The end times, p.23
The End Times, page 23
‘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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE FLAME OF ASURYAN
He was burning, the scream wrenched from his throat fuelled by raw agony and despair. It was every moment of six thousand years relived, the pain of six thousand years welled up into one single instant coursing through his body.
The urge to flee, to throw himself clear, to escape again to the Realm of Chaos, was almost overwhelming. What did it matter if his people were destroyed – he would survive, he was the greatest of them, they existed to be sacrificed for his continued life.
But he denied the urge, listening instead to the beat of his heart rather than the fear of his mind. He remembered that he was Aenarion’s son and held firm to the resolution that he would be reborn if he could but endure for a few heartbeats longer. Teclis had promised him as much, and if the mage sought to play him false it was better now to end his life knowing the truth than continue for another pain-wracked age beset by the doubt that he had been offered that which he desired the most and refused it.
It was not the physical pain that caused such torture. The mortal pain was only a memory of the spiritual pain. He had known in that moment he had stepped into the flames the first time that he was not worthy. The blood on his hands, metaphorical and literal, had been his guilt and he had carried it with him.
There had been no judgement laid upon him by Asuryan. The only punishment he suffered was self-inflicted.
In acknowledging that, he accepted his fate, remembering that his father had been willing to die for the protection of Ulthuan. To rule as Phoenix King one had to be raised up from the ashes of death. There was no other way.
As the fires consumed him, Malekith laughed.
The flames burned through him, touching every part of his body and spirit. There was no pain, no sensation at all. Malekith felt like a ghost, apart from the mortal world. He swore that a thousand voices were now chanting.
Malekith could see nothing but multicoloured fire. He was made of it. He lifted a hand in front of his face and saw nothing save the dancing flames.
Malekith wondered if he was dead.
His body felt as though it had wings, lifting him up, borne aloft by the flames like the phoenixes of the flamespyre. He closed his eyes but nothing changed; still the flames filled his vision. A gentle breeze washed over him, its touch smoothing away metal skin and charred flesh and broken bone, reducing him to delicate ash, all without the slightest hint of discomfort.
Sensation returned, the fire coalescing again into his form, creating body and limbs and head and fingers and every part of him from its essence. Opening his eyes, he turned and stepped out of the flames.
‘I am ready.’
The priest nodded and signalled to his attendants. Each of them carried a piece of blackened metal, curved and rune-encrusted. Some were recognisable: breastplate, vambraces, gorget, gauntlets. Others seemed utterly alien, strangely shaped, trailing sheets of black mail or fixed with awkwardly angled hinges.
The first piece was put into the furnace. The slaves were whipped to increase their labours at the bellows. Muttering prayers to Vaul, Hotek fanned the flames with magic, until they burned white-hot. Reaching his bare hand into the fires, he retrieved the piece of armour. Impervious to the heat, he carried it to Malekith, who watched the proceedings with the remains of his brow knotted in concentration.
‘This will burn,’ said Hotek.
Malekith’s reply was a shrill laugh, tinged with madness.
‘I can burn no more,’ whispered the prince. ‘Do it!’
An acolyte brought forward a smoking rivet in a pair of tongs. Hotek and his assistant crouched, the priest placing the hot piece of metal against Malekith’s flesh with a hiss of vapour. Malekith giggled.
‘Now,’ said Hotek.
The acolyte pushed the rivet into place. With a few whispered words of enchantment, Hotek struck lightly with the Hammer of Vaul, tapping the hot rivet through its prepared hole and into the bone of Malekith.
The prince snarled with pain, and swayed for a moment. He wished he could close his eyes. Instead he set his mind aside, going to the place he had created for himself in the cold depths of his thoughts.
With a start, Malekith was dragged back to reality. Two bodies lay at his feet. His body burned with fresh fire, but it was no more than he had grown used to. Acolytes moved around him, painting blood from the sacrifices into the runes carved upon the pieces of armour put in place, following each curl and line with brushes made of elven hair.
His lower legs and feet were clad in the smoking black iron. He did not remember lifting his feet, but realised he must have done so. He could feel the rivets hammered into heel and toe and laughed at the thought of being shod like a warhorse.
There was chanting. His mother looked on silently, but her adepts’ words swished around the chamber, verses overlapping, creating an arrhythmic harmony of magic. More rivets were driven into the scrawny flesh of his thighs, and links were riveted into place through the sides of his knees.
When next he perceived clearly what was happening, he was clad from foot to neck in the armour. Every part of him trembled. He could feel the energy of the spirit he had consumed slipping away.
‘Too soon,’ he muttered. ‘I am falling.’
Morathi hurriedly beckoned to an adept, who sacrificed another captive and brought the blood to Malekith in a cup of ancient silver. Malekith took the cup and then stopped. He realised he had not held a thing for more than a decade. He examined the fingers of his new hand, each perfectly articulated. He recognised the dwarf-work that inspired the design and smiled to himself. Even now, his great adventures of the past were still bearing fruit.
The fires flared anew and Malekith was brought back to the present. A film of red covered his vision. His own blood, he realised.
He blinked.
The simple motion caused him immeasurable joy. The thinnest slivers of black metal had been fashioned into eyelids. Malekith blinked again, and then closed his eyes. He enjoyed the darkness and more time passed.
‘It is done,’ announced Hotek.
Malekith flexed his arms and bent his legs, trying out his new body. It felt like his own flesh, though the burning had not lessened. Half a dozen dead elves lay sprawled at his feet, throats slit, their blood anointed upon his forged form. He could feel their spirits sliding around him, trapped within the runes of the armour.
‘Not finished,’ he said. ‘My crown.’
Hotek looked confused and turned to Morathi for explanation. She summoned an acolyte who brought forth a velvet cushion on which was placed a circlet of dull grey metal, spikes jutting at strange angles like a crown conceived by a lunatic.
Morathi reached a hand towards it, but Malekith grabbed her wrist. She howled in pain and tore free from his grip, backing away. There were burns on her flesh.
‘You cannot touch it,’ said Malekith. ‘It is not yours, it is mine.’
He took up the Circlet of Iron. It felt icy cold to his touch. While Morathi fussed over her burned wrist, Malekith raised the strange crown to his head and placed it on his brow.
‘Weld it,’ said the prince. ‘Make it a piece of the helm.’
Hotek did as he was bid, striking more rivets into Malekith’s skull before securing the circlet in place with molten metal. Malekith reached up and tugged at the circlet, assuring himself that it could not be removed.
Satisfied, he closed his eyes again. He let his thoughts free from his body, tasting the dark magic seething around the dungeon chamber. He felt the inrushing of power and rode the wave of energy, spearing up through the roof of the chamber, passing through the many floors of his father’s palace like a meteor called back to the stars. Anlec dwindled below him and he shifted from the plane of mortals into a realm of pure magic.
As at the first time he had worn the circlet, he looked at the Realm of Chaos, the domain of the Chaos Gods. On this occasion he had no fear. He materialised in his armoured form, burning white-hot, his presence blazing across the dominions of the Chaos Gods as a challenge.
Sentiences not of any mortal recognition stirred. Malekith felt their attention slowly drawn towards him.
‘I am Malekith!’ he declared. A flaming sword appeared in his hand. ‘Son of Aenarion, the daemons’ bane. Hear my name and know me, the rightful king of the elves!’
As a comet of power, he plunged back to his body. The runes of his armour exploded with dark flames as he re-entered his artificial form. He opened his metal eyelids, revealing orbs of black fire.
He looked down at the elves around him. They seemed small and insignificant. His voice echoed strangely from the mask of his helm, filling the room.
‘I have returned,’ he declared. ‘Pay homage to me.’
All present fell to their knees, instantly obedient to his words; save one, who fixed him with an expression of utter happiness.
‘Hail Malekith!’ cried Morathi, golden tears streaming down her face. ‘Hail the Witch King of Ulthuan!’
The flame guttered and died behind Malekith, leaving the inner sanctum in darkness.
The ground trembled, and not from the bombardment, but from a movement deep below. With a loud snap, a crack appeared in the pyramidal roof, a shaft of light breaking through to illuminate the newly-blessed Phoenix King.
‘Hail the Phoenix King,’ Caradryan said, tone uncertain, lifting his halberd in salute. Malekith stopped, shocked by the similarity to Kouran, as though he were the light from which came the shadow that was the captain of the Black Guard.
