There was no sense of victory, no jubilation amongst the warriors of the army. The princes of three kingdoms had fallen to the Witch King and their armies were wracked with grief. The elves wept at their losses; many thousands would never return to their homes. The strength of Nagarythe had been broken, but at tremendous cost.
As the night deepened, Caledor was numb in body and mind. He refused to leave the battlefield until all of the other wounded had been attended, sitting against Finudel’s steed where he had slain the black dragon of Malekith.
Campfires were lit, far from where the fighting had taken place for none wished to look upon the heaps of the dead; a grisly task that would wait until the next day. Finally Caledor allowed himself to be lifted onto a bier. He was about to be taken back to his pavilion when a shout of challenge cut the darkness.
By the flickering glow of the fires, indistinct figures could be seen. Hooded and cloaked, they hovered on the edge of vision. Caledor heard a whisper from one of the elves carrying him.
“The spirits of the druchii!” the captain hissed. “Even in death they hate us.”
“Not so,” said a voice from the darkness.
The White Lions brought up their axes as a black-clad figure emerged from the shadows. He pulled back his hood, revealing himself to be Alith Anar.
“There are still some Naggarothi alive on Maledor this night,” said the Shadow King.
“You are late,” said Caledor.
“For your battle?” said Alith, his voice tinged with scorn. “I told you that I do not fight for the Phoenix King.”
“What do you want?” said Caledor, too tired and sore for an argument.
“I want you to leave Nagarythe,” said Alith. “You are not welcome in my lands.”
“Your lands?” barked Dorien, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword.
Alith moved quickly, so fast it appeared that one moment he was standing with arms crossed, the next he had his silver bow in his hand, an arrow pointed at Dorien’s throat.
“My lands,” said the Shadow King. He spoke to Caledor, but his eyes did not move from Dorien. “Three thousand of my warriors surround your camp. If any of your soldiers raise a weapon against me, they will cut you down.”
Caledor looked into Alith’s eyes and judged that this was no empty threat. He waved Dorien to stand down.
“Malekith has survived, so too Morathi,” said the Phoenix King. “I must go to Anlec to finish this.”
“You have done your part,” said Alith. “What remains is the business of Nagarythe and no other kingdom.”
“You need my help,” said Caledor.
“I have never needed your help,” replied Alith. “I wish you no harm, but if you try to march on Anlec I will be forced to stop you. Do not interfere any more in the affairs of the Naggarothi. When Malekith and Morathi have been dealt with, you will hear from me.”
Looking at the young Shadow King, Caledor saw nothing but determination and sincerity. The Phoenix King knew that the shadow army could not stop him, and Alith had to know that as well. That did not make the prospect of fighting a fresh battle any more encouraging. The druchii had tried for more than twenty years to defeat the Anars, what chance did he have?
“You have my agreement,” said Caledor. “For the moment. You cannot allow Malekith to regroup. I will return to Nagarythe in the spring with my army to finish this, if you have not done so already.”
“You would be given commands by this Naggarothi whelp?” snarled Dorien, taking a step.
“Shut up, Dorien!” snapped Caledor.
“Listen to your brother, Dorien,” said Alith. “Your tongue will be your death, and the deaths of many others.”
Growling wordlessly, Dorien stalked away, flicking a dismissive hand at Alith as he departed. The Shadow King lowered his bow, though the arrow remained nocked to its string.
“Thank you,” said Alith. “I will leave now, but be assured we will be watching: When you have taken care of your dead, march east.”
Caledor said nothing. The Shadow King withdrew into the darkness, merging with the night. Caledor waited for a while, until reports came back from across the camp that the shadow army had also gone.
In his heart he knew he could not trust Alith Anar to deliver on his promise. Even with the army of Nagarythe all but destroyed, Anlec would be no easy victory. Malekith and Morathi would not submit until the last of their strength was spent.
Now was not the time to pick another fight. The Phoenix King would give Alith a chance to try and fail, and would return in the spring with his army to finish the war for good. If anything, the shadow army would wear down the last resistance, making the final task easier for Caledor.
As he drifted off to sleep, Caledor was filled with relief. The fighting was not yet done, but the war was almost over. Nagarythe’s armies would not swiftly recover from their defeat, if at all.
There was nothing the Witch King could do now, his last gambit had failed.
—
The Sundering
The throne room at the heart of Aenarion’s palace was shrouded in darkness. The only light came from the glow of the Witch King’s armour, casting flickering shadows from the twelve figures that stood before him.
The humiliation hurt more than his wounds, though they were grievous; the blows of the Phoenix Guard had reignited the fire of Asuryan that had been set in his flesh. Malekith did not retreat from the pain as he had done before. He embraced it. He nurtured it. The agony in his body fuelled the rage in his spirit.
“I will not be denied,” Malekith growled.
“We are defeated, master,” said Urathion, the sorcerer-lord who ruled over the citadel of Ullar. “There are barely enough troops to defend the walls and the army of the accursed Anars will surely come soon.”
“Silence!” Malekith’s shout reverberated around the hall, echoing from the distant walls. “There will be no surrender.”
“How can we resist with our armies scattered?” asked Illeanith. The sorceress, daughter of Thyriol, asked the question in a whisper, voice full of fear. “It will take too long to withdraw our garrisons to the city.”
“We will have a new army, one that Imrik and his fawning minions will never defeat,” said Malekith.
The Witch King stood up, armoured feet ringing on the stone floor as he took several steps closer to the ring of wizards. He held out a smoking hand and cut the air with a finger. A line appeared, bulging with energy; a torrent of formless colour and noise screamed from the tear in reality. The line widened to a gap, pulled apart by clawed hands to reveal leering daemonic faces. A scaled arm reached through.
The rift into the Realm of Chaos wavered. The arm withdrew as the rent sealed itself, disappearing with the sound of tearing metal. It had lasted a few moments, but left no trace of its existence.
“Daemons?” said Urathion.
“An endless army to command,” said Morathi, stepping into the circle, her skull staff in hand. “Immortal and impervious. What better host to serve the lord of Nagarythe?”
“It would take all of our power to summon a handful of daemons,” said Drutheira, once an acolyte of Morathi, now a fully accomplished sorceress. Her dark hair was twisted with silver and her pale skin painted with runes. “There are yet the artifices of Vaul that can destroy a daemon’s form; enough weapons to defeat any host that we might conjure.”
“We do not have to summon them,” said Malekith. “We need only to break the bars that keep them imprisoned in the Realm of Chaos.”
There was silence as the cabal considered what this meant. It was Urathion that broke the quiet.
“You mean Caledor’s vortex?” said the sorcerer.
“It cannot be done,” said Drutheira. “The vortex is powered by the lodestones of Ulthuan. We would have to destroy them, and most are in the lands of our enemies.”
“It can be done,” said Morathi. “Not by destroying the lodestones, but by overloading them.”
/> “A sacrifice,” said Malekith. “Together we will create a surge of dark magic, enough to disrupt the harmony of the vortex. Its own power will do the rest, dragging that blast of energy into its heart.”
“Is this wise?” asked Urathion. “Without the vortex, the Realm of Chaos will be set free upon the winds of magic. Not even together can we control that power.”
“It does not need to be controlled, simply directed,” said Malekith. He raised a smouldering finger to the circlet set into his helm. “With that power turned to our ends, I have the means to focus its energies. Our enemies will be swept aside by a tide of daemons. Only those favoured by me shall survive. I will have both victory and vengeance in one stroke.”
The cabal looked at each other. Some seemed eager, others more concerned.
“What other choice do we have?” asked Auderion, dragging black-nailed fingers through his white hair. His gaze flickered nervously from one member of the cabal to another, never stopping. “We cannot hold out forever, and our lives will be forfeit.”
“Our spirits are already forfeit,” whispered Illeanith. “Bargains we have made and promises of blood have not been kept. I will not go easily to that fate.”
“Imagine their terror,” said Drutheira. “Imagine the horror unleashed upon those that scorned us, abandoned us. We will rid the world of the Dragontamer’s legacy, reverse the mistake he made and erase the insult upon Aenarion’s legend.”
Some of the cabal remained silent, not daring to speak though their unease was as palpable as the heat from Malekith’s armour. Worried eyes glittered in the gloom.
Urathion bowed his head to Malekith.
“Forgive my objections, master,” he said, dropping to one knee. “What must we do?”
“Return to your castles and gather such acolytes and slaves as you still possess. Morathi will furnish you with the details of the ritual you must undertake. At the appointed hour, midnight ten days from now, we will begin. The blood of our sacrifices will draw the dark magic and our incantations shall send it as a storm into the vortex.”
“What of the Sapherians?” said Illeanith. “My father and his mages will try to stop us.”
“How can they?” said Morathi. “By the time they know what is happening, it will be too late for them to intervene.”
“Even if they do, they do not have the power to stop us,” said Malekith. “The vortex was wrought by Caledor Dragontamer at the height of his strength. Not even your father can contest with such a spell.”
There were no further questions or objections. The sorcerers and sorceresses bowed and departed, leaving Malekith alone with Morathi.
“If you are wrong?” said Morathi. “If we cannot harness the vortex?”
“The daemons will rampage across the world and all will be destroyed,” said Malekith.
“And you are sure you wish to risk such an end?” said Morathi.
“Risk it?” Malekith replied with a harsh laugh. “I embrace it! If Ulthuan will not be mine, then none will rule. I would rather our people perished than see them laid low by the hand of another. Better it is to see the world torn asunder than suffer this eternal torment.”
As he had sworn to Alith Anar, Caledor withdrew his army across the Annulii, back to Avelorn. Many of his warriors he sent back to their kingdoms; some to solemnly bear the bodies of the princes who had been slain. Dorien was despatched to Caledor to take the news of the Phoenix King’s victory, while Carathril was sent into the ruins of Avelorn seeking to convey the same to the Everqueen.
Thyriol remained with the army, concerned by the Phoenix King’s wounds. Though he professed publicly to be regaining his strength, Caledor confessed in private that he was weak. He did not feel ready to return to the Isle of the Flame, and so stayed in Avelorn with the army, ready to respond should things go badly for the shadow army in their attempt to overthrow the rule of Anlec.
The days were shortening and Caledor spent most of his time in his pavilion, resting and pondering what he would do next. One evening, twelve days after the battle at Maledor, he asked Thyriol to join him.
“You must find another Phoenix King,” said Caledor.
“What is wrong?” asked the shocked mage, hurrying to the Phoenix King’s side. “Your wounds, do they not heal?”
“It is not my body that is weak, it is my heart,” Caledor answered. “The war will be over soon. My time as king should end with it.”
Though still concerned, the panic left the mage and he sat down beside the king’s throne, tucking his hands into the voluminous sleeves of his robe.
“You think that you will not be a good leader in peace?” Thyriol asked.
“I know it,” said Caledor. “You know it too. I am not made for audiences and councils. You will need a better leader than I to rebuild Ulthuan and start afresh in the colonies.”
“Princes are thin on the ground of late,” Thyriol said with a sad smile. “There is no other, I think, who could wear the crown.”
“You could,” said Caledor. “You have the wisdom and the experience needed. You see the hearts of our people better than I.”
“Please do not say anything to the others about this. At least let us ensure that the druchii are truly defeated before we turn their minds to what happens after. Morathi is like a manticore, with a spiteful sting when cornered. Talk of peace is premature.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said Caledor. He leaned back in his throne, his bones aching. “It will seem a strange world.”
“I think you will be pleasantly surprised,” said Thyriol. “Life demands a certain harmony and will tend towards that state. In a few years, in your lifetime, you will see the world returned to the way it was. Cities can be rebuilt, and children will still grow up. Like your father, you will be glad that generations from now will prosper free from the blight of war. That will be your legacy.”
The thought brought some little comfort to the Phoenix King. He rested his weary body, eyes closed, and tried to picture Ulthuan as it had been. He could not. Wherever he looked with his mind’s eye, be it at Cothique or Lothern, Avelorn or Chrace, he saw the death and destruction brought about by the war.
He lifted a hand to his chin, to the small scar where the assassin’s knife had nicked his flesh, and he wondered if the druchii had forever poisoned Ulthuan. Would the evil they had unleashed, and the violence he had committed to stop them, ever be expunged from the hearts of the elves?
He heard Thyriol stir, a murmur of unease coming from the mage’s lips. A few moments later Caledor felt that which had disturbed the mage. There was an undercurrent in the winds of magic, a dark eddy of power.
He opened his eyes and thought for a heartbeat that he was under attack. The lanterns in the pavilion seemed to dim, the shadows deepening. He realised that he did not imagine the thickening gloom; the lamps were extinguishing themselves.
Thyriol stood, the tip of his staff glowing.
“Sorcery,” the mage whispered. “Stay still.”
The pavilion was now utterly dark, save for the small circle of light that surrounded the Phoenix King and the mage. Noise came, the sound of running water and wind howling over rocks. The darkness shifted, paling in places, shapes merging to form an image.
“The magic is not here, though,” muttered Thyriol. “The spell is cast somewhere else.”
The spectre of an elf appeared in the gloom, hooded and swathed in black. He pulled back his hood to reveal a haggard face, hair hanging lankly about his shoulders. Sunken eyes looked first at Caledor and then Thyriol. It was to the mage that the apparition turned.
“I am Urathion of Ullar,” said the elf. “I do not have long and will not reach you in person. Malekith has sent the raven heralds after me. Heed my warning, Thyriol, and prepare.”
“Prepare for what?” said Caledor.
“The vortex,” said Urathion, his shade still looking at Thyriol. “Malekith and the other sorcerers attempt to unbind its powers, letting free the Realm of Chaos.�
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“Madness!” exclaimed Thyriol. “Ulthuan will be destroyed.”
“Yes, it is madness,” said Urathion. “I have done evil things and I do not regret them. The power I have wielded and the things I have seen have been reward enough. Yet even I see that this cannot be allowed. Malekith would rather see the world destroyed than live in defeat.”
“How will he do this?” demanded Thyriol. “Tell me of the spell and I will thwart it.”
“A huge sacrifice is planned,” said Urathion. “Malekith and Morathi will infuse the vortex with dark magic and let loose the hosts of Chaos upon you. It is too late to prevent the ceremony, you must prot—”
The apparition of Urathion gave a strangled gasp and stiffened. As the shadows lightened, Caledor saw the sorcerer fall to his face, a bolt jutting from between his shoulders. Beyond was the silhouette of a cloaked rider with crossbow in hand. The light of the lamps returned to obscure the image, bringing with it a sense of unreality.
Caledor looked to Thyriol. The mage’s brow was furrowed in thought and his fingers tapped nervously along his staff.
“Do you think this is a trick?” said the Phoenix King. “Perhaps Malekith seeks to lure you into a sorcerous trap.”
“That is a risk I must take,” replied Thyriol. “If it is true, Malekith must be stopped. Urathion did not exaggerate. If the vortex is destroyed, we are doomed. Even if Ulthuan survives the loss of the vortex, the daemonic hordes will return. You and I are not Aenarion and your grandfather, we cannot stop such an invasion. Our people will be slain and enslaved by the powers of Chaos. I must go now.”
“Where to?” said Caledor. “Can this spell be stopped?”
“The Isle of the Dead,” said Thyriol, answering the first question and avoiding the second. “The centre of the vortex.”
Chanting a spell, the mage drew an arc in the air with the tip of his staff. The air parted where the staff passed, creating an arch of golden energy. Within its arc, Caledor could see ghostly apparitions; robed elves as immobile as statues, frozen within a glimmering aura.
[Sundering 03] - Caledor Page 41
