Imrik turned in the saddle, his lance swinging towards Malekith’s heart, but the Witch King kept his weapon lowered.
‘Was that so difficult?’ Malekith asked, waving Urithain towards the broken walls.
‘The hardest thing I will ever do,’ replied Imrik, the pain fresh in his eyes.
‘I think not,’ Malekith replied. ‘Today is just the beginning. A battle, nothing more. Today was easy, a military objective to be achieved. Harder days will come.’
‘How so?’ said the Caledorian, shaking his head. ‘What could be harder than slaying those I once called neighbour?’
‘Meeting their families and asking them to follow you,’ Malekith replied from experience.
As dusk fell Malekith waited in the uppermost chamber of one of the few towers that remained of Eagle Gate, and with him his new ally. Imrik was dressed in all his armour and finery, a resplendent figure of gold and rubies and jade surcoat, as bright and colourful as Malekith was dark and menacing, one the sunlight, the other the ember ready to spark into violent life. The expression of the Caledorian prince did not match his ensemble, sombre to the point of bitterness.
‘Needless blood was shed today,’ said the prince, pacing back and forth across the chamber. The room was sparsely furnished with desk, three chairs and a bookcase filled with tomes of watch rotations and the tower captain’s journal. ‘If I had made known my alliance with you before you attacked, the garrison would have surrendered if offered safe haven or retreat.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Malekith, ‘but now your warriors have raised blade and lance against their kin, and the princes of Caledor have signed the pact with blood. The show of strength will also serve as an apt demonstration to the other kingdoms. Only by the strength of Caledor have I been thwarted before, and now that strength is mine to command.’
‘Mine to command,’ Imrik said sharply, stopping beside the desk. Malekith watched the prince’s hand stray unconsciously to the hilt of his sword – the Witch King had allowed his ally to bear arms in his presence as a sign of trust and equality. The truth was that Imrik had nothing to gain and everything to lose if he tested himself against Malekith’s battlecraft. ‘We are your allies, not your subjects, Malekith.’
‘Of course,’ Malekith said softly, gesturing to the bottle of wine and two glasses set on the desk. ‘I did not mean to imply otherwise.’
‘Many a truth falls from slipped tongue,’ said Imrik, regarding the Witch King with suspicion.
They stood in silence for a while longer, until Malekith realised that Imrik was not going to drink the wine.
‘You think it poisoned?’ Malekith said with a laugh. ‘Tonight, so soon after sealing our common purpose?’
‘History teaches that it is unwise to be a guest at your table,’ said the prince. ‘Bel Shanaar’s shade would warn me to be cautious.’
‘I would partake myself, but my… condition renders even the finest Cothique red a tasteless experience.’
‘Why two glasses?’
‘I am awaiting another guest.’
Silence descended again and Malekith moved to the window to look out over the two armies encamped in Eagle Pass. The druchii laughed harshly at their bonfires, singing victory songs as looted wine passed from lips to lips and bloodthirsty tales and exaggerated deeds of deadly prowess were swapped. Further towards the peaks the Caledorians camped in silence, the great shadows of their dragons dark against the rock, a few lanterns the only light to betray their presence.
Something caught Malekith’s eye. It was a movement, or rather a lack of it, a space where there should have been something but was not. With mortal eyes he watched the patrols of the Naggarothi pacing around the limits of the camp, but with his magical sense, enhanced by the Circlet of Iron, he felt the twisting of the winds of magic, creating a swiftly-moving pocket, a void that passed between the sentries without notice.
The shadow that was not a shadow quickly negotiated the gates and ruins, coming to the foot of the tower unheralded. There was a flutter of shadow magic dispersing and a moment later a figure hooded and cloaked in grey appeared at the ruined door of the tower, stepping over the threshold before any other bore witness to the arrival.
‘He is here,’ said Malekith, turning back to Imrik.
The Caledorian prince looked towards the door, where a few moments later the cowled newcomer appeared. He threw back his hood to reveal an almost painfully thin face, gaunt to the point of wasted, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. A quivering hand removed a small phial from a pouch at his belt and the blue contents were quickly imbibed. The elf closed his eyes and breathed out a long sigh. When he opened his eyes again some colour and vigour had returned and his gaze was alert, flicking between Malekith and Imrik.
He cast the cloak over one of the chairs, revealing white robes beneath an outer mantel of twilight blue that seemed to contain pinpricks of star light that waxed and waned as the elf moved to the table and poured the wine into the two glasses. Magical sigils gleamed in the cloak of stars, dappling the floor with gold and red.
‘Teclis,’ said Imrik, instinctively taking the goblet of wine as it was handed to him by the mage. ‘How? How are you here?’
‘By great effort,’ the High Loremaster replied. ‘And I cannot remain long. I must be at my brother’s camp by dusk two days hence.’
‘He is so close at hand?’ said Imrik, shocked. ‘Two days’ march from here?’
‘Relax, Imrik, the steed of shadows bears me across Ulthuan faster than any mortal horse. Tyrion remains in Lothern,’ the mage assured them. He took a long draught of wine and smiled. ‘Events continue to pass as Lileath prophesied, and to each will come the allotted role. The gods will come again, in mortal form, and by their presence we will be delivered from Chaos and the Rhana Dandra.’
‘The more you speak,’ the Witch King said, ‘the more I am convinced that you have taken council with my mother, who imagines that she is Hekarti reborn.’
‘And perhaps she is,’ Teclis replied. ‘Perhaps she always was. Is it so hard to believe? We know Isha and Kurnous dwell in Athel Loren.’
‘You hold that our gods walk amongst us?’
‘Not all of them, but enough. The cycle of history has a momentum that overwhelms even kings. Willingly or not, we will repeat that cycle in mimicry of those who came before. What is the Rhana Dandra, if not the echo of our gods’ last battle?’
‘I am Nethu,’ said Imrik, referring to the Keeper of the Last Door, Guardian of the Underworld, his whispered words spoken in sudden awareness of a hidden truth. ‘I have opened a door that should have remained closed.’
‘Say rather that you have opened the path to the flame,’ Teclis corrected. ‘But yes, the comparison is otherwise apt. Nethu’s actions, though a betrayal, prevented disaster, and so have yours.’
Malekith considered this, alarmed by what he saw as Teclis’s intent. He would no more be the vessel for a god than he would a daemon, and certainly not one whose mantle he had so casually assumed for purely political gain. When he spoke, his discontent was plain to hear. ‘It is your contention, then, that I am to play the role of Khaine?’
‘No, your path is not Khaine’s. You have worn his persona as a cloak only when it has suited you.’
‘Then whom?’ the Witch King demanded, casting through the candidates in his mind: Malus, Hellebron, Tullaris? ‘Who else is fit to bear the mantle of the Destroyer?’
‘Khaine is not yet come. You know the stories – though he began the war of the gods, it was long before he showed his hand. At present he slumbers trifurcated, trapped in prisons of blood, soul and steel. Only when these three are one will he awaken. Your path lies elsewhere.’