CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 
As Malekith predicted, the opening stages of the war were characterised by caution. Imrik swiftly secured neighbouring Tiranoc, what little remained of the kingdom after the floods of the Sundering, and in a daring assault seized both eastern and western Eataine to lay siege to Lothern from both directions. The port capitulated quickly and within days black arks and Naggarothi corsair fleets were, for the first time in the long history of Ulthuan, passing through the harbour gates to bring war to the Sea of Dreams.
Aislinn, still smarting from the losses at the Island of Flame, was enraged by the fall of his home city and threw his flotillas at the druchii reavers with vicious abandon. The coast of the Inner Sea was littered with debris and corpses following these bloody naval conflicts but the Sea Lord came no closer to uniting with his ships trapped beyond Lothern in the Great Ocean and was eventually forced to take shelter in inlets and bays along the shore of Ellyrion.
This news pleased Malekith greatly, as did affairs at Vaul’s Anvil. Hotek’s work was progressing well; the shards of Urithain made fine material for his new sword. However, the priest was canny enough to avoid any promises regarding when the work would be complete, talking instead of cosmic convergences, spheres of power and opening portals.
The Phoenix King was not vexed by this, for his wounds at the hands of Tyrion, and the poison from Shadowblade’s dagger, still left him weak and dizzy after any considerable exertion. Asuryan’s rebirth had been more cosmetic than he had hoped. He would have died rather than admit to his allies that he was incapable of fighting, but the tale of waiting for Hotek’s sword granted him valuable time to convalesce. It was of some concern to Imrik, but Teclis, who was likely not fooled at all by Malekith’s talk of biding time and striking at the most opportune moment, revealed that his brother was similarly afflicted, leaving others to prosecute the war on his behalf.
Until, that was, summer started fading into autumn.
‘And of the war in the east, Tyrion has withdrawn his forces from Yvresse’s coast.’ Teclis’s sources, both mystical and physical, were the equal to the network Ezresor had once boasted, although those agents were now for the most part ranged against Malekith, reporting to Morathi instead. The age-long game of assassination and espionage continued; the pieces had simply changed sides. ‘The daemon-haunted fogs make keeping any troops there costly, in casualties and morale.’
‘Imrik moves on Saphery then? How fares the battle for your homeland?’
‘My call for Imrik to be aided by the local militias has carried some weight. Imrik has agreed to respect the neutrality of the White Tower of Hoeth, and so far Tyrion does the same. I take it you concur with this approach?’
‘If the loremasters and swordmasters of Hoeth wish to let us settle their differences without interference I commend them. There is little else in Saphery that can hope to resist dragonfire and lances. What else?’
‘It seems my brother’s convalescence has been concluded,’ Teclis said quietly. He did not add ‘faster than yours’, but Malekith inferred the comparison anyway. ‘He marches for Tor Yvresse. I think he means to press Imrik to open battle.’
‘Of course he does – we expected this,’ said Malekith. Teclis’s concern at this turn of events was itself a source of unease for the Phoenix King. ‘Imrik’s campaign in your brother’s absence has gone well – we have made great gains in the time afforded us.’
‘He claims the title of Phoenix King,’ said Teclis. ‘Tyrion no longer pretends to be regent, but names himself ruler of Ulthuan.’
Malekith considered this, his ire rising.
‘And they follow him? The princes?’
‘Some do, others say that he has not passed through the flame of Asuryan and cannot be king, but they are afraid to openly dispute his word.’
‘Hypocrites!’ howled Malekith. He crushed a wine ewer in his fist and hurled it the length of the hall, causing a spasm in his wounded shoulder. ‘Worthless, baseless cretins! He bears the Widowmaker openly? He consorts with Morathi in front of them?’
‘He does, your majesty,’ admitted Teclis, stepping back as fire crackled and enveloped Malekith’s raised fists. ‘Is that important?’
‘Usurpers!’ shrieked Morathi, raising up her staff. Malekith leapt forwards and snatched the rod from her grip.
‘No more!’ the prince of Nagarythe cried out. ‘I would not have the realm forged by my father torn asunder by this dispute.’
Malekith laid a comforting hand upon the cheek of his mother and when she was calmed, returned her staff to her. With a last venomous glare at Yvraine and Bel Shanaar, the seeress turned her back upon them and returned to the Naggarothi contingent to glower and sneer.
‘I do not seek the throne of Ulthuan to become a tyrant,’ said Malekith. ‘It is to honour my father and see his legacy fulfilled that I would become Phoenix King. I do not claim this as a right of birth, but surrender myself to the judgement of those here. If it is the decision of this council that Bel Shanaar should wed my half-sister and become king, I will not oppose it. I ask only that you consider my petition this one last time, for it is plain that we have allowed division and misconception to cloud our minds.’
The princes nodded in agreement at these well-spoken words, and gathered together under the eaves of the Avelorn trees. They talked for a long time, until dawn touched her red fingers upon the treetops and the morning mists drifted up from the fertile earth. Back and forth swayed the debate, for some were heartened by Malekith’s gentle entreaty and believed that though he was his father’s son, he had not wielded the Godslayer and so was not touched by its darkness. Others reminded the council of Imrik’s prophecy that Aenarion’s line was touched by Khaine, and argued that a child of Anlec could never be freed from its curse.
‘We have made our decision,’ Thyriol informed the Naggarothi. ‘While Malekith is a fine prince, he is yet young and has much to learn about the world, as do we all. Now is a time for wisdom and guidance, not iron rule, and for these reasons we remain committed to the investiture of Bel Shanaar.’
Morathi gave a scream of derision, but Malekith held up a hand to silence her.
‘The fate of Ulthuan is not for a single elf to decide, and I accede to the wisdom of this council,’ Malekith declared. He crossed the glade and, to the amazement of all, bent to one knee before Bel Shanaar. ‘Bel Shanaar shall succeed my father, though he cannot replace him, and with his wisdom we shall herald a new age for our people. May the gods grant our new king the strength to prosper and rule justly, and know that should ever his will falter or his resolve waver, Nagarythe stands ready.’
‘They would not choose me because the darkness of Khaine lay upon me.’ Malekith’s laugh was shrill, rebounding from the vaulted walls in mocking echoes. ‘A shadow of Khaine? A shadow? A hint? There were times, times of weakness, when my strength was withered and my ambition stunted, when I wondered if they had been right. I would think that the blood and mayhem was the curse of Khaine as Caledor foretold and the First Council had chosen wisely. Now the wisdom of elven princes is truly revealed. Pathetic! Had I taken the Sword of Khaine they would have quailed and begged for me to be king and we would have been doomed to slaughter ourselves into history and then extinction. Is that what they want? Do they really think this blood-hungry usurper will lead them to sanctuary?’
‘They do not think,’ Teclis said, his hands raised to calm Malekith. ‘At least, they cannot think clearly. Their ancient enemy has invaded, swift on the heels of daemons that nearly destroyed their homes. Tyrion protected them then, and he bears the armour of Aenarion and his blood. The Widowmaker, it taints their thoughts, making them warmongers also, but it is fear rather than blood-thirst that drives them.’
‘They shall all be slain, in turn,’ Malekith declared, ‘for their lack of loyalty.’
‘They cannot be loyal to a king in hiding, your majesty,’ Teclis said carefully. ‘Is it your intent to make public your ascension?’
Malekith’s first instinct, fuelled by indignation, was to declare that he would. His announcement would shake elvendom to its core, make known the fact that six thousand years of injustice had finally ended. The princes would see that he had been accepted by Asuryan and would flock to his banner as their ancestors should have done.
Teclis’s calculating gaze punctured the illusion, reminding the Phoenix King of the wounds that still dogged him and the blade as-yet-unforged. To reveal himself as king now would make Malekith a target and Tyrion would come to Caledor with all speed.
‘Better to let Imrik continue to goad the beast,’ Malekith concluded, as though speaking the mage’s thoughts for him. ‘Like the bull bitten by too many flies, Tyrion will succumb to the rage and lash out. It is only a matter of time. His allies will be as mist in the growing sun when that happens.’
They concluded their conference swiftly, for the news that Tyrion now led the enemy army directly required careful counter. Teclis removed himself to consult with such authorities and agents as he could trust while Malekith was left to ponder the possible paths of his future.
Destiny demanded that he face Tyrion at some point. It was simply the way the godly cycles worked, and could not be avoided. He would not receive unexpected but pleasant news one day that a dragon had eaten his foe or a fireball had incinerated the pretender to his throne. Myths required more direct action.
Malekith was not sure at all that he would prevail, even with Asuryan’s blade. The last time he had faced Tyrion, the Dragon of Cothique had wielded the Sunfang and fought alone. Next time he would have the Widowmaker and every sorcerous assistance Morathi could devise.
The Phoenix King regarded his options as though they were laid out on the table before him but he knew his perspective was skewed. He needed counsel, but Teclis had his own agenda and Kouran and Imrik were warriors whose advice was painfully confined to the military.
Requiring a fresh source of inspiration, Malekith spent some time preparing his audience room for a difficult ritual. Retainers came and went bringing candles and iron icons and other paraphernalia, laid out to their master’s precise instructions. When he was done, Malekith sent his minions away, forbade any interruption and began his summoning.
Drawing on his dark magic, Malekith drew forth spirits he had trapped in the hinterlands between mortality and Mirai – the souls of his dead rivals conjured from the afterlife to serve him again as they had served in the Black Council of Naggarond.
They came as insubstantial spectres, their faces barely recognisable, but Malekith knew them all by name, deed and temperament. Lord Khaivan of Ghrond, founder of the city and one of Morathi’s first lovers returned screaming to existence. Others followed soon after: Lyar Winterspear of Har Ganeth; Tyrios the Flayer; Kordrilian of Clar Karond. More than two dozen ghosts crowded into the circle of power created by the Witch King, hissing and moaning wordlessly.
‘Speak,’ commanded the Witch King. ‘I would know your minds and the knowledge you bring from beyond the veil of death. Tell me how I might slay Prince Tyrion and defeat the wielder of the Widowmaker.’
Lord Shimmerghast, Dreadmarshal of Naggarond, floated closer. The first captain of the Black Guard regarded Malekith with hate-filled eyes, the skin of his ghost torn to tatters as it had been in life.
‘No blade can match the Widowmaker. No warrior can defeat its wielder. You are doomed, Malekith. Doomed to join us in an eternity of perdition and pain!’
‘How predictable,’ said the king, dismissing the spectre with a wave of his hand. He glared at the other assembled spirits. ‘You know, I could grant you the peace you desire, if you are willing to help. Do any of you have anything to say?’
‘He that lays his hand upon the Widowmaker becomes Khaine’s weapon,’ wailed Lady Mystyr. Her face was veiled with black lace, hiding the bloody holes where her eyes had been gouged out by Malekith’s torturers. ‘Only the fire of Asuryan can defeat such a foe.’
‘I know this already!’ snapped Malekith. Mystyr screamed as he banished her soul back into the pale waters of undeath that flowed around the border of Mirai. ‘I have taken the fire of Asuryan into myself and Hotek labours on a sword fitting for the king of kings. Surely there must be more than that?’
‘You are bound by the cycle of life, the circle of myth,’ said Lothek Heartstealer. The former grand admiral of Klar Karond looked odd, his head lolling to one side on a broken neck, his floating torso missing legs and limbs. ‘Time turns and Khaine will face Asuryan. Such is inevitable, King Malekith.’
With a frustrated shout, Malekith stood and swept his arm through the shimmering haze that encircled the ritual space, causing ripples of power to break apart the apparitions within.
‘Useless!’ he raved, snuffing the light from the candles with a surge of magic, sending braziers and talismans whirling across the chamber with a flicked hand. The surge of ire that filled the king made his head throb. ‘As duplicitous and pointless in death as they were in life.’
Malekith cooled his anger, grasping his head in both hands, forcing the pain to subside, clearing his thoughts. There had to be another way. He was not prepared to gamble not only his life but the future of all elvenkind on the notion that the war of the gods would simply be repeated on the mortal plane. There was too much at stake to risk on the half-baked idea of mythical inevitability. He had been schooled and advised by the most devious minds in history and he would not relax until he found a weakness to exploit, an advantage to be gained.
He accepted the predictability of fighting Tyrion. The myths demanded a confrontation, but there was nothing in the legends that said Malekith could not try a few other plans first.