The end times, p.28
The End Times, page 28
‘Must?’ Malekith hung Asuryath on his armour, tying the silver hangers to his belt. It felt as natural as the Destroyer had done ever since he had lost Avanuir at Maledor. ‘That sounds like instruction, nephew.’
‘No, your majesty, simply a statement of strategic imperative. If Lothern falls Lord Aislinn will reunite his fleet and sweep away our ships in the Sea of Dreams. From Lothern they can attack Caledor directly. If we do not stop their advance at Lothern, Tor Caleda will be besieged before midwinter.’
‘The geography lesson is appreciated,’ Malekith growled. ‘Your assessment is pessimistic. The defences of Lothern are strong and our fleet outmatches any seaborne-attack Aislinn can muster. Why must I intervene now?’
‘The warriors of Lothern will not fight for long for a cause that is, at best, nebulous to them. It is only the presence of the Caledorians that stiffens their resolve for the moment, and only Imrik that led the Caledorians. However, unless you wish to see a reversal of the events at Eagle Gate, the people of Eataine need a focus for their loyalty. The time has come to reveal to them and all of Ulthuan that they have a Phoenix King, and it is not Tyrion.’
Malekith accepted this appraisal without comment, and after some time Teclis interpreted his silence as dismissal and left the Phoenix King to ponder his decision.
The king had been quick to quash any thought of cowardice, but alone in that hall he was free to admit to himself a very physical, mortal fear. He could hide it behind talk of surviving to lead his people, and justify his continued absence from the battlefield as sound strategy, but the truth was that he was afraid to test himself against Tyrion again. He had barely survived the last encounter and, Asuryath or not, he was in no hurry to repeat the experience.
Tyrion was every bit the swordmaster that Aenarion had been and now he wielded the Sword of Khaine. There was no deadlier fighter in the world.
It did not matter that Tyrion was not at Lothern in person. Malekith could break the siege, he was sure of it, but the moment he revealed himself the future would be set, the wheel would turn along the rut that led to the fight between Asuryan and Khaine, Malekith and Tyrion. Was there any more that he could do to prepare himself for that confrontation?
CHAPTER THIRTY
THE BATTLE OF LOTHERN
The war was within view of Lothern’s walls. To the east the fields burned and the skies darkened with smoke. To the north the flotsam of sea battles, timbers and corpses, washed towards the city on lapping waves. The wind carried the clamour of battle, the crash of weapons, the curses and war cries, distant yet all-consuming.
The corpses of dragons mouldered on the hillside meadows, iron-hard scales pierced by hundreds of arrows and the bolts of war engines. Griffon bodies lay beside the feathered remains of phoenixes and harpies, figures cloaked in lion pelts and sea dragon hide, casualties of Ulthuan and Naggaroth combined, slashed and stabbed, decapitated and burned.
The air danced with Azyr lightning and Hysh thunderbolts. Sorcery and high magic whirled in multicoloured thunderheads and opened chasms lined with jagged boulder-fangs. Trees enervated by Ghyran magic uprooted themselves and hurled their branches at any creature encroaching on their woodlands, while walls of fire incinerated farms and hostelries, fed by growing waves of Aqshy. Bear, lion and panther followed the call of Ghur, and unseen lurking things crept in the shadows of Ulgu. Ancient spirits wailed their laments, their chill weapons freezing the hearts of those that came near their mausoleums, and the lodestones that powered the vortex crackled and fizzed with discharging magic, unable to beat the huge influx of magic pouring from the Northern Wastes.
The archers and spear-wielding militia on the walls of Eataine’s capital tightened their grips and looked east, seeing the first ranks of the retreating columns marching into view. The dragons appeared overhead, manticores amongst them, duelling with skycutters and great eagles.
The banners of Caledor and Eataine fluttered at the head of the returning army, but there were other standards too – grisly icons of the Cytharai, dire runes carved into steel and bone, wound about with thorny branches and hung with entrails. These were the marks of the druchii, vicious and depraved, but made uneasy allies by some means by which a great many within the city were unsure. Their princes vowed for the alliance and they fought for the princes, but it was unsettling to see the black-and-purple-clad legions of Naggarothi bearing down upon the landside gates.
And the enemy were almost on the heels of the returning host, many thousands of knights on horseback, the chariots of Tiranoc rumbling through the fields and along the white-paved roads. The banner of Cothique flew high above many of the advancing regiments, along with those of Yvresse and Chrace. White Lions and Phoenix Guard, once symbols of Ulthuan’s unyielding defence, now threatened to sack Lothern.
Across the Inner Sea came Aislinn and his fleet, and this caused even greater consternation. Born of Eataine, the Sea Lord now seemed content to see his own city ruined rather than held by another. Magical bolts flew from the decks of his ships to crash against the stones of the sea walls, while seaguard loyal to Aislinn unleashed volleys of arrows against former companions that remained true to the defence of their city.
No order was given for the gates to open, and none demanded. The Caledorian dragons turned and formed a rearguard, passing across the lead elements of the following host with fire and claw, driving back the enemy for a short while, until press of numbers and threat of being overwhelmed caused them to fall back. The task was complete, however, and the army that now fell under the command of the Naggarothi corsair Lokhir Fellheart formed for the final battle for Eataine, perhaps even the last meaningful battle for Ulthuan.
Flying at speed across the city, Malekith sensed the changing tide of war as a prickling on the skin. He had not felt as invigorated as he did now since the Battle of Maledor, when first his plans to rule Ulthuan had been crushed. More than that, it was at Maledor that he had come to believe Asuryan had rejected him, and it had been that revelation that had soured his ambition for the following millennia. Now that he had been accepted again by the king of the heavens, Malekith felt enlivened, dedicated to his cause by a fresh enthusiasm that could sustain him for another six thousand years of war.
His laugh was carefree, and something of his old flair for exhibition filled him. Beneath him Seraphon sensed his mood and let out a roar. Just as she had been raised from a captured egg by his hand, she had been restored to full health by his dedication and sorcerous attendance.
Malekith drew Asuryath and laughed again, buoyed by the flame of Asuryan that burned from the blade. The sword left a trail of silver and white across the grey skies, and bathed both black dragon and rider in a pale halo.
The Phoenix King realised just what it was that he felt, and he marvelled that he had missed it for so long.
Righteousness.
It had been stripped from him that day on the field of Maledor, tainting his ambition, perhaps fuelling an inner doubt ever since. Now he knew that he fought not only for himself but for Ulthuan and for the elves.
For an instant, a fleeting heartbeat, he was wholly at peace with himself.
He swooped down upon the oncoming army like a comet, a dozen black dragons in his wake. At his arrival Lokhir Fellheart signalled the counter-attack and trumpets blared across Lothern, ordering the gates open and the companies within to spill forth. On the western horizon the looming shapes of massive black arks, each a castle brimming with warriors and war machines, closed on the fleet of Lord Aislinn. Fellheart’s own black ark, the Tower of Blessed Dread, led the seaborne charge, bearing directly for the gates of Lothern.
The clarions of the attacking army quickly changed from calling the advance to sounding the retreat. On the Sea of Dreams Aislinn’s fleet quickly hauled about and set to the east, fleeing for the shallower waters of the Sapherian coast. Imrik, though not fully recovered, had insisted on accompanying the Phoenix King and he joined his dragons in pursuit of the breaking ships while Malekith’s black drakes savaged the fleeing elements of the land-bound host.
After the initial exhilaration of the charge, three dozen foes cut effortlessly apart by Asuryath, as many again torn to shreds by Seraphon, Malekith’s mood deflated. He broke off his attack, uncharacteristically bored by the mindless butchery. The battle had been won at the moment of his arrival, that much was clear, and it seemed pointless to slaughter his new subjects to settle the point.
It was then that he did something entirely against his normal judgement. He signalled his forces to stand fast, ordering them to marshal the thousands that had surrendered. This allowed Korhil and the rest of Tyrion’s force to flee eastward. Imrik responded after a time, returning from his pursuit to find the Phoenix King atop Seraphon in the shadow of the eastern wall watching the captives filing back into the city.
‘We had them!’ barked Imrik, stowing his lance behind his saddle-throne. ‘We could have crushed them, destroyed all resistance in one attack. What madness in Asuryan’s name has taken your senses?’
‘Asuryan’s name indeed,’ Malekith snapped back. He waved a hand to encompass the rainbow of kingdom colours flying above the returning army, and the darker icons of the druchii amongst them. ‘These are my people now, Prince Imrik. I have killed more than you can ever count, and a thousand-thousand times that number are dead because of my commands. But I am not their enemy, I am their king. I have shown mercy today. I have shown those that follow Tyrion that there is an alternative.’
‘It will take more than a few spared lives to change six thousand years of history, Malekith,’ said Imrik, but his protest was spoken softly, a touch of admiration in his voice. ‘But I suppose today is as good a day as any to start making amends.’
‘Amends?’ Malekith sneered. ‘I do not seek their forgiveness, only their compliance. Let the survivors take back the word that I can be merciful. Those that choose to face me again will learn that I can still be merciless.’
Teclis had been amongst the army retreating to Lothern, and sought out Malekith soon after, finding him in council with Imrik discussing the next moves in the war. King and prince were in disagreement, with Malekith keen to consolidate the victory in Eataine and Imrik pressing to move the army after Korhil, pushing back into Saphery and Yvresse.
‘We cannot win this war by battles alone,’ Malekith told them. ‘Tyrion will not give up his claim while he lives, and will spend the lives of his followers to the last elf in prosecuting that claim.’
‘As will you?’ said Imrik.
Malekith answered with a silent stare.
‘Or the war ends with your death or Tyrion’s?’ the prince continued.
‘Be sure to know that you will not outlive me, son of Caledor,’ Malekith replied abruptly. ‘And your people will die screaming soon after.’
‘The king has it right, Prince Imrik,’ Teclis intervened before Imrik could retaliate. ‘We must win Ulthuan to our cause and rob my brother of forces, so that when the confrontation that must happen occurs he is entirely outmatched. We must begin here, with a proper triumph, so that the citizens of Lothern can see who their saviour is and spread the word to the other kingdoms.’
‘I have seen the manner of reaction my presence provokes, in Tor Caleda,’ Malekith said sourly, flames rippling from his body to demonstrate his meaning. ‘My name is poison on the tongues of the asur, my image a vision of hate and dread.’
‘The first will be nullified by your title, King Malekith, the second…’ Teclis appraised Malekith for a while and then started an incantation. The Phoenix King felt the seven winds of magic binding around him, guided by the power of light, Hysh. He felt no physical change, but saw Imrik’s eyes widening in surprise.
‘A glamour?’ the king said, holding up his hand. He saw only dark, scarred metal and turned to Imrik. ‘What do you see?’
‘You, your majesty,’ the prince replied, his tongue faltering over the words. ‘The image of a king, the line of Aenarion, in golden plate.’
Malekith straightened to his full height, impressed by Imrik’s reaction.
‘Then let us share our triumph with the people of Lothern,’ the king declared. ‘Let them see the magnificence of Aenarion born again, and be glad in their hearts that the true Phoenix King walks amongst them.’
And with these words, Malekith set off for the city.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
A HEAVY CROWN
Malekith’s will held sway after the victory at Lothern, and his army spent the early winter restocking supplies and garrisoning towns and castles that had been abandoned by Korhil’s swift retreat northwards. He expected a counter-attack, either along the coast or across the sea, but none came. Concerned that his own forces, many of them corsairs of the fleet, would grow increasingly unruly if left to grow idle, he despatched several columns into Saphery and Yvresse, hoping to prompt a response from his foes.
It was not only Malekith’s armies that coped poorly with idleness. The king himself, now that he had revealed himself to friend and foe, was the centre of much attention. Princes of Yvresse and Eataine were keen to make audience, and under Teclis’s urging the king granted such meetings to foster fresh alliance and reveal Tyrion’s falsehoods. These affairs were tedious in the extreme, a succession of pontificating nobles that seemed to think they had the secret to winning the war, who deemed their opinions of any interest to Malekith at all.
Painfully aware that he could not simply have them killed out of hand – this was not the Black Council of Naggarond – Malekith tried his best to endure their bird-like twitterings and ill-informed grasps at politics and military strategy, but all too often his shortness of temper betrayed him and the emissaries left with stinging insults in their ears, if not bellowed threats following them out of the Sapphire Palace of Lothern, where Finubar had once ruled.
‘You cost us valuable friends,’ Imrik complained to the king a dozen days after Lothern had been saved. ‘Teclis has given you the appearance of a true king, but you have none of the nobility.’
‘You would talk to me of nobility?’ asked Malekith softly, wondering just how much longer he would require Imrik’s support. He longed for the day when the dragons answered to Malekith directly, and he could dispense with the swaggering, overblown descendant of the Dragontamer. ‘These princes try to tell me how to wage war, and seek to advise me on how best to rule my people. They are dolts and dullards, and it is a wonder that with such cretinous commanders your armies ever held against mine.’
‘A history it is best not to bring up with them,’ Teclis said smoothly, having entered unheard and unseen through one of the side doors of the great audience hall of the Phoenix King. He looked weary again, the flush of energy that had filled him following the defeat of Korhil now vanished. ‘I have spent the better part of the last two days salving the wounds your harsh words have caused, your majesty. Prince Imrik is correct, you must try to resist these intemperate moods.’
‘Moods?’ Malekith said the word slowly, with menace. ‘Lackwits try to surround me with their idiocy and I am prey to moods? The whole of the Naggarothi people were dedicated to my every word, they lived and died by my will and whim. They recognised my leadership and knew when to offer their opinions and when to listen. Perhaps I should make a few more obvious examples, so that these pretentious princes understand the nature of my kingship?’
It was in this state of mind that Malekith later received word that one of his corsair captains, Drane Brackblood, had led an attack on an outpost at Allardin, slaughtering all within and looting as was the nature of the black ark crews. Such violence against Malekith’s new allies was wholly unacceptable and the Phoenix King feared that unless he sent a strong message to the other druchii tensions between them and the asur would split apart the fragile alliance he had forged.
Turning in these troubled times to his most trusted companion, he despatched Kouran, who for some time had been working with the Caledorian princes integrating the armies of Naggarond and Caledor. The captain of the Black Guard’s orders were clear and would be carried out without hesitation – Brackblood and all of her officers, and any that took part in the killing at Allardin, were to be summarily killed.
Five days later Kouran returned to Malekith with the news that the deed had been done. The bodies of the dead were displayed from the battlements of Brackblood’s black ark Shadow Tide in the harbour of Lothern and Malekith delivered a speech to his court in which he told his allies that the perpetrators of the attack at Allardin had been apprehended and executed, and he told those from the druchii contingent that any violence against the asur when not in open battle would be punished in the same manner.
The show of strength had the opposite effect to that which Malekith had desired. Amongst his own ranks there were desertions as companies and commanders decided that Malekith no longer represented their best interests, hoping to find better understanding amongst those that had followed Morathi to Tyrion’s side. From the asur princes came an outcry against the king’s brutal actions, complaints about the tyranny of Naggaroth being brought to the homes of Ulthuan.
The following night fighting broke out in the Sapphire Palace. The battle was swift and one-sided and when it was concluded Malekith was visited by Kouran and Caradryan, whose bodyguard forces had combined to form the Shadowfire Guard, one sinister figure in black the other a bright hero in white, as though a telling embodiment of the Phoenix King’s own duality.
‘Prince Torhaeron rallied a company of the White Lions still in Lothern, your majesty,’ reported Caradryan. ‘They served once as Finubar’s bodyguard and were on their way to kill you.’
