CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 
The impudent mage had natural flair and unparalleled concentration, but Malekith had been a master of sorcery for more than five thousand years and had learned at the hand of Morathi, the greatest sorceress in history. It was inevitable that the Witch King’s spells would eventually break down the Sapherian’s counter-incantations and shimmering protective barriers.
Malekith hardly paid any attention to the military situation. It mattered not that his champion, Urian Poisonblade, greatest blade-wielder of Naggaroth, had fallen to the sword of the asur’s own hero. The armies of the Naggarothi were too numerous, too strong for the defenders of Ulthuan, and like the duel between Malekith and the mage of the White Tower it was simply a matter of time.
The last resistance of the asur would be crushed and Malekith would finally claim the Phoenix Throne, and ever after would be lauded the day he triumphed on Finuval Plain.
The winds of magic churned, telling their own tale of curse and counter-spell, enchantment and hex. Malekith’s dark magic was a tornado of energy, whirling, destructive, a storm of all eight winds forced together into an unstoppable mass.
The Sapherian mage, the one whose wit and will had thwarted every advantage Malekith had gained on this long campaign, wielded a far subtler force. High magic was the careful distillation and blending of the opposing forces inherent in the winds of magic, like a smith smelting iron and charcoal for the perfect steel, or a chef perfecting a recipe with the smallest hint of spices and herbs.
As swordmasters crashed into the druchii spearwall and griffons tore at manticores overhead, Malekith hurled blast after blast of dark lightning at the emissary from Hoeth, trying to overcome his foe’s defences with base fury. The Sapherian redoubled his efforts, ascending into the sky upon a pillar of magic to draw in the whirling winds of power gathered high above the battlefield.
From a magic-blasted hilltop Malekith summoned forth a storm of titanic proportion, torturing the air with dark energy until it gave vent to crashes of thunder and streaked the sky with blue and purple lightning. The mage manipulated Ghyran and Azyr, turning the tempest into tatters of cloud broken by golden rays of the sun.
Malekith cared nothing for the delay. Every elf that fell beneath blade and arrow that day fed the deathly Wind of Shyish, and from this pool of lethal energy he drew the greatest strength. The druchii could afford to lose two warriors for every asur slain and the elves of Ulthuan knew it to be true.
A sudden void in the winds disturbed Malekith’s concentration. The Witch King was shocked by the rapid cessation of energy, an utter stillness in the winds of magic. Not since the likes of Caledor Dragontamer had he seen such a spell. A secret lost to history when Caledor had been swallowed by the vortex he had created.
The Sapherian soared over Malekith, clutching tight to his staff. It was as though the young, gaunt elf was listening to his magical rod, head tilted to one side in concentration. He then looked down at Malekith, and the image of the mage’s face was etched forever in the Witch King’s memories.
He saw nothing in the mage’s eyes, none of the passion and life that ruled the minds of the asur. Instead the Sapherian looked down at Malekith with all the feeling of a shark, his gaze a predatory blank stare that the Witch King had only seen before from one individual – the eyes of his father before he had set out to return the Sword of Khaine, knowing he would not return. It was the look of a person that knew the world was about to end.
The winds of magic suddenly erupted into life once more, catching Malekith totally unawares, so entranced had he been by the mage’s appearance. Only the first syllables of a counter-spell had left his ragged lips when the wave of high magic engulfed him.
At first it felt cool, like a waterfall in reverse, numbing him from foot to head, but then the heat followed. It grew from his heart, and with it brought back the memories of Asuryan’s temple and the curse of the All-king.
Agony flared, as powerful now as it had been the first moment Malekith had set foot into the sacred fires. Renewed, invigorated, the fires burned, the dulling of six thousand years wiped away.
There was triumph, cruel victory, in the eyes of the mage as he glowered down at Malekith.
The pain was too much, the damage ravaging his body too brutal and all-consuming to bear. There was no spell or balm or talisman that could save him. In half a dozen heartbeats he would be dead, consumed as if he had stayed in the flame of Asuryan. There was only one way to escape and a moment to open the portal.
With a wordless shriek, Malekith ripped open the veil between worlds and hurled himself into the beyond, abandoning his mortal shell for survival in the Realm of Chaos.
Malekith awoke alone. The touch of Ghyran lay heavily upon his body, the Wind of Life mixed weightily, ironically, with the Wind of Metal, Chamon. He raised a hand but pain lanced into him, from his chest and gut, his shoulder and arm. The memory of what had happened at the end of his confrontation with Tyrion blurred with the disaster at Finuval Plain, but it seemed a wonder he was in one piece.
He opened iron-lidded eyes and saw the dulled gaze of Teclis looking down at him. The glow of the mage’s desperate teleportation faded around them. There was white stone, walls and ceiling, and he assumed the hard floor beneath was the same. Something dark and bulky blocked out the light to the left – the barely-living Seraphon. Malekith glimpsed another figure on the edge of vision and recognised Caradryan.
‘Rest,’ said the mage, while Caradryan looked around, as amazed as Malekith to be alive.
Malekith could not argue. His wounds were many, the assassin’s poison like acid in his body. Unconsciousness was welcome.
‘Welcome back.’ The voice was sudden, jerking Malekith’s head around. In the corner sat a silver-armoured figure, his halberd held across his knees, helm laid on the white marble floor. Caradryan had spoken softly, but even his whisper seemed incredibly loud in this place, echoing from the beautifully crafted stone. ‘Teclis’s ministrations have had some effect, I see.’
‘I thought your order was sworn to silence?’
‘For their term of service,’ said Caradryan, nodding. ‘But my life was meant to have ended at the Blighted Isle.’
‘It is written on the walls, is it not? The future of everything?’
‘Not everything,’ Caradryan confessed, ‘but much that happens now has come before. You are one of the few people that witnessed the start as well as the end.’
‘I am not sure how I am alive. Tyrion…?’
‘Lives, unfortunately. Teclis tried his best to steer events along the path foretold by Lileath, but he was only partially successful.’
‘Goddesses of fate can be terribly tricksome, I am told,’ growled Malekith. ‘I thought I was dead three-ways over.’
‘Our companion’s spell deflected Anar’s arrow a fraction’, Caradryan explained, standing up. ‘It struck Tyrion in the chest, knocking him away from the altar though it did not pierce his armour. His blow fell wide of you, and in the next moment Teclis called upon Lileath to spare us and we were transported here.’
Light footsteps drew their attention to the archway, where Teclis appeared a moment later looking worried.
‘You need to rest,’ Caradryan said, pointing at the blood that oozed from Malekith’s wounds, coating cracked armour plates. The Phoenix Guard captain left with the mage and Malekith fell back into a pain-wracked sleep.
In time Malekith, aided in part by the attention of Teclis, recovered sufficient strength to leave the shrine of Lileath where they had arrived. The mage had disappeared a few days earlier, and sent a ship to bear the Witch King and Caradryan to the Island of Flame, home to the Shrine of Asuryan. Seeing the huge temple brought back one of Malekith’s oldest and bitterest memories.
The shrine itself was a high pyramid in form, built above the burning flame of the king of the gods. The flame danced and flickered at the heart of the temple, thrice the height of an elf, burning without noise or heat. Runes of gold were inlaid into the marble tiles of the floor around the central fire, and these blazed with a light that was not wholly reflected from the flame. Upon the white walls were hung braziers wrought in the shape of phoenixes with their wings furled and more magical fire burned within them, filling the temple with a golden glow.
All the princes of Ulthuan were there, resplendent in their cloaks and gowns, with high helms and tall crowns of silver and gold studded with gemstones from every colour of the rainbow. Only the Naggarothi stood out amongst this feast of colour, taciturn and sombre in their black and purple robes. Morathi stood with Malekith and his followers, the seeress eyeing proceedings with suspicion.
Astromancers were present too, seven of them, who had determined that this day was the most auspicious to crown the new Phoenix King. They wore robes of deep blues patterned with glistening diamonds in the constellations of the stars, linked by the finest lines of silver and platinum.
The astrologers stood next to the chanting priests of Asuryan, who weaved their prayers around Bel Shanaar so that he might pass through the flames unscathed. Behind the priests sat the oracles of Asuryan: three elven maidens of pale skin and blonde hair, garbed in raiment of silver that shimmered in the dazzling light.
Yvraine and her maiden guard had journeyed from Avelorn to join the ascension of her ceremonial husband. These warrior-women wore skirts of silvered scale edged with green cloth, and carried garlands of flowers in place of their spears and bows, for no weapon was allowed to pass the threshold of Asuryan’s temple.
Bel Shanaar stood with the high priest before the flame, and about his shoulders was hung a cloak of white and black feathers, a newly woven symbol of his power and authority.
‘As did Aenarion the Defender, so too shall I submit myself to the judgement of the greatest power,’ Bel Shanaar solemnly intoned. ‘My purity proven by this ordeal, I shall ascend to the throne of the Phoenix King, to rule wisely and justly in the name of the king of gods.’
‘Your father needed no spells of protection,’ muttered Morathi. ‘This is a fraud, of no more legitimacy than the sham wedding to Yvraine.’
As the priests burned incense and made offerings to Asuryan, the oracles began to sing quietly, their verses almost identical but for a few words here and there, which rose into a joyful harmony as Bel Shanaar was ushered towards the flame of Asuryan. The Phoenix King-to-be turned and looked back towards the princes, with no sign of trepidation or exultation.
With a respectful nod Bel Shanaar faced towards the centre of the shrine and walked forwards, slowly ascending the shallow steps that led up to the dais over which the god’s cleansing fires gleamed. All present then fell hushed in anticipation as Bel Shanaar stepped within the flame, which turned to a glaring white and forced the onlookers to cast their gazes away lest they be blinded by its intensity.
As their eyes grew accustomed to the bright burning of the flame, they could see the vague shape of Bel Shanaar within, arms upraised as he offered fealty to Asuryan. Then the Phoenix King turned slowly and stepped back out of the flames unharmed. There was a sighing of exhalation as the princes expressed their relief that all went well. The Naggarothi remained silent.
The entourage left, laughing and chattering, save for Malekith, who stayed for a long while gazing at the flame and pondering his fate. The sacred fire had returned to its shifting colours, now seeming dim after its dazzling eruption. To Malekith it seemed as if they had been diminished, tainted by the presence of Bel Shanaar.
Unaware of anything but that burning shrine, Malekith walked slowly forwards, his mind a swirl of conflicting emotions. If he but dared the flame and survived, without the spells of the priests to protect him, then surely it was the will of Asuryan that he succeed his father. Yet what if he was not strong enough? Would the burning of the flames devour him? What then would be left of his hopes and dreams for Nagarythe?
Without realisation Malekith stood directly before the fires, mesmerised by their shifting patterns. The urge to reach out gripped him and he was about to place his hand into the flame when he heard the footsteps of the priests re-entering the temple. Snatching his hand away, Malekith turned from the sacred fire and strode quickly from the shrine, ignoring the priests’ inquiring glances.
There were to be many days feasting and celebration, but Malekith left as soon as the ceremony was complete, his duty having been fulfilled. He felt no urge to linger here, where his father had first thrown himself upon the mercy of the greatest god and been reborn as the saviour of his people. If Bel Shanaar wished to be Phoenix King, then Malekith was satisfied to acquiesce. There were more than enough challenges ahead for him to overcome, Malekith knew, without inciting rivalry and discord. Content for the moment, he journeyed back to Anlec to take up his rule.
As he strode down the plank of their barque, every sinew, muscle, plate and rivet of his body screamed pain but Malekith ignored it, drawing on the immense willpower that had sustained him against such hurt for so long.
The sea surrounding the Shrine of Asuryan was thick with warships, but Teclis’s spells had shrouded their arrival. The Dragon of Lothern blazoned upon every sail. Their crews pounded the ancient walls with every spell and siege engine at their command. These were Lord Aislinn’s vessels, high admiral of the harbour city, the finest ships in Ulthuan. Another section of the shrine’s outer walls collapsed into the sea under the bombardment.
The Shrine of Asuryan was not entirely defenceless. A chorus of screeches split the air as a flock of phoenixes winged across the water. Flames billowed in their wake and washed over a dragonship, timbers and sails catching light almost immediately. The fires spread hungrily, outstripping the crew’s ability to quench them. Archers on neighbouring vessels loosed their volleys skyward, but the swirling phoenixes broke apart, reformed and dived against the next vessel in line.
Caradryan winced as the whine and crack of another volley struck the walls. Teclis hurried out from the depths of the temple, robes and cloak billowing around him.
‘Well, this is glorious,’ Malekith declared. The shrine shuddered, and he reached out to steady himself on a wall lining the road.
‘It is insanity,’ Teclis countered, his irritation palpable. Caradryan said nothing, though the worry on his face was plain enough.
‘Come,’ said the mage. ‘We have no time to waste.’
Progress through the shrine was painfully slow, and every step was punctuated by the strike of an artillery bolt upon the walls, or the bellow of distant merwyrm. By the time Malekith and his companions had reached the entrance corridor’s far end, the clamour of steel upon steel had joined the cacophony outside as Phoenix Guard vied with Aislinn’s marines for control of the island beyond the temple walls. Malekith read in Teclis’s concerned features a sorry conclusion – that the Island of the Flame would soon be overrun.
‘Your plan seems to be failing, mage,’ Malekith mocked as they passed through into the inner sanctum. Two-score Phoenix Guard marched past them and back through the closing gates.
‘I had planned to bring you here at once,’ Teclis reminded him, reliving the bitterness of that particular failure. ‘But you would not be swayed, were determined to follow your pride. Who knows how many have died needlessly because of that hubris?’
The Sapherian took a deep breath. ‘Now we shall both have to hope you are strong enough, despite your injuries. My brother has become Khaine, or something very like him. You know the legends. Only Asuryan can defeat Khaine – Asuryan, or his chosen vessel.’
‘The flame rejected me once,’ Malekith said. ‘Why should it not do so again?’
‘There was no rejection. You simply weren’t strong enough. Asuryan always intended for you to succeed your father. Think on it. Why do you suppose every Phoenix King was shielded by mages in their passage through the fire? Even then, they all passed into madness of one kind or another. It was not just Aethis and Morvael – even those my people revere were consumed by the power or the guilt of a stolen throne.’
‘And what proof have you of this?’ Malekith demanded.
‘Finubar told me,’ he said. ‘Why do you suppose he hardly fought you at the end? He, at least, was good-hearted, but the guilt ate away at him. That is why he so rarely led his people to war. He knew he was but the continuance of a subverted tradition. He was glad to die.’
Without warning, a new sound joined the battle outside: the deep, primal roar of dragons. Teclis gave a small smile. ‘Imrik has come,’ he said quietly. ‘You owe him much, though I doubt you will ever accept that.’
‘Even now, when you know I have no other choice, still you attempt to manipulate me,’ said Malekith.
‘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.
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.
As Bathinair crouched panting over the body of Elodhir, figures appeared at the archway behind Malekith: 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 their hands and advanced with sinister purpose.
At last they came to the chamber of the flame. At Caradryan’s nod, the chamber’s guards stepped aside and opened the heavy brass-bound doors. They, like the rest of the Phoenix Guard within the shrine, seemed to think nothing odd of the Witch King’s presence. On the other side of the doors, a broad marble stair led upwards. The chamber was far grander than when Malekith had last been here. At the top burned the flames of Asuryan.
They seemed dimmed to Malekith’s eye, from what he remembered. Did that bode good or ill?
‘Why do you think that Imrik fights for you?’ Teclis asked as the doors slammed closed behind them. ‘Why do you think that the Phoenix Guard have allowed you within these walls? Why was Caradryan ready to die for you? Imrik has learned the truth of things, and the Phoenix Guard have always known it.’
‘Then why do so many of them march under Tyrion’s banner?’ Malekith demanded. Now that he was standing before the flame his uncertainties grew. Why after all this time were his dreams suddenly shared by so many others?
‘They have fallen under Khaine’s sway, like so many others. They knew that if they followed Tyrion, they would join his madness. But they knew also that it was their fate, and so went anyway.’
‘A pathetic excuse.’
‘No, it is an honourable sacrifice,’ Teclis argued. ‘To pledge yourself to the Phoenix Guard is to be haunted, every day, with the knowledge of how you will fail, no matter how flawless your service.’ Teclis closed his eyes briefly. ‘It is not a path I could have chosen. I need hope, and the Phoenix Guard know only certainty.’
‘Weakness.’ As he said the word Malekith felt blood bubbling up in his throat and he degenerated into a terrible, wracking cough. Bloody spittle oozed out through his helm’s mouthpiece to drip to the floor. The Witch King stumbled, and would have fallen had Caradryan not moved to support him. Malekith pulled free. He took three staggering steps towards the flame, then stopped.
‘If I pass into the fire,’ he said without turning, ‘my every striving has been a lie.’
Teclis waited for a moment before speaking, then chose his words carefully. ‘Does that cause you to regret your deeds?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Malekith softly, without thought, but then his voice grew harder. ‘No. I would do it all again.’
‘Then nothing about you was ever a lie,’ said Teclis, ‘and by your words you prove yourself no better than those who stole the throne.’ He sighed. ‘But you are Asuryan’s choice nonetheless. All that is left of our creator waits for you in the fire. If you can withstand the pain, there is perhaps a chance for us all.’
‘And if I cannot?’ Malekith asked.
‘Then the last spark of Asuryan will fade, and those of our people who survive Tyrion’s madness will be consumed by the Dark Gods.’
Malekith was serene; all trace of his earlier anger had disappeared. He walked slowly forward 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 but the prince was oblivious to all but the fires.
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.
His hands held out, palms upwards in supplication, Malekith walked forwards and stepped into the flames.
Prince, priest and knight alike were tossed around by a great heaving. 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 choking spume of dust and rock.
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.
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 was burning.
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 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 burned 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.
He looked at Teclis. There was concern on the face of the mage, and sympathy too, for it was plain which event plagued Malekith’s thoughts at that moment.
‘Courage,’ said the mage. ‘The courage of your convictions. See through that which you began so long ago, and do not be afraid.’
Malekith hesitated a moment longer and gazed levelly at the loremaster. Now that Tyrion had drawn the Widowmaker, what use did the mage have for Malekith in his schemes? Malekith’s thoughts moved to Imrik. His forefather had been a usurper – perhaps it was the intent to replace Malekith again with the accursed line of the Dragontamer.
‘If Lileath desired you dead your corpse would be an ornament for the Shrine of Khaine,’ said Teclis, guessing Malekith’s line of thought. ‘I could easily have allowed my brother to kill you to seal his pact with the God of Murder. We need a Phoenix King, and you are Aenarion’s heir.’
‘What about the blessings of the priests? The enchantments of the mages?’ If it had served the usurpers well enough, it would serve now. Every fibre of Malekith warned against stepping into the flames.
‘You were right – one of Aenarion’s true lineage needs no protective spells to survive the flame.’ Teclis moved to lay a hand upon Malekith’s arm as the king-to-be took a step towards the flame, and flinched back from the gesture at the last moment, feeling the heat that emanated from Malekith’s armour. ‘You must be ready. Asuryan demands sacrifice and your rebirth is not without pain.’
‘Tell me of pain?’ sneered Malekith. Fire flared between the plates of his armour. ‘It was you that awoke the burning of Asuryan’s curse at Finuval Plain, so tell me, Teclis, what you know of pain?’
Malekith remembered a battle long before Finuval Plain when the nature of Asuryan’s touch had become clear to him, a time when rule of Ulthuan had been moments away from his grasp.
Sulekh’s body slammed into Malekith, crushing him into the ground. Pinned by her massive weight, he heaved at her mass, trying to free himself, letting out a bellow of frustration. He dropped Avanuir to the ground so that he could use both hands to push at the massive corpse that lay on top of his legs and waist.
A prickle of sensation shuddered through Malekith: the touch of magic. He turned his head to the left seeking the source.
A wave of white fire poured towards him. It was beautiful, glittering like moonlight on the sea, flecked with gold and silver. He recognised the flames. He had stood within them to receive Asuryan’s blessing. Now the lord of gods had come again to aid Malekith, as he had Aenarion.
With a surge of power, Malekith heaved free the body of Sulekh. He stood up and faced the oncoming fire, arms spread wide to receive Asuryan’s blessing. The white flames crackled closer and closer, a chill wind against his red-hot armour. He closed his eyes as the fire engulfed him, waiting for the release from the agony that had been his companion for more than two decades.
Fresh pain seared through his chest and arms. Malekith gave a cry and opened his eyes.
It was not the flames of Asuryan that surrounded him, but the halberds of the Phoenix Guard. Each blade burned with the white fires of Asuryan, every blow they landed upon the Witch King igniting the flame that had been set within his flesh by the lord of gods.
The physical pain was as nothing compared to the pain of betrayal. As his iron flesh was rent and ripped by the swinging halberds of the Phoenix Guard Malekith realised he had not received Asuryan’s blessing. His father had not endured the agony he had endured.
The Witch King’s delusion fell away and he saw his punishment for what it was. Asuryan had shunned him, cursed him with everlasting torment. The shock of it brought Malekith to his knees as more blows rained down upon him, carving furrows in his black armour.
‘You must endure,’ Teclis insisted, ignoring Malekith’s barbed words. ‘You will be destroyed and renewed. When you last stepped into the flame you were almost destroyed, and if you had but remained for a few more moments the rebirth would have begun.’
Malekith looked down at the mage, head tilted to one side.
‘I was not cursed?’ He said the words quietly, slowly, trying to digest the importance of Teclis’s message. ‘Though I profaned Asuryan’s temple with blood and sought dominion over my kin? Though I killed Bel Shanaar with my own hands, the Lord of the Cadai would have blessed me if I had endured for a few heartbeats longer? This… This pain… The wars… Six thousand years of grief, because…’
He could not bring himself to voice what he thought, but the mage knew exactly that which vexed him and spoke the concern out loud.
‘Because you were weak, Malekith.’
Hundreds had died agonising deaths simply because they had thought such a sentiment and it shook the Witch King to hear it plainly spoken, but in that moment he felt no anger for Teclis, only a sensation he had not felt for more than six millennia: shame.
‘Then let us be at it,’ said Malekith and he stepped into the sacred fire of Asuryan.