The sundering, p.18
The Sundering, page 18
‘Am I too late?’ he demanded.
The stunned dwarf said nothing for a moment and then shook his head. Malekith let go of Damrak and slumped against the wall.
‘You misunderstand me, ambassador,’ said Damrak, laying a gnarled hand on Malekith’s arm. ‘The king still awaits you.’
The solemn beating of drums could be heard echoing along the halls and corridors of Karaz-a-Karak. The small chamber was empty save for two figures. His face as pale as his beard, King Snorri lay on the low, wide bed, his eyes closed. Kneeling next to the bed, a hand on the dwarf’s chest, was Malekith. He had stood vigil with the ancient dwarf for three days since arriving, barely sleeping or eating in that time.
The room was hung with heavy tapestries depicting the battles the two had fought together, suitably aggrandising Snorri’s role. Malekith did not begrudge the king his glories, for was not his own name sung loudly in Ulthuan while the name of Snorri Whitebeard was barely a whisper? Each people to their own kind, the elf prince thought.
Snorri’s eyelids fluttered open to reveal cloudy, pale blue eyes. His lips twisted into a smile and a fumbling hand found Malekith’s arm.
‘Would that dwarf lives were measured as those of the elves,’ said Snorri. ‘Then my reign would last another thousand years.’
‘But even so, we still die,’ said Malekith. ‘Our measure is made by what we do when we live and the legacy that we leave to our kin, as any other. A lifetime of millennia is worthless if its works come to naught after it has ended.’
‘True, true,’ said Snorri with a nod, his smile fading. ‘What we have built is worthy of legend, isn’t it? Our two great realms have driven back the beasts and the daemons, and the lands are safe for our people. Trade has never been better, and the holds grow with every year.’
‘Your reign has indeed been glorious, Snorri,’ said Malekith. ‘Your line is strong; your son will uphold the great things that you have done.’
‘And perhaps even build on them,’ said Snorri.
‘Perhaps, if the gods will it,’ said Malekith.
‘And why should they not?’ asked Snorri. He coughed as he pushed himself to a sitting position, his shoulders sinking into thick, gold-embroidered white pillows. ‘Though my breath comes short and my body is infirm, my will is as hard as the stone that these walls are carved from. I am a dwarf, and like all my people, I have within me the strength of the mountains. Though this body is now weak, my spirit shall go to the Halls of the Ancestors.’
‘It will be welcomed there, by Grungni and Valaya,’ said Malekith. ‘You shall take your place with pride.’
‘I’m not done,’ said Snorri with a frown. His expression grim, the king continued. ‘Hear this oath, Malekith of the elves, comrade on the battlefield, friend at the hearth. I, Snorri Whitebeard, High King of the dwarfs, bequeath my title and rights to my eldest son. Though I pass through the gateway to the Halls of the Ancestors, my eyes shall remain upon my empire. Let it be known to our allies and our enemies that death is not the end of my guardianship.’
The dwarf broke into a wracking cough, blood flecking his lips. His lined faced was stern as he looked at Malekith. The elf steadily returned his gaze.
‘Vengeance shall be mine,’ swore Snorri. ‘When our foes are great, I shall return to my people. When the foul creatures of this world bay at the doors to Karaz-a-Karak, I shall take up my axe once more and my ire shall rock the mountains. Heed my words, Malekith of Ulthuan, and heed them well. Great have been our deeds, and great is the legacy that I leave to you, my closest confidant, my finest comrade-in-arms. Swear to me now, as my dying breaths fill my lungs, that my oath has been heard. Swear to it on my own grave, on my spirit, that you shall remain true to the ideals we have both striven for these many years. And know this, that there is nothing so foul in the world as an oath-breaker.’
Malekith took the king’s hand from his arm and squeezed it tight. ‘I swear it,’ the elf prince said. ‘Upon the grave of High King Snorri Whitebeard, leader of the dwarfs and friend of the elves, I give my oath.’
Snorri’s eyes were glazed and his chest no longer rose and fell. Malekith’s keen hearing could detect no sign of life, and he did not know whether his words had been heard. Releasing Snorri’s hand, he folded the king’s arms across his chest, and with a delicate touch from his long fingers, Malekith closed Snorri’s eyes.
Standing, Malekith spared one last glance at the dead king and then walked from the chamber. Outside, Snorri’s son Throndik stood along with several dozen other dwarfs.
‘The High King has passed on,’ Malekith said, his gaze passing over the heads of the assembled dwarfs and across to the throne room. He looked down at Throndik. ‘You are now High King.’
Without further word, the elf prince picked his way gracefully through the crowd and out across the nearly empty throne chamber. He stopped halfway towards the throne and gazed up at the high dais. He remembered perfectly the first time he had been here. At the time Malekith’s attention had been focused on Aernuis; the High King had barely registered in his thoughts. Now all he could think about was the dwarf now lying still in that small bedchamber.
The throne was empty. Everything was empty. The wars against the orcs and the beasts had been won. The forests had been tamed by the elves and the mountains conquered by the dwarfs. Bel Shanaar had robbed him of rulership of the colonies. It was as if Snorri had unknowingly taken the last days of glory to his grave. His friend was dead and there was nothing else to fight for.
Nothing except the Phoenix Throne.
Over the following decade, Malekith became ever more distant from his court in Athel Toralien. As he had done so in Nagarythe, he appointed a wise and well-regarded council of fellow princes and other dignitaries to rule in his stead, and passed on the mantle of ambassador to Carnellios, a prince of Cothique who had been part of the original talks and whom the dwarfs had come to trust. Once content that all was in order, the prince declared that he would go into the north again, for many years, perhaps never to return, and he asked for volunteers to accompany him.
After issuing his proclamation, Malekith set out on a tour of the castles and citadels that protected the lands of Athel Toralien, to extend his offer to all of their garrisons. He picked the finest captains, knights and archers from amongst their number and returned to the city with seventy warriors.
Riding upon the west–east road to Athel Toralien, the prince and his company came upon a great encampment outside the city’s walls, stretching for almost half a mile. Great marquees and pavilions housed rich nobles, while more moderate tents were numbered in the many hundreds.
Yeasir was at the east gate to greet his master.
‘Thank the gods you have returned,’ said the captain, grabbing the bridle of Malekith’s steed to allow the prince to dismount.
‘Some emergency?’ said Malekith, handing the reins to one of his companions. ‘An orcish horde perhaps? Beasts from the north?’
‘No, no,’ said Yeasir. ‘There is no threat.’
‘Then why do I have an army of vagabonds and princes at my gate?’ demanded Malekith, turning to stare at the tent-city stretching along the road.
‘They all wish to accompany you on your voyage,’ Yeasir said breathlessly.
‘All of them?’ said Malekith, eyebrows raised.
‘Six thousand seven hundred and twenty-eight,’ said Yeasir. ‘Well, according to the roll of volunteers that Alandrian was forced to begin. They filled the city at first and there was no room in the docks or markets. We had to send them outside, and provided many with shelters.’
‘I cannot take more than five hundred,’ said Malekith. ‘Send away any that have wives or children, and any that have never drawn blood in battle. That should thin out the numbers a little.’
‘Yes, highness,’ said Yeasir. ‘Many are not Naggarothi, do you wish them to accompany you?’
‘Only if they swear loyalty to Nagarythe,’ said the prince with a frown. ‘And I don’t want anyone under three hundred years old. I need experience; seasoned veterans.’
‘There are eighteen princes of various realms,’ Yeasir said. ‘What shall I do with them?’
‘They seek to glorify themselves in the glow of my deeds,’ snapped Malekith. ‘Any that are not of Nagarythe, and I mean Nagarythe, not this city, send them home. I will talk to any you feel are worthy of my attention.’
‘As you wish, highness,’ said Yeasir, bowing as he left.
Malekith stared out along the road as news of his return began to spread through the camp. Horns sounded, and more and more elves came out of their tents and began to converge on the city. Hundreds of them soon packed the road, crying out to the prince for his attention. Malekith turned his back on them and walked into the city. He turned his head to one of the guards.
‘Shut the gate until they go away,’ the prince snapped.
Five hundred elves Malekith chose to be his companions; enough to man a ship and fight, but few enough to feed and supply out in the wilds. Almost half were nearly as old as Malekith and some had journeyed with him from Ulthuan. All were without family, for Malekith knew that he ventured into the truly unknown, and whatever perils lay ahead he was determined that his wanderlust would not leave a legacy of widows and orphans.
Alandrian organised the provisioning of the expedition and the repatriation of those who had been turned away. Amongst his many duties he managed to catch up with Malekith one evening.
‘Is all ready?’ asked the prince, sitting on a low chair upon the balcony of his city house. He gestured for Alandrian to help himself to the contents of a crystal decanter perched on a small table. Alandrian poured himself a goblet of golden wine and sat down.
‘If I could make a suggestion, your highness,’ Alandrian said delicately. ‘Perhaps five hundred and one companions would be better for you.’
‘Five hundred and one?’ said Malekith, and then he gave a laugh and a nod of understanding. ‘You wish to offer your service?’
‘I do, highness,’ said the lieutenant. ‘Yeasir accompanies you, and so would I.’
‘It cannot be done,’ said Malekith. ‘Yeasir has no family. You have a beautiful wife who has borne you two equally beautiful daughters. I could no more rob them of their father than I could cut off a limb.’
‘You are destined for great glory,’ said Alandrian. ‘I have served well and attended my duties with vigour and loyalty. I ask only that I be allowed to continue my service.’
‘Your time of service is no more,’ said Malekith. He held up a hand to stop Alandrian’s protest. ‘I have had papers drawn up, declaring you a prince of Nagarythe and the ruler of Athel Toralien.’
‘A prince?’ stammered Alandrian.
‘That is right,’ said Malekith, laughing at his friend’s stunned expression. ‘I was going to wait a while before making an announcement but you have forced my hand. You will be my regent in Elthin Arvan. Yeasir is a soldier first and last, and I will name him commander of Nagarythe, the title I once held when my father was alive. You are a leader, with a patience to match your wisdom and your gift with words. You can best serve me not with spear point but with quill point. Rule Athel Toralien in the finest traditions of Nagarythe. Be ever ready to come to the aid of your homeland. Most of all you must enjoy yourself and take what reward you can from the life the gods have given you!’
Malekith raised his goblet in toast to his companion, who half-heartedly lifted his own, still shocked by the prince’s declaration.
Nine
A Delayed Departure
In the months of preparation before his departure, Malekith received an unexpected visitor. He was sitting in the uppermost chamber of his tower overlooking the harbour of Athel Toralien, reviewing an agreement on the succession of power to his followers. Though he had a palatial mansion, several in fact, within the city and out in the forest, he chose to conduct his business here, in a tower built over the part of the old wall where he had first defended the city against the orcs.
Malekith was just re-reading a particularly complex passage for the third time when he was disturbed from his study by noise from the street far below the open window. There was also much commotion from within the tower, as doors slammed and he heard a great many feet pounding upon the stairs. He tried to ignore the excited shouts and concentrate on the legalistic wording of the document he held, but the ruckus persisted and in frustration he threw the parchment onto his desk and stood up. At that moment there was a hurried knocking at the door.
‘What?’ he demanded.
The door was flung open by Yeasir, who stepped into the room with a hasty bow.
‘I am trying to concentrate,’ the prince growled.
‘Forgive the disturbance, your highness,’ said Yeasir breathlessly, bowing again with more decorum. ‘Please look out of your window.’
‘My window?’ said Malekith.
The prince turned and strode to the open casement and stepped out onto the small balcony beyond. He stared down at the street below and saw crowds of elves hastening through the streets towards the docks, some of them running in their excitement. Raising his head, Malekith looked out over the roofs of the warehouses to the harbour beyond.
It was a sunny spring day and the calm waters of the bay glittered in the afternoon light. Dozens of ships bobbed at anchor in the middle of the port, but all seemed calm and Malekith could see nothing amiss. Then he turned his gaze further to the south and saw a line of black sails approaching past the harbour wall.
Shielding his eyes against the glare, Malekith looked at the approaching ships. There were ten of them, nine unremarkable but for the fact that they flew silver and black pennants of Nagarythe at their mastheads. The tenth was what caught Malekith’s attention, and the cause of so much interest from the city folk below.
It glided across the waves without effort, four huge lateen sails filled with the breeze, surf crashing around the gold-plated ram at its prow. It was larger than any ship Malekith had ever before seen, in size as large as a castle keep, spread over three hulls—one central structure flanked by two outrigger hulls that were each the size of a warship. Upon its deck stood high towers of dark-stained wood banded and trimmed with shining gold. It was the finest vessel ever to have crossed the seas, and Malekith was dumbstruck by its majesty and elegant lines.
Like a lion amongst scavenging dogs, the ship surged through the surf at the heart of its fleet, before trimly tacking across the wind and gracefully gliding towards the longest pier. The sound of clarions rang out from across the waves from the other nine ships, heralding the arrival of their leader.
Malekith fought the urge to leap straight from the balcony and run to the docks, and instead turned and instructed Yeasir to fetch his cloak and sword. He stood there tapping his fingers impatiently on the curved parapet of the balcony, watching as the immense ship slid closer and closer. He could now see the crew upon the deck, dressed in smart smocks of red and white, straining at stays to keep the sails full. At some unheard command, they jumped into action to furl the mainsail, slowing the ship’s passage as it neared the wharf.
Yeasir entered again and fixed Malekith’s scabbard to his belt and hung his purple cloak from his shoulders. Perhaps more hurriedly than he realised, Malekith strode from the room and descended the long winding stair at the centre of the tower. Guards at the doors flung them open at his approach, and Malekith swept past them without a glance, intent on the street outside.
It was thronged with people, and though many parted as they saw him approach, some were so intent upon reaching the docks that they did not note his appearance. Yeasir trotted ahead of his lord to clear them out of the way, and as they realised their error they fell to their knees in apology, and begged Malekith’s forgiveness as he strode past. In this way, Yeasir swiftly cleared a path to the docks, but upon arriving at the wharfs found the route utterly blocked by the press of elves who had gathered here from all over the surrounding buildings.
A few realised the unmannerly obstruction they were causing, but could only shrug and bow in apology, as they attempted to get out of the way but could not due to the crowds behind them. Such was the hubbub that Yeasir’s shouted commands were barely heard, and in the end Malekith resorted to drastic measures.
Drawing Avanuir from its sheath, he held the fabled sword aloft, its tip pointed towards the cloudless sky. With a word, the prince sent a pulse of magic along the blade. The sorcery erupted into a bolt of flame that shot high up into the air with a piercing screech, attracting the attention of all.
Thus warned of their ruler’s approach, the elves began to make way as best they could for the prince, some of them awkwardly leaping onto boats that stood at the water’s edge, others pushing into buildings or climbing onto awnings and balconies. As the waves parted before the prow of the approaching ship, so the elves parted in the path of their prince. With a satisfied nod, Malekith sheathed his sword and strode forwards along the widening line between him and the docking vessel.
Malekith walked to the end of the curving pier of white planks and stood with his hands on hips as the immense ship slowly slid around and came alongside. Elves with thick hawsers in hand leapt lithely over the side to the quay to secure the vessel. Amidships, a length of the gunwale soundlessly swung upwards and a wide set of steps slid out of the gap to touch down upon the pier. Malekith walked along the quay to stand at the foot of the docking stairs.
Looking up onto the ship, the sun was behind the vessel, throwing the sails and rigging into stark silhouette. A figure appeared at the top of the ramp, tall and elegant, draped with silky ribbons that danced in the sea breeze. As she strolled cat-like down the ramp, Malekith could see his visitor more clearly, as young and beautiful as he had ever remembered her: Morathi.
