‘You do yourself a disservice, Prince Malekith,’ said the mage. He stood and started to pace the room, hands clasped behind his back. ‘There are many things you desire far more than my demise. You would let me live in return for your rightful return to the Phoenix Throne. You would gladly spare me if I released you from the torment Asuryan inflicted upon you so many centuries ago. Your vengeance has never been anything more than a veil for your frustrated ambition.’
Malekith reached out, his insubstantial hand passing through the mage’s throat. He tightened his fist regardless, keen to prove his point.
‘I do not expect you to trust me, any more than I trust you,’ Teclis continued. ‘You are called the Deceiver by many with good cause. Nor do I expect you to believe me without proof.’
‘You can prove that the End Times are upon us? You have proof that Lileath will guide us to the means by which Chaos can be defeated? Lay it before me now and let me judge how trustworthy your words can be.’
‘The power of three is well known to us, and so three dooms my mistress has laid upon you, as maiden, mother and crone, Morai-heg, Ladrielle and Lileath. When they have come to pass, I shall be brought to you again and you will know the truth of what I have told you.’
‘Prophecy,’ muttered Malekith. ‘Some vague declarations that could be construed to mean just about anything. Has not my own doom been prophesied? Is not the curse laid upon you and your twin nothing more than the utterings of a demented seer driven to grief by the rejection of my father?’
Teclis said nothing as he picked up his staff, the image of Lileath at its tip gleaming silver in the moonlight that came through the window. Malekith flinched, for moments before it had been noon daylight, but now he saw a full moon rising above the forested mountains to the east.
Words came from Teclis’s lips, but the voice was not his. Mellow and lilting, the female voice slipped into Malekith’s thoughts like a lover entwining arms around him, leaving the memory of the words embedded deep.
‘In tide of blood it will begin, a crimson fate that covers all. He that fell will fall again, Lord of Battle will fight no more.
‘The serpent will come forth, fangs hidden behind the snow, with scales of black and eyes of blood. Its venom shall be the doom of ambition.
‘And comes forth the Crippled One’s bane, the forgotten maker shall be found. On mercy’s anvil shall hope be forged, and godly silence shall be unbound.’
Malekith considered these words carefully as Teclis slumped back into his chair, his face even more wan than usual. His eyes were dull, his hair lank and lifeless. Coughing wracked the mage for a few moments until, with a faltering hand, he drew a phial of liquid from a drawer and took a swift draught. Almost immediately his pallor improved, the light returned to his gaze and he smiled.
‘You cannot stop him,’ Teclis said. ‘Not without my aid.’
‘If you think this is the path to anything but utter damnation, you are wrong, my nephew.’ Malekith loomed over the mage. ‘Believe me when I tell you that I have looked into the abyss where this course of action leads. If you trust anything, trust my experience. I have never been short of spite for those that disowned me, but I will warn you that you will destroy everything you love if you insist on following this road to its end. I have walked it far longer than you.’
Teclis sighed, his look one of regret. ‘A wrong six thousand years old cannot be righted in a moment. The time will come when old wounds,’ he reached out a hesitant hand and for a heartbeat Malekith’s true form was revealed, shorn of glamour and armour, incandescent and scarred for eternity, ‘the gravest of wounds even, can be healed.’
Fate was in motion. Morai-heg had foretold this day, but Malekith would not leave to her cruel whim that which he could decide for himself. With a growled command, he directed Seraphon back to the battle. There would be no mistakes this time, no confusion or setbacks or failure by lesser servants.
By his might, the Phoenix Throne would be his again. He was starting to believe.
Teclis had promised it.
The gods willed it.
Five
An Unexpected Barrier
It was not long past noon but in the northern reaches of the world the sun was barely a paler disc behind the clouds, the lands of Naggaroth shrouded by twilight. Bearing magical lanterns that burned with cold, blue fire the Naggarothi army appeared like a host of ice statues given life, the bleak light reflected from black enamelled armour plates and silver mail.
A host of knights led the vanguard, five thousand strong, mounted on reptilian cold ones. The stench of the creatures was matched by the steam of foetid breath that rose from their ranks, swathing the riders in a bank of fog that made their appearance even more ethereal.
At their heart rumbled a company of chariots drawn by more of the beasts, twenty of them, flanking the massive war engine of Malekith while Seraphon flew overhead. Malekith’s chariot was a construction of black iron, drawn by four cold ones bedecked with barbed armour over their glistening blue scales. The chariot itself was hung with chains and hooks, the wheels spinning with jagged blades to slash the legs from under any unfortunate foe or beast that came close.
The host followed a road of cracked stones, cleared of snow by a legion of slaves driven ahead of the host by whips and hunger. The rag-shrouded corpses of those that had collapsed during their labours were heaped in the snow drifts beside the ancient slabs, faces frozen in pale-skinned grimaces, limbs protruding from the white banks with icicles dangling from splayed fingers.
A lone rider appeared out of the white haze and approached, swathed in a black riding cloak. His horse, also the colour of midnight, was tall and sleek, bred from stock stolen from the fair plains of Ellyrion in generations past, the flanks marked by the brand of Lord Ezresor.
Ezresor’s dark steed whinnied and cowered at the stench of the cold ones, almost throwing him as he pulled to a walk a few paces from Malekith’s chariot. The high agent dipped his head, sunken eyes betraying nothing as they rose again to meet his king’s gaze.
‘Your majesty, the riders report that the way to Ghrond is blocked,’ Ezresor told the Witch King. The spymaster’s steed gnashed at its bit and whinnied, shying away from Malekith. He yanked the reins and dug spurs into the creature’s scarred midriff, hauling it in a circle to come alongside the Witch King once more.
‘More vagrant northlanders?’ Malekith replied. ‘Call the captains to arms.’
‘No, your majesty, it is not a foe that confronts us,’ the spymaster said. He looked perplexed. ‘It is… Well, they said we should go and look for ourselves.’
This was a deeply unsatisfactory answer but Malekith could see from Ezresor’s expression that no further detail would be forthcoming, regardless of coercion or cajoling. He raised a hand and signalled for Seraphon to descend.
The journey from the van of the column did not take long. Soon the cold one knights were left behind and he saw a group of outriders coming south, riding hard along the road. Ezresor galloped out to meet them and returned swiftly to bring their reports to his master who had landed a short distance behind. The riders departed into the bleak wilderness, moving off the road to give Malekith a wide berth, turning hooded heads to dart looks back to the north.