Shuddering, Imrik turned away, the goblet falling from his trembling grasp. Alarielle addressed Malekith while Teclis moved to comfort the dragon prince.
‘We have striven in every way we can, but we cannot fight this. Khaine feeds on death and war – we must seek an end to this slow execution.’
‘You have spoken to Teclis?’ Malekith asked. He did not wait for answer – it was clear the mage had colluded with the Everqueen despite Malekith’s orders. ‘It is madness, for which I was damned for a seeming eternity.’
‘What would you give for victory?’ asked Alarielle, stepping closer. She laid a hand on Malekith’s, her touch warm yet also cooling the fires inside the Phoenix King. ‘Would you give your life?’
Malekith considered this and nodded. ‘I stepped into the flame of Asuryan and did not know if I would survive.’
‘Would you see countless dead on the battlefields of Ulthuan?’
‘You know my legacy as well as any. Countless already are the lives I have expended in my quest to rule.’
‘Would you be willing to lose everything? Would you give up your claim to save our people?’
Malekith found no ready answer to this question. He withdrew his hand from Alarielle’s grasp and stood up, turning his back on her.
‘I would see no other as Phoenix King while I live.’
‘Yet if you continue to face Tyrion as you do, you will lose the war and Tyrion will prevail. What you once condoned out of spite, you will not do now for justice?’
‘Justice? Where was justice these last six thousand years?’ Malekith whirled around and glared at the Everqueen. Unknowingly reliving the act of rage that had propelled his father to the Sword of Khaine, the Phoenix King snatched up his throne and heaved it over his head. With a wordless shout, he dashed it to the ground, smashing it into pieces. ‘No more!’ he roared. ‘This is a price too heavy for me to pay!’
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!’
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.