He would never give his mother the satisfaction of seeing her attempts to rile him had succeeded.
A chair was set next to a table before the throne, a ewer of dark wine and a goblet ready for his refreshment, but Malekith barely needed such sustenance these days. It was another goad, for Morathi knew well that the fire that had ravaged his body had all but destroyed his sense of smell and taste as well. The finest meats were as ashes on his tongue and the wine, no doubt liberated from some grand terrace in Ellyrion or Saphery, would be like brackish water.
Wishing to make a point of his own, Malekith stepped past the chair and sat down on the great throne of bloodrock at the end of the hall. He closed metal-lidded eyes and considered what he would say.
The click of heels on tiles and the faintest breeze from the opening door alerted Malekith to a new arrival. He opened his eyes as Morathi entered, and watched as she strode across the rugs, her gaze lingering on a few of the statues that lined the approach to the throne.
A momentary sour look marred her beautiful face as she noticed where he was sitting, an expression of annoyance that was swiftly replaced with a humourless smile. She gave a deep nod of greeting – never a bow, Malekith noted, for that would imply subservience – and crossed to greet her son.
‘You have travelled far to speak with me, my child. Should I feel honoured, or afraid?’
‘I have yet to believe that either of those words holds any meaning for you, mother,’ said Malekith coldly.
‘Will you not be seated?’ he went on, inviting her to accept his position, the throne, but she would not accede even that.
‘I am quite content as I am,’ she replied, eyes narrowing. She was weighing up Malekith, trying to judge his mood, but it was impossible even for his mother to know what crossed his mind when his ravaged flesh was hidden behind his helm.
On the other hand, he was well aware of Morathi’s mood, though to any other the subtle signs would have been lost. Seven millennia had shown him the slight tension in the shoulders, the merest curl of the lip, were danger signs. She made no overt effort, but subtly the winds of magic were shifting, gathering, funnelling down from the thorn-wreathed sky into the tower of Ghrond and seeping up from the dark rock beneath.
Surely she did not mean to engage in a magical contest? It would be a desperate move. Malekith was not certain he would win such a duel, but neither could Morathi start such a battle with full confidence. It would be a last cast of the bones, and it seemed Morathi was far from cornered and finished. She had tried direct confrontation before, when both of them had been far less experienced.
At some silent command, four figures emerged from the shadows, two to Malekith’s left and two to his right. They were sorcerers by their garb, two male and two female, swathed in black robes, tattooed with dark sigils.
Malekith struck out with a blast of magic, materialising as a thunderbolt from his fingertips. Instantly Morathi was surrounded by a shadowy sphere of energy, which pulsed as the bolt struck it. Her adepts unleashed spells of their own, fiery blasts that rushed in upon Malekith in the guise of howling wolf heads, and the prince cast his own shield of darkness to ward them away.
The sorcerers and sorceresses closed in, hurling fireballs and flares of dark power. Malekith protected himself, drawing in more and more magic from the energy seething around the throne room as the spells cascaded towards him.
Morathi sat contentedly upon her chair while her followers unleashed their hexes and curses, watching with interest as Malekith countered each. Churning and bubbling, magic flowed around the hall, growing in intensity as both Malekith and his foes reached their minds out further and further, drawing energy from the city outside.
‘Enough,’ barked Malekith, letting free the energy that he had pulled into himself, releasing a blast of raw magic not shaped by any spell.
The power blazed, surrounding each of the dark wizards, filling them with mystical energy, more than they could control. The first, a red-haired witch, began to quiver, and then spasmed so hard that Malekith heard her spine snapping as she flopped to the ground. The other sorceress screeched in agony as her blood turned to fire and exploded out of her veins, engulfing her in a tempest of lightning and flames. The third of them flew into the air as if struck, his nose, eyes and ears streaming with blood, his ragged body smashing against the distant wall. The last was consumed by the ravening magic and collapsed in upon himself, crumpled like a ball of paper until he disintegrated into a pile of dust.
‘Your followers are weak,’ said Malekith, rounding on Morathi.
The seeress remained unconcerned.
‘There are always more minions,’ she said with a dismissive wave of a beringed hand. ‘That trinket upon your head gives you impressive power, but you lack subtlety and control.’
Quicker than Malekith’s eye could follow, Morathi’s hand snapped out, her staff pointed at his chest. He fell to one knee as his heart began to thunder inside his ribs, drowning him with pain. Through the haze of the agony, Malekith could feel the slender tendrils of magic that extended from Morathi’s staff, almost imperceptible in their delicacy.
Whispering a counterspell, Malekith chopped his hand through the intangible strands and forced himself back to his feet.
‘You never taught me that,’ said Malekith with mock admonition. ‘How unmotherly to keep such secrets from your son.’
‘You have not been here to learn from me,’ Morathi said with a sad shake of her head. ‘I have learned much these past thousand years. If you put aside this foolish jealousy that consumes you, then perhaps I can tutor you again.’
In reply, Malekith gathered up the coiling magic and hurled it at the queen, the spell materialising as a monstrous serpent. Morathi’s staff intercepted it, a shimmering blade springing from its haft to slice the head from the immaterial snake.
‘Crude,’ she said with a wag of her finger. ‘Perhaps you impressed the savages of Elthin Arvan and the wizardless dwarfs with these antics, but I am not so easily awed.’
Standing, the seeress-queen held her staff in both hands above her head and began to chant quickly. Blades crystallised out of the air around her, orbiting her body in ever-increasing numbers until she was all but obscured from view by a whirlwind of icy razors. With a contemptuous laugh, Malekith extended his will, looking to knock them aside.
His dispel met with failure, however, as Morathi’s magic swayed and changed shape, slipping through the insubstantial grasp of his counterspell. A moment later and the shardstorm tore through the air towards him, forcing the prince to leap aside lest they rip the flesh from his bones.
‘Slow and predictable, my child,’ Morathi said, stepping forwards.
Malekith said nothing, but lashed out with his sorcery, a whip of fire appearing in his hands. Its twin tips flew across the room and coiled about Morathi’s staff. With a flick of his wrist, Malekith wrested the rod from his mother, sending it skittering across the tiled floor. With another short hand motion Malekith dashed the staff against the wall, shattering it into pieces.