CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 
His desperation growing, Malekith sent Teclis across Ulthuan, demanding of the princes not yet committed to show themselves loyal to the Phoenix Throne, in battle. A great many of the nobles finally sent forth their households, but as many that declared for Malekith were matched by the number that moved to the camp of Tyrion, and an equal number refused to pick between two equally bloodthirsty tyrants.
No matter how bloody a pursuit became, nor if an army was outmanoeuvred and on the brink of destruction, there was one kingdom of Ulthuan that neither side violated. Nagarythe, a fog-shrouded desolation, was home to the Shadow King and his aesenar and neither side dared the borders of Aenarion’s ancient realm for fear of rousing the wrath of Alith Anar. Now Malekith risked the Shadow King’s neutrality and despatched Teclis to seek audience with the self-appointed ruler of Nagarythe.
It was with some trepidation that Malekith awaited his emissary’s return. In the guise of a flock of crows Teclis came back to the camp of the Phoenix King as the army was camped on the shore of the Inner Sea close to the border between Eataine and Saphery. Malekith knew immediately from Teclis’s expression that his advances had been rebuffed.
‘The ranks of the aesenar swell, as they did when the Anars first raised their banner in opposition to Morathi before the Sundering, your majesty,’ said the mage. ‘Tens of thousands of refugees from across the kingdoms have sought sanctuary under his banner, turned aside from the other kingdoms.’
‘A force that could swing the war yet he sits on his hands like a coward,’ snarled Malekith. ‘Does he not know that Tyrion and Morathi will slaughter them all once they have secured Ulthuan?’
‘He does not care, I think,’ admitted Teclis. ‘He is a bitter spirit, and your treachery still burns cold in his heart.’
‘My treachery?’ The king’s protest was like iron scraping on stone. ‘The Anars swore their oaths to me, delivered Anlec to me, and then they turned on me. He owes me an army!’
‘Nevertheless, there will be no army from Nagarythe, your majesty,’ said Teclis. The two of them walked to Malekith’s pavilion and stopped under the shade of the great awning over the entrance. Servants brought Teclis wine but he waved them away and instead imbibed one of his constitution restoratives.
‘We are being beaten, nephew,’ Malekith said quietly. ‘The time fast approaches when I must risk all or we shall lose by degrees everything we have until there is no army left to fight with.’
‘Personal combat?’ Teclis flexed his fingers as though they were stiff and rolled his shoulders with a pained expression. As much as anyone the war had taken its toll on him. ‘Do you think you can win?’
‘I think the first problem is drawing Tyrion into a fight he cannot avoid,’ said Malekith. ‘His army grows stronger every day, and with each the reasons to match his blade against mine lessen. I have misjudged this war. The Shadow of Khaine lies too deeply over our people, and loyalty to the Phoenix Throne is scarce.’
‘What do you suggest, your majesty?’
‘Do not be coy, nephew.’ Malekith stepped inside the pavilion and Teclis followed. He did not speak again until they were alone in his audience chamber. ‘You have always harboured a grander plan for the conclusion of this effort, have you not? Do not seek to dissemble any longer – the time is upon us for frank discussion.’
‘You speak of the vortex, your majesty.’ The mage did not look at the Phoenix King but busied himself at a platter of meats and breads on a side table. ‘An attempt to harness the winds of magic to end forever the threat of Chaos and the daemons.’
‘I knew it would be grandiose, nephew, but I never quite thought you could have such a high ambition! Ultimate victory over Chaos? Peace and love in our times? Wolf and lion living in harmony? I am surprised you waited this long before making your confession.’
Teclis turned but before he could speak Malekith stopped him with a raised hand.
‘You are aware that I have some personal experience in this matter, yes?’ said the Phoenix King. ‘Interfering with the vortex, I learned at great cost, can have severe consequences.’
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 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.’
‘I would not seek to break the vortex, but to channel it away from the lodestones into fresh vessels,’ Teclis explained, his expression thoughtful. ‘The stasis upon the Isle of the Dead is already weakening. The Dragontamer has sent his spirit to Imrik and has passed on his wisdom to me. In this time when the Realm of Chaos expands the vortex is not powerful enough. Only a living, immortal host can contain the power unleashed.’
‘What happened with Nagash and the Wind of Shyish…? The Great Necromancer has become the embodiment of death magic. You would do this with the other seven winds?’
‘The return of the gods is not a metaphor, Malekith, it is a necessity. Lileath has shown me how it can be done.’
‘And these other avatars, who would they be? You have chosen them already?’
‘You would be one, your majesty. Think on what you have achieved wrapped as you are in a shell of sorcery, as bound to your armour as a fish is to the ocean. Now imagine being freed, becoming an incarnation of magic, a source of power that would never wane.’
Malekith imagined it, and the thought was pleasing.
‘Alarielle, obviously, yourself, Imrik – who else is on your list?’
‘For the moment it does not matter, your majesty. Much can happen between now and the moment the vortex is released. The winds will find their way to the most suitable vessels – we need only unshackle them from the lodestones and help them on their way.’
‘That might cause some problems,’ Malekith said with an affected wave of the hand. ‘You weren’t there so I forgive you forgetting, but the last time I tried to “unshackle” the vortex, I sank two kingdoms beneath a wave.’
Teclis grew solemn and he did not speak for some time. When he did his voice was quiet.
‘Ulthuan will not survive,’ he admitted softly, meeting Malekith’s gaze. ‘Without the vortex our island will sink beneath the waves entirely. For seven millennia the winds of magic have eaten at the bedrock of Ulthuan and now there is nothing but the magic to keep us afloat. When it is gone, Ulthuan will drown.’
It was Malekith’s turn to remain silent for a considerable period, shocked by what Teclis was proposing. Talk of the vortex brought back an ancient, conflicted memory.
The hall was awash with blood. It moved with its own sluggish life, hissing and sizzling at Malekith’s feet, lapping over the twisted bodies of his victims. Morathi chanted, staff held above her head, an incantation calling upon all of the daemons and powers with which she had made pacts during her long life. The air seethed with dark energy, flowing from walls to ceiling, making the symbols and runes painted in blood on the stone glow with ruddy power.
Through the circlet, the Witch King could feel the rising tide of dark magic across Nagarythe. In castles and towers across the barren kingdom his followers despatched their sacrifices and used their deaths to draw on the winds of magic, the mystical forces congealing together under the sorcerous influence of the Naggarothi.
Morathi’s incantation was reaching its crescendo. Her voice was a wail, her body shuddering, the coils of dark magic thickening and strengthening as they whirled around the throne room.
Reaching out his hands, Malekith felt the slick touch of the magic on his iron skin. The circlet gleamed on his brow and filled his mind with ice as the Witch King grasped and manipulated the formless energy with his will, shaping it, turning its convoluted waves into a rhythmically pulsing cloud.
‘Now!’ screamed Morathi, her staff blazing.
Malekith flung the dark magic up, spearing its energies through the palace of Aenarion. He could feel the other columns of power erupting across his kingdom, pillars of pure magical energy roaring up into the heavens.
Malekith strode to an iron balcony adjoining the chamber, Morathi hurrying after him. He turned his flaming gaze to the east and saw the ravening energies gathering across the mountaintops.
‘It is done,’ said Morathi.
She pointed high into the heavens, to the north. Lights burned in the sky, silhouetting the horizon with a rainbow of colours that were constantly shifting. The magical aurora flickered, spitting bolts of energy to the ground and up towards the disappearing stars.
Malekith could see through the anarchy of shape and colour: towering spires of crystal and rivers of blood; cliffs with screaming skull-like faces and forests of waving tentacles; castles of bronze and a huge dilapidated mansion; plains covered with splintered bones and white beaches rippled by purple waters; clouds of flies and miniature suns that glared with cyclopean eyes.
And he heard the roaring and the howls, the screaming and the growls. Marching and slithering, swooping and leaping, a host of daemons poured forth.
‘The Realm of Chaos opens,’ he rasped, feeling triumphant. ‘My legions awake!’
‘No!’ screamed Morathi.
Malekith felt it too, a presence he had not known for more than a thousand years. The Dragontamer had returned. The Witch King did not know how, but he would not be defeated so easily. He poured out all of his scorn and hatred, looking to wrench control of the vortex from the elf who had betrayed his father. Morathi sensed what he was doing and added her own sorcery, seeking to overcome the Dragontamer’s spell.
The two waves of magic clashed within the vortex, detonating with a blaze of multicoloured light that swept away the storm, converting both high and dark magic into a huge detonation. Malekith felt it as a shockwave that pulsed across Ulthuan, flattening trees and toppling towers. He sensed the mountains lurching as the vortex spun again.
He felt something else too, like the world was tipping on its axis. The magic unleashed rocked Ulthuan, ripping earth and sky with its power. A crack appeared in the city wall of Anlec as a huge fissure opened up in the ground to the north. Roofs collapsed and walls toppled as Anlec convulsed. Everywhere across Nagarythe the dark magic earthed itself, mighty spires of rock erupting from the ground while huge pits and crevasses dropped down.
‘What is that noise?’ said Morathi, looking to the north.
Malekith turned, gripping the rail of the balcony tight as the palace swayed on its foundations, turrets and towers crashing down onto the buildings below in a flurry of broken stone and tiles.
To the north was a wall of white. It looked like fog at first, a bank of cloud swiftly approaching from the north-west. It brought an odd hissing, which deepened as the cloud came closer.
Malekith felt a moment of dread as he realised it was not a cloud that approached, but a wall of water. As though the ocean had heaved up itself in protest, a tidal wave stretched across the horizon, shining in the moonlight, as high as the tallest tower of Anlec.
‘No,’ said the Phoenix King. ‘I forbid it. I stand at the moment of achieving my dreams and you would throw it all away on the vacuous whim of a goddess. I will hunt down Tyrion and slay him and Ulthuan will rejoice and forever praise my name.’
‘As you command, your majesty,’ Teclis said with a bow. As the mage left Malekith knew well that his nephew could not be trusted and considered whether this was the time he had finally outlived his usefulness. For the moment the Phoenix King’s alliance was too fragile, the battle in Saphery still finely balanced. Soon, though, Malekith thought, Teclis would no longer be required and his insane scheme to destroy the Dragontamer’s vortex would prove a useful story to cover his removal.
Despite every effort on the part of Malekith, Tyrion flatly refused to meet his rival in battle. Every passing day brought fresh news of the pretender’s host growing or some defeat of Malekith’s forces, yet the Phoenix King would not countenance Teclis’s plan.
Matters were brought to a head as the Phoenix King gave the order to break camp not far from the Tower of Hoeth, at least a dozen leagues from the closest of Tyrion’s armies. At first light Imrik called upon the king and asked that he summon Teclis and Alarielle to hear what the prince had to say. Imrik was a picture of agitation, pacing the rugs back and forth as he waited for the Everqueen and mage to arrive. Malekith studied him closely, wondering what might have brought about such a disturbed disposition.
Eventually the others joined Imrik and Malekith and the prince was free to speak his news.
‘The Shadow of Khaine is growing,’ said the prince, fists balled in front of him. ‘For a time now there have been missing sentries, bodies found slain in their sleep. We thought it was assassins employed by Morathi but I have now seen the truth for myself.’
The prince shuddered and poured himself water. He downed the goblet and waited a second before continuing, haunted eyes moving from one companion to the next.
‘Marendri, my own cousin, who swore allegiance to you at Eagle Gate, has broken faith with us and attempted to desert last night.’ Imrik shook his head. ‘A more loyal warrior you would not have found in all of my kingdom, as close to me as fabled Thyrinor was to Caledor the First. He slit the throats of his brothers, all three, and only a chance encounter with the sentries revealed his crime. His tent was next to mine! My own kin, close at hand for counsel and comfort, poised to drive the dagger deepest into our heart. I heard the fighting and confronted him. A wild beast I saw, with blood-red eyes and foaming mouth. He spoke in curses of blood and I ended him quickly, mercifully so.’
Shuddering, Imrik turned away, the goblet falling from his trembling grasp. Alarielle addressed Malekith while Teclis moved to comfort the dragon prince.
‘We have striven in every way we can, but we cannot fight this. Khaine feeds on death and war – we must seek an end to this slow execution.’
‘You have spoken to Teclis?’ Malekith asked. He did not wait for answer – it was clear the mage had colluded with the Everqueen despite Malekith’s orders. ‘It is madness, for which I was damned for a seeming eternity.’
‘What would you give for victory?’ asked Alarielle, stepping closer. She laid a hand on Malekith’s, her touch warm yet also cooling the fires inside the Phoenix King. ‘Would you give your life?’
Malekith considered this and nodded. ‘I stepped into the flame of Asuryan and did not know if I would survive.’
‘Would you see countless dead on the battlefields of Ulthuan?’
‘You know my legacy as well as any. Countless already are the lives I have expended in my quest to rule.’
‘Would you be willing to lose everything? Would you give up your claim to save our people?’
Malekith found no ready answer to this question. He withdrew his hand from Alarielle’s grasp and stood up, turning his back on her.
‘I would see no other as Phoenix King while I live.’
‘Yet if you continue to face Tyrion as you do, you will lose the war and Tyrion will prevail. What you once condoned out of spite, you will not do now for justice?’
‘Justice? Where was justice these last six thousand years?’ Malekith whirled around and glared at the Everqueen. Unknowingly reliving the act of rage that had propelled his father to the Sword of Khaine, the Phoenix King snatched up his throne and heaved it over his head. With a wordless shout, he dashed it to the ground, smashing it into pieces. ‘No more!’ he roared. ‘This is a price too heavy for me to pay!’
Fire burst from his armour as he staggered away, fending off Alarielle’s attention with an outstretched hand. Malekith’s gaze next fell upon the banner of Nagarythe in its stand behind where the throne had been, woven with silver thread and inlaid with pearls and diamonds. He grabbed the haft of the banner and lifted it clear, ready to snap it across his knee.
‘Your majesty!’ Teclis’s stern words cut through the anger that threatened to swallow Malekith, water splashed on embers. ‘We will not fail.’
‘If we do,’ croaked the Phoenix King, ‘none will survive to know it.’
There was a long silence and none of the elves would look at each other.
‘Do we proceed with Teclis’s plan to unfurl the winds of magic and anchor them in mortal form?’ Alarielle asked. ‘We must be unanimous.’
‘Better to die in glory than live enslaved,’ said Imrik, his sorrow now replaced with a vengeful expression. The words might have come from Malekith himself in another time.
The Phoenix King replaced the banner of Nagarythe, the flames of his body dimming.
‘When Ulthuan sinks, what becomes of our people?’ he asked, voice barely more than a whisper.
‘They become free,’ said Teclis. ‘Free from the touch of Chaos, free from the Shadow of Khaine, free to live out their lives in sanctuary. Lileath has shown me this.’
‘Athel Loren will welcome us,’ said Alarielle. ‘It always has.’
‘Make your preparations, nephew,’ Malekith said, his voice gaining confidence as he acknowledged the inevitability of the decision. ‘The gods demand a battle the like of which they have not seen for many ages. Rule of the elves is not high enough stakes for such a cataclysm, so let us again fight for the future of the world!’