Of the two, he suspected he knew where the former had ended up – indeed, where else could it have gone? – but he had lost all hope of learning the location of the Wind of Beasts, or of the identity of its chosen host. The others, however, were here, right where they were supposed to be, and his regret was tempered by some small relief.
Nonetheless, he had failed. He had failed to control the Incarnates, failed to bestow the winds of magic on his chosen soldiers, and failed to bring them together in time. He had failed Ulthuan, he had failed his people, and now the world teetered on the knife-edge of oblivion. What remains of it, at any rate, he thought. The island-realm of the high elves was gone, lost to the swirling waters of the Great Ocean; the blood-slicked stones of Naggaroth were now little more than a haunt for cannibals and monsters; and Athel Loren was an inhospitable refuge for what remained of the elven peoples.
The elves were not alone in their doom, however. The ancient temple-cities of Lustria were no more, consumed in fires from the sky, the fate of their inhabitants unknown. The dwarfs had fared no better; their greatest holds had been all but overrun by skaven and worse, and those that remained had barred their gates in a futile effort to wait out the end of all things.
The realms of men had suffered as well. Bretonnia was a haunted wasteland, overrun by daemons and monsters despite the best efforts of its defenders. The lands of the south were gone, erased by the rampaging hordes of the ratmen. Kislev had been stripped to the bone by the hordes of Chaos, its people slaughtered or driven into the frozen wilderness to die. And the Empire, the last hope of the human race, was all but gone, its greatest cities taken by the enemy or reduced to plague-haunted ruins.
The enormity of it all threatened to overcome him, and would have, had events not conspired to bring the Incarnates together at last. He had doomed the world by his actions, his carelessness, but there was still a chance to salvage something. There was still a chance to weather the storm of Chaos, and throw back the Everchosen. And while there was a chance, Teclis would not surrender to despair. He could not.
‘Teclis.’
Teclis opened his eyes. A ring of expectant faces met his sight. He took note of some of them – the newcomers had only been allowed a few representatives. The Emperor, Karl Franz. Duke Jerrod of Quenelles. Gotri Hammerson, runesmith of Zhufbar. Balthasar Gelt, wizard and Incarnate. And a white-haired knight, who was the Emperor’s bodyguard. Something about the latter drew his attention. The man looked cold, as if he had been doused in ice-water, and when he caught Teclis looking at him, his face twisted, just for a moment, into a snarl. Teclis blinked, and the expression was gone. He hesitated, suddenly uncertain. ‘What would you wish of me, Everqueen?’ he asked, looking at Alarielle.
The Everqueen had been a living symbol of Isha, the mother-goddess of the elves, in better times. But her beauty had been transfigured into something terrifying since she had become the host for the Wind of Life. No more the nurturer, Alarielle had become instead the incarnation of creation and destruction, of life’s beginnings and endings. The trees of the Eternal Glade shuddered and twitched in time to her heartbeat, her breath was in the wind, and in her voice was the rush and crash of the brooks and rivers.
‘What I wish, Loremaster, and what I require are two separate things,’ Alarielle said. Teclis knew she meant no insult, but even so, the coldness of her tone was almost too much for him to bear. Ever since she had given up the Heart of Avelorn to help resurrect Tyrion she had become withdrawn, as if the love she had once borne for his brother had become as dust.
‘Not Loremaster,’ he said. ‘Not any more. Ulthuan is gone, and the Tower of Hoeth with it.’ He spat the words with more bitterness than he’d intended. You have no right to bitterness, he thought, not when your actions are the cause.
‘But you still live, brother,’ Tyrion said, softly. ‘We still live. Our people survive, thanks to you. Ulthuan is gone, but while one asur lives, its spirit persists.’
‘Oh yes, very pretty. And while one asur lives, or druchii or asrai for that matter, I am still their king, as much good as it does any of us,’ Malekith interjected, his voice a harsh, metallic rasp. Like Alarielle, he had been bound to one of the winds of magic. In his case, it had been Ulgu, and the coiling, cunning lore of Shadows suited Malekith to his core. He was less a being of flesh than of darkness now, stinking of burned iron and radiating cold. ‘And as king, I would have answers. Why do you come to us, human?’ Malekith asked. ‘Why do you dare to come to Athel Loren?’
‘Where else is there to go?’ Karl Franz said. ‘The world has grown hostile, and sanctuary is hard to come by. Old allies find themselves equally hard-pressed.’ He indicated Hammerson and Jerrod. ‘Our greatest cities are in ruins, and our people are in disarray. Our last redoubt, Averheim, is dust beneath the boots of the world’s enemy. I am an emperor without an empire, as are you,’ Karl Franz said, looking at Malekith.
‘Look around you, human… my empire still stands,’ Malekith said. He stood and spread his arms. ‘The enemy have broken themselves on it again and again. But we still stand.’
Karl Franz smiled. ‘If this is what you call an empire, I begin to wonder why Finubar feared you.’
Shadows coiled and writhed around Malekith’s form as he went rigid with anger. ‘You dare…?’ he hissed. ‘I will pluck the flesh from your bones, king of nothing.’
‘Yes, for that has ever been the way of your folk. The world burns, and you can think of nothing better to do than to squabble in the ashes.’ Karl Franz gestured sharply. ‘You would rather kill the messenger than hear the message. You would turn away allies, because in your arrogance you mistake strength for weakness and support for burden.’
‘What would you know of us, human?’ Alarielle said. Teclis glanced at her. Her features were perfectly composed, but he thought he detected the trace of a smile on her face.
‘I know enough,’ Karl Franz said. He turned, his eyes scanning the Eternal Glade. ‘I know that what your folk call the “Rhana Dandra” has begun – indeed, it began several years ago. I know that Ulthuan is gone, and that the Great Vortex is no more.’ His eyes sought out Teclis. Teclis twitched. The Emperor’s gaze revealed nothing, but the elf felt a glimmer of suspicion.
Why had Azyr sought out Karl Franz? The winds were drawn to their hosts as like was drawn to like, but the Emperor had, to the best of his knowledge, never displayed the least affinity for the lore of the Heavens. Teclis forced the thought aside. It mattered little now, in any event. The power was gone, torn from him. Teclis shook himself and said, ‘And do you know why?’
Karl Franz looked at him. ‘No,’ he said, and Teclis knew it was a lie.
‘Oh, well, let Teclis illuminate you, eh?’ Malekith said. He had sunk back onto his throne, his anger already but a memory. Teclis looked at him, and Malekith gestured sharply. ‘As your king, I command you to tell the savages of your crimes, schemer.’ Malekith laughed. ‘Tell our guests how you gambled the world, and lost.’
Teclis looked at the thin, dark shape of the creature once known as the Witch-King, sitting on his throne of roots and branches beside the Everqueen. The creature he had helped crown Eternity King, and had gifted with more power than he deserved. Malekith met his glare, and Teclis knew that the former ruler of the dark elves was smiling behind his metal mask.