The end times, p.32
The End Times, page 32
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!’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
THE FINAL BATTLE
On the Isle of the Dead was the fate of the world to be decided, at the very heart of the vortex raised by Caledor Dragontamer. Astride Seraphon, Malekith held the centre of the line, surrounded by warriors from ten kingdoms and further afield, all drawn together in his cause.
The air crackled with the whirl of magic, condensed into its rawest form by the eight lodestones that formed a circle at the very centre of the isle. A loremaster stood at each sparkling stone, though the monolith for the Wind of Shyish was dull and lifeless, its power stolen by Nagash.
Teclis sat atop his shadow steed to Malekith’s right, sword in hand, expression pensive. To the left Alarielle and her asrai followers guarded the approach to the inner stones, bows at the ready.
‘Protect the loremasters – that is all that matters,’ Teclis shouted up to the Phoenix King. ‘Do not let Tyrion’s forces break through. It is as when the vortex was made and Aenarion fought as the shield of the Dragontamer.’
‘I know the strategy, nephew, and have no need of another of your history lessons,’ Malekith replied. He felt calm, committed now to a course of action from which there could only be two simple outcomes. He would be victorious or he would be dead. It was strangely reassuring to have such clarity of purpose. ‘Just mind your own deeds, and I will see to mine.’
The Phoenix King drew Asuryath and a great cheer rose up from his assembled army as the splinter of light shone against the multicoloured sky.
‘I was expecting more of them,’ the king commented, as Tyrion’s army approached. It seemed if anything that the Dragon of Cothique was slightly outnumbered. Blood-frenzied hags and vicious corsairs led the attack while companies of bows filled the air with barbed shafts and phalanxes of spears moved to the flanks. Malekith’s force arrayed in deep ranks to await the assault, their banners flying colours from all of the kingdoms of Ulthuan.
Tyrion himself could be seen at the centre of the line, a golden figure amongst red and black. He raised the Sword of Khaine and a hush fell across the island, the sight of the Widowmaker causing even the bravest heart to flutter for a moment. Malekith felt the vortex churning around Tyrion. At first he thought it was the sorcery of Morathi, but he sensed his mother’s presence elsewhere. It was tempting to seek her out, to rend her limb from limb for her betrayal, but the cautioning words of Teclis held Malekith to his task. If she survived the battle vengeance would come later.
Whatever enchantment was being wrought by Tyrion, its energy flowed over the Isle of the Dead and into the sea, causing the waves to boil, washing deep spume upon the shores. There was movement in the waves, figures approaching from the waters.
Lurching and staggering, the dead of the seas answered the summons of Khaine. Bidden to the Isle of the Dead, the restless corpses of thousands forged out of the sea, some less than a day in their watery graves, others seaweed-clad skeletons who had fallen in millennia past.
Dismay flowed through Malekith’s army as these unearthly reinforcements followed after Tyrion’s host, their ghastly moaning and groans a bass background to the shriller war cries and wails of the Khainites.
‘No retreat!’ Malekith bellowed, brandishing his blade again.
There was little strategy and Malekith charged into the heart of the enemy with his black dragon, cutting to the left and right with Asuryan’s holy blade, leaving corpses wreathed in white fire behind him.
He knew little enough of the unbinding ceremony, but could feel the vortex loosening around him. He tried to concentrate on the foes in front and behind, urging Seraphon deeper into the fray to slick her claws and fangs with the blood of the enemy.
Time lost meaning. Around Malekith the battle raged, physical and magical, and the skies whirled with skycutters and griffons, mages on shining platforms and roaring manticores. He paid little heed to anything else and cut down hydras and elves, charioteers and cold ones with equal cold ferocity.
He was dimly aware of bright fire and screams when Imrik’s last surviving dragons charged the flank of Tyrion’s army, slaying with dragonfire and claw. The stench of saltwater and decay washed over him and he saw that the dead of the seas had reached the battle line. Some fought with their weapons, broken shields and rusted swords, others had clawed hands and wide maws filled with needle-like fangs like some deepwater fish.
He hewed down reanimated corpses to the left and right, though around him his followers were unsettled by the assault of the dead and began to give ground. Not wishing to become isolated, the Phoenix King was forced to back away, and in the break this granted him he saw why the dead had caused so much consternation.
At their head marched five figures, resurrected from their tombs upon the Isle of the Dead. In regal cloaks and armour, with swords and shields and necklaces and bangles about their mouldering bones, five dire warriors led the charge of the undead.
The Phoenix Kings of ages past.
Five alone of the ten, whose bodies had been interred in the mausoleums upon the water’s edge. Finubar was there, though less than three years dead his body rendered to gleaming bones by the magic of the vortex. After him came others, glowing with fey light, eyeless sockets gleaming with magic. Confronted by the kings of times past the host of Malekith drew back, bending before the advance of the undead like the bow wave of a ship.
Malekith saw that Tyrion’s forces were gathering again for a fresh attack in the wake of the undead advance. Knights and griffon riders were set ready to charge, while Tiranocii chariots mustered to force any breakthrough.
Looking on Finubar’s skeletal features Malekith was filled with a loathing born not of horror but anger. Arrayed before him were five of his worst foes, who had thwarted him in life and now their bones were beholden to a brain-addled slave of Khaine. Their weakness sickened Malekith and he rose up in Seraphon’s throne-saddle in disgust.
The vortex was like an unchained beast around him, bucking at the lodestones to tug free, smashing into the ground and whirling into the air in a storm of sparks and clouds. His simplest thought caused ripples to eddy out into the maelstrom. Shaped by his hatred of the dead kings pressing towards him, the vortex responded, gathering in his body, fizzing along fingers and limbs.
Infused with magical power, Malekith burst into flame, his armour burning white, Asuryath like a lick of fire in his hand. And in that moment Malekith understood his destiny and accepted who he was.
Asuryan reborn.
Malekith’s laughter echoed across the battlefield.
‘Kings of Ulthuan!’ the Phoenix King spat the words as a curse. ‘You are usurpers and thieves. You owe me a debt. In my name, and in that of my father, I call upon you to repay it now!’
The magic was too much to control and Malekith had to give vent to his righteous wrath. He thrust Asuryath towards the oncoming host of the dead and white fire sprang from the blade to create a ball of blazing destruction. The bones of the dead kings shattered at the impact of his magical missile, scattered to the winds as ash. As it screamed through the ranks of the undead the fire took on a shape, becoming the image of an elf.
Of Finubar, as he had been in life.
Though the fire burned out quickly, leaving a ring of charred corpses on the ground where it had stopped, the gleaming figure of Finubar remained where the bolt had exploded, glowing with white light. Drawing an ethereal blade, the shade of Finubar charged into the foe.
‘Spirits of the fallen kings, answer me now!’
Malekith hurled another fireball, which coalesced into the image of Bel-Hathor. From his fiery birth the Phoenix King known as the Sage strode forth unleashing blasts of power from his fingertips, eyes ablaze with magical energy. Eight more times Malekith cast the incantation and eight more times the spirits of the Phoenix Kings past answered his summons, appearing in coronas of white fire, reborn by the power of Asuryan, the Phoenix of the Gods.
All came that were bidden, whether warrior like Tethlis and Caledor and his son, or magic-weaver like Caradryel the Peacemaker and Bel-Korhadris the Scholar-King. Only one king did Malekith not call upon, and one king alone that had no debt to settle. Aenarion’s spirit remained unsummoned, wherever it had departed.
But Malekith did not stop there.
He was Phoenix King, the Lord of Lords, and to him was owed every oath of fealty and dedication ever sworn upon Ulthuan. With Asuryath a storm of white fire, he called forth every hero and heroine that ever laid down his or her life for the cause of the elves, from Eltharion the Grim who had died only a year before trying to rescue Tyrion’s daughter, to Yeasir, his lieutenant from ancient Anlec, killed when he had stood up to Malekith’s soldiers to protect the heir to Tiranoc before the Sundering had flooded that kingdom.
With these ancient heroes to lead them, the Phoenix King and Everqueen at the forefront of the fight, the army of Malekith surged forwards into Tyrion’s host, possessed of a righteousness of spirit that eclipsed the blind blood-thirst of their foes.
Seeing that the battle turned against him Tyrion was at last forced to come forward himself. His sword arm never ceasing in its rise and fall, he cut his way through the throng, heading directly for the Phoenix King.
‘Finally,’ Malekith said to Seraphon. ‘A foe worth fighting.’
A panicked thought intruded upon the Phoenix King’s mind and in the moment of distraction he noticed that the vortex was almost free, riding and crashing like a ship on storm-tossed waves that had broken its moorings. The sense of another close at hand announced a message from Teclis.
‘Summoning the kings of old has upset the balance of our incantations!’ bellowed the mage into Malekith’s thoughts. ‘Look what your meddling has wrought!’
Malekith glanced towards the lodestones and saw that a handful of the mages were dead, their desiccated corpses propped up against the waystones they had been controlling. Like ribbons in a storm the winds of magic fluttered free and fierce.
The white of Malhandir streaked towards Malekith through the melee, the Dragon of Cothique on the horse’s back a vision of destruction.
‘I have more pressing matters, nephew. I am playing my part, mage, now play yours!’
Taking to the air, Malekith watched as the Phoenix Kings of old tried to confront Tyrion. Each in turn fell to the Widowmaker, speared and sliced by the shard of icy death in his hand. Tyrion plunged onward, reckless in his haste, trampling friend as well as foe beneath the hooves of his steed.
It was then that Malekith realised his error. Tyrion rode not for him, but for Teclis.
Seraphon swooped at his command and magic rained from Malekith’s sword, but Malhandir was swifter even than dragon or bolt or fireball. Cursing himself for his lapse, Malekith strained every nerve to ensnare Tyrion with a spell while Seraphon, urged on by her master, almost tore herself apart in her efforts to catch the blur of white and gold on the ground below.
Teclis was unaware of the doom descending upon him, arms reaching into the air as though he tried to seize hold of the winds of magic like reins. Oblivious to his brother bearing down, the mage howled his enchantments into the vortex.
But there was to be one last turn of allegiance. No mere horse was Malhandir, but descended from the father of horses in the time before the Everqueen. He had borne Tyrion across countless battlefields and almost died a dozen times for his master, but now at the last the Lord of Steeds sensed that it was not Tyrion he carried but a far darker creature.
As Malekith dropped like a comet, Malhandir pranced, tossing Tyrion from his back to fall onto the hard rock of the outcrop where the bases of the lodestones met. The Dragon of Cothique lashed out with the icefang but Malhandir was already galloping away. The Widowmaker in his grasp, Tyrion stalked on, eyes fixed on Teclis.
Malekith smiled as Seraphon flexed her claws. Enslaved to the rage of Khaine, Tyrion had turned his back on the Phoenix King, possessed by the thirst for vengeance against his brother. He was but moments from death.
A piercing shriek cut across the clamour of battle, a warning scream that caused Tyrion to turn when Seraphon was but a heartbeat from snatching up the Dragon of Cothique. Malekith recognised the voice as his mother’s but had no time to curse her interference as Tyrion spun with supernatural speed and speared the Widowmaker towards the diving black dragon, rolling beneath the outstretched claws.
Seraphon needed no command and banked fast, pouring forth a billow of noxious vapour from her maw.
Purple lightning erupted around the dragon and her rider, crackling across scales and armour. Screeching agony from Morathi’s spell, Seraphon spasmed, wings folding as she fell. Malekith leapt clear a moment before she hit the rock, wings and spine cracking, scales and flesh torn by the jagged stone upthrusts.
Landing lightly, Malekith turned to find Tyrion almost upon him. The Widowmaker flashed for the Phoenix King’s throat. Asuryath moved as though of its own accord and the two godly blades clashed with a shower of icy sparks and white fire.
So did Malekith and Tyrion, Asuryan and Khaine, finally meet to decide who would prevail.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
ONE KING TO RULE THEM
Tyrion’s sword was in constant motion, but no slower was Malekith’s blade. Ice and fire wreathed the pair, the toll of enchanted steel sounding out with every heartbeat as the two demigods fought.
Malekith was aware that the winds of magic were almost undone, and in this moment stuck true to his task, defending and engaging Tyrion rather than forcing the fight for a kill one way or the other. For Tyrion the duel was a venting of a bloodlust long in the making, his red eyes fixed on his foe, every lick and lash of the Widowmaker intended to maim and kill, only centuries of unthinking instinct moving the Godslayer in defence when Malekith counter-attacked.
Malekith was wounded first, taking a cut to his left arm that bit deep to the bone. Had it not been for Hotek’s craft the arm would have been lost altogether, though the limb hanging dead at his side caused the Phoenix King some difficulty. In retaliation Malekith swept his sword towards Tyrion’s throat. The avatar of Khaine eluded the blow but at the expense of his jaw as the tip of Asuryath raked across his face.
They parted for but a moment and then flew at each other again, their swords a blur to all that watched. Malekith circled, keeping his good side presented to his foe, while Tyrion unleashed a blistering set of strikes both high and low, seeking any gap in the Phoenix King’s defences.
Each was cut a dozen times and more from glancing blows, their suits of armour streaming with blood, their blades hissing with magic. Malekith renewed his efforts, sensing that he was tiring, knowing that he had to overwhelm Khaine’s incarnation quickly. The vortex was almost freed, and in a few more heartbeats Teclis’s spell would be complete.
Tyrion weathered the Phoenix King’s offensive with hasty parries and dodges, always just ahead of the next blow. Malekith could not help but remember the result of their earlier encounter and fear crept into his heart as he looked into the unthinking, raging gaze of his foe. The dread crept through his body like ice, seeping from the wounds inflicted by the Widowmaker, sapping his spirit as well as his stamina.
It was then that Malekith knew he could not win.
The efforts of his earlier sorcery and the wounds he had received had taken too much of a toll. He could defend himself for a time more, but not long enough, or he could try to end Tyrion with one last effort.
His first blow took the avatar of Khaine back a step, his second rang against Tyrion’s helm, almost shearing through his skull. The armour of Aenarion held against the blow, however, and the impact sent shock tingling up Malekith’s weary arm.
As before, Malekith became aware of a presence near at hand – a familiar coiling of Ulgu that he now recognised as the shadow-walking of Alith Anar. Between flurries of sword strokes, he scanned the piles of dead and dying heaped upon the lodestones, searching for the Shadow King.
