to its fate. We can remember these things because we have survived them.’
‘Malekith’s return is like nothing we have faced before,’ said Carvalon. He wiped crumbs from his lip with a silk napkin.
‘Malekith cannot be everywhere,’ replied Caledor.
There were looks of confusion from the princes.
‘Neither can you be everywhere,’ said Tithrain. ‘Nor the dragons. It seems to me that we have returned to where we began, waiting for the sword to fall so that we might turn it aside if we can.’
‘No,’ said Caledor. ‘That will not work. I do not know if I can beat Malekith.’
This announcement was met with dismay from the princes. Caledor raised his hand to quiet them but their protests continued.
‘Only yesterday you promised us victory,’ said Athielle. ‘Today you tell us we can
not win.’
‘I did not say that.’ The Phoenix King rose from his throne and began to walk around the shrine, looking at each of the princes in turn as he spoke. ‘We do not have to defeat Malekith. We have to defeat the druchii. Take away his army and he is just a lone warrior. A powerful one, yes, and gifted with sorcery too, but just one elf.’
‘Not from what I saw on the Ellyrian plains,’ said Finudel. ‘He rides the largest dragon I have ever seen, and after what he has endured I am not so sure he is mortal any longer.’
‘We will test his immortality,’ said Caledor. ‘He cannot defeat an enemy that will not face him.’
‘You said the same before, and Avelorn was almost destroyed,’ said Athielle. ‘And what of Cothique?’
‘This war will be hard, but it cannot go on forever,’ Caledor assured them, his confidence growing as he spoke. ‘Avelorn was not destroyed. Cothique is wounded but survives. Ulthuan is stronger than Nagarythe. We are stronger than Morathi and Malekith. Their greed and their hate drives them. Our duty and our loyalty must be as strong.’
‘What do you propose?’ asked Thyriol, who had been busily eating his breakfast while the others spoke, and had not spoken before. He pushed away the remains of his meal and rested his hands on the table. ‘How do we isolate Malekith?’
‘We must offer resistance where he advances, but not commit to open battle,’ said Caledor, continuing to pace. ‘While the druchii attack in one place, we attack them in another. The Anars had it right. We cannot risk this war being decided on a single battle. Malekith will give us no second chances.’
‘Chrace will bear the brunt of the fighting,’ said Koradrel. His shoulders heaped with his white lion cloak, the prince of Chrace seemed to dwarf the others in the room as he stood. He looked at Finudel and Athielle. ‘As will Ellyrion. In Chrace, we know very well how to hunt. The enemy will not breach the passes without casualty.’
‘We Ellyrians are not so well versed in mountain fighting,’ said Finudel. ‘However, we can wage war on the move as well as any Chracian hunts. Malekith will not find us easy to catch.’
‘And I will give the enemy another problem,’ said Caledor. ‘It is still my intent to retake Tiranoc. I will muster the army in Caledor and strike north for Tor Anroc.’
‘Do not expect this to be swift,’ warned Thyriol. ‘This plan of yours will take years to come to fruition.’
‘Aenarion did not destroy the daemons in a day,’ Carvalon said with a laugh.
‘Aenarion did not destroy the daemons,’ Caledor corrected the prince, sitting in his throne. ‘My grandfather did.’
‘And your name will sit easily alongside his in our histories,’ said Tithrain. He stood and raised a goblet of fruit juice. ‘It is too early for wine, but I salute you with all that I have. Cothique has suffered, but we will fight with you.’
The other princes stood also, offering their agreement. Out of the corner of his eye, Caledor glimpsed Mianderin standing at the door of side chamber. The high priest was nodding, a contented smile on his face.
The rain rattled from Sulekh’s scales and hissed into steam where it hit the Witch King’s armour. Rivers cascaded down the mountain slopes, swelled to bursting from the spring deluge. The low clouds clung to the peaks like a shroud, swathing the pass in a thick haze. Malekith’s army picked their way down a slope strewn with boulders and fallen trees, a winding column of black that disappeared into the grey mist.
Closing his eyes, the Witch King felt the bubbling winds of magic washing over the Annulii. With the circlet, he could see every slender strand, the smallest ebb and eddy of mystical energy. He searched for disturbances hidden to normal eyes, seeking the telltale swell and whirl of living things. Giant eagles nested in the heights of the peaks; mountain goats bounded up the slopes in large herds, gorging themselves on grass revealed by the recent thaw; a bear ambled from its cave seeking food; the trees were delicate slivers of life burrowing deep into the soil.
There was something else.
Further down the pass, Malekith detected the glow of fire, drawing the magic of flames to it. A camp. Several camps. Around them he spied the silvery flicker of elven spirits. He turned to the cluster of messengers who sat astride their black horses a short distance from Sulekh, their blinkered mounts trembling with fear.
‘Warn the vanguard,’ said Malekith. ‘There are Chracians on the northern slope, where a bridge crosses a river. It may be an ambush.’
One of the riders nodded and headed off down the mountainside, his steed galloping hard, grateful to be heading away from the presence of the Witch King and his dragon.
It was almost an insult, thought Malekith. Did Caledor rate him so lowly that he thought the Witch King would be caught by such a simple trap? His armour creaking as he turned, Malekith cast his unnatural gaze back towards the west, where his army was still crossing the last shoulder of the mountain. It would be noon before they were all in the valley. It did not matter, he was in no hurry. He wanted his enemies to know where he was.
Malekith looked up, rain hammering into the mask of his helm. Droplets danced and spat on the hot armour. He tried to remember when he had last drunk water. He could not. The fires that burned inside him left him with a ravening thirst but he could not quench it. It was the same with food. Not a morsel had passed his lips since he had been sealed inside the armoured suit. Sorcery alone kept him alive; the magic sustained by the sacrifices bound within the plates of his artificial skin. It was sad in some ways, liberating in others. He could taste nothing but the ash of his own near-destruction, but he could dimly recollect the sweetness of honey, the richness of wine.
Simple pleasures, taken from him by cowards and traitors. The jealous priests of Asuryan had cursed the flames so that they would not accept him. Yet their trickery had not succeeded. He had emerged from the flames with the blessing of the lord of gods. He would throw them into the fires they had tainted with their subterfuge and let them know what their god’s judgement felt like.
The ground trembled. Malekith sensed it through a shift in the magical winds, a turbulence that flowed south along the vortex. His ravaged ears could hear little over the constant crackling of the flames, but the Witch King’s magical sense was far more accurate. Boulders and logs tumbled down the slope from the camps by the bridge. He heard the screams of the warriors who had crossed over to attack the Chracians and felt their bodies crushed by the avalanche unleashed by the mountain-dwellers. The spirit of every dying elf flickered briefly, a pinprick of darkness that was swallowed up by the ever-shifting tides of magic.
There were more shouts and sounds of fighting. A column of march was no formation for battle and the vanguard had allowed itself to be surrounded, despite Malekith’s warning. With a growl, he jerked Sulekh’s iron reins and the monstrous beast launched herself from the rock, plunging down the valley in a swirl of cloud.
Nearing the bottom of the pass, Malekith saw several hundred Chracians fighting against his warriors. He saw the slew of debris blocking the bridge over which the vanguard had crossed, cutting off any reinforcement. Naggarothi warriors called for axes and bars to be brought forward so that the blockage could be cleared.
‘Stand back!’ Malekith roared as Sulekh landed on the near side of the river, clawed feet sinking into the soft mud of the bank.
He waited while the startled soldiers hurried back from the bridge. When they were clear of the crossing, the Witch King extended a hand, drawing in the threads of magic that invisibly wound down the valley, crushing them into pure energy with his force of will. He felt the icy touch of the circlet in his mind as he shaped the magic, a bolt of forking lightning leaping from his fist to smash into the boulders and hewn tree trunks. Stone and wood splinters exploded upwards, cutting arcs through the mist before drifting down onto the foaming water of the river.
‘Is it safe?’ one of the captains called out. The bridge had taken some of the blast, its stone wall collapsed for half its length on one side.
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‘That is not my concern,’ said Malekith. ‘Follow me!’
Sulekh leapt across the river and with a single flap of her vast wings carried Malekith up the far slope to where his embattled soldiers were encircled by axe- and spear-wielding Chracians. Some wore the prized white lion pelts for which their kingdom was famed, the furs heavy with moisture from the rain.
As soon as they saw Malekith approaching, the Chracians scattered, breaking off their attack to sprint back into the woods. Not all reached the safety of the eaves; Malekith unsheathed his sword, Avanuir, and launched a flurry of fiery blue bolts at the retreating warriors, slaying a handful with each detonation. The Witch King drew in more magic and with a shout unleashed it in a broad wave. Where it struck, the trees exploded into black flame, the fire quickly raging up the slope, engulfing even more of the Chracian hunters. Sap exploded and leaves turned to ash as the wave of fire continued along the mountainside, engulfing the tents and wagons of the Chracian camps.
Sustaining the magical fire took all of Malekith’s concentration; as he weaved his metal-clad hand back and forth the fires spread further and further, the heat of the flames dissipating the mist as they engulfed the mountainside. The surge of dark energy flowing through him resonated with the runes of his armour, igniting dead nerve-endings, sending a shiver across the metal’s plates as if it were his skin.
With an effort, the Witch King cut the flow of dark magic, pulling himself back from the brink of intoxication. The mystical flames guttered and died, revealing blackened stumps and bones littered across the mountain. The clatter of armour attracted his attention and he turned to see a squadron of knights galloping across the bridge.
‘Captain, come to me,’ Malekith said, beckoning to the elf who had been in charge of the vanguard.
The captain came forwards, a bloodied sword in his hand, breastplate rent open from a Chracian axe. He dropped to one knee, eyes averted.
‘My apologies, king,’ said the soldier.
He knelt trembling, head bowed, as Malekith steered Sulekh to loom over him. The crest of the captain’s helmet fluttered with each of the dragon’s breaths, wisps of poisonous vapour coiling from her nostrils. The Witch King could feel the elf’s fear dripping from his shuddering body.
