‘I have three score of dragons!’ Malekith roared, smashing a fist into the other hand, sending up a fountain of red sparks. ‘Did you not see what happened at Eagle Gate? Have we not advanced further than on any campaign since I was first ejected from this isle? Ystranna cannot hide from me. I know her now, and many are the ways in which she can be hunted down.’
‘If Tyrion grants us the leisure of such a pursuit, my king,’ Kouran argued. Any other advisor would have uttered such sentiment with softer words, but Kouran showed no remorse for his indelicate tone. In fact Malekith could see nothing in the other elf’s expression except earnest intent, so alien on the features of the druchii the Witch King barely recognised it.
‘Tyrion.’ Malekith spat the name. ‘Tyrion? Let Tyrion come. Let this pretty prancing prince try his might against mine. He is nothing without…’ Malekith stopped himself naming Tyrion’s brother, not wishing to reveal his involvement with Teclis, even to Kouran. The alliance was best kept secret, a source of power hidden from his rivals, both in the asur camp and his own army. ‘Without Imrik he wields a lesser force.’
‘My king, you hunt rats with a hydra,’ said the Black Guard captain. ‘Ystranna’s force is barely a fifth of ours. It is entirely her intent that we expend our limited days seeking her. It was only with a bait of ten thousand warriors that you were able to draw out her strike in the Whiteweald. She will not be tricked twice. Nor, I think, your own commanders. Alith and his aesenar have disappeared and Ystranna will not show herself again soon.’
‘Until we turn our back on her,’ Malekith said pointedly. It riled him that he had been so close to eliminating the handmaiden and her army, it felt like defeat to let her slip away unmolested. The dead rising had spoiled everything, ruining a perfectly executed strategy. ‘The moment we head north the Chracians will be nipping at our heels, a company lost here, a war machine battery there. You would have us bleed from a thousand tiny bites.’
‘We can spare a third of the army as rearguard, my king, and still have sufficient force to seize Tor Achare and the coastal towns.’
‘A third? Which part of my army would you trust with such duties? The Ghrondians, who I am sure still answer to Drusala though she is absent? Perhaps the remnants from Karond Kar? They must be bursting with loyalty to my cause. There is not a contingent or commander that I can trust out of sight or further than my reach. I burned their cities to ensure they cannot retreat, but should they find welcome in the ranks of the asur…’ Malekith held up his fist and slowly splayed his fingers. ‘Your rearguard would melt quicker than ice in my grasp.’
‘I would stand, my king.’ Kouran said the words with pride, and Malekith did not doubt the captain. ‘The Black Guard will hold the pass for you.’
‘A worthy offer, Alandrian, but one I must decline. I have greater need of your eyes and your blades in my camp, lest those untrustworthy elements I speak of seek a more direct means of betraying me.’
‘That leaves only one choice, my king, one part of the army that you can trust.’
Malekith thought about this for a moment. ‘The Caledorians?’
‘If Imrik gives his word he will keep it, my king.’
‘If…’ Malekith sat down again, settling his body to settle his thoughts. Kouran was right, of course, in principle. The death of Ystranna achieved nothing save to satisfy Malekith’s desire for revenge. Her taunts still smarted and her continued existence was an insult.
But to slay her at the expense of the greater scheme was madness. His arguments against Kouran’s course of action were revealed as thin excuses to allow the Witch King his vengeance. Malekith looked at the captain, who was waiting patiently for his master’s next utterance.
‘How do I deserve such loyalty, Kouran?’ he asked.
The captain frowned, confused that the question had to be asked. ‘You are my king.’
‘Many others seek to be your king, or queen – what makes me so worthy that you cut them down at my word?’
‘You are the true king of the elves, Malekith,’ said Kouran, uttering his master’s name for the first time since joining his service. ‘You are the son of Aenarion, champion of the Daemon War, heir to the Phoenix Crown. It is your right by deed, merit and birth and I would give my life to see that ancient wrong reversed and your rightful position restored. As an elf I can think of no higher calling.’
Malekith received this testament in shocked silence. Not even his mother had ever spoken in such bald terms, and the words were like crystal water cooling his burning flesh. The simplicity of Kouran’s assertion calmed Malekith’s ire. He felt a moment of affinity with the captain, believing for the first time in his long life that there was perhaps one other who truly understood the nature of the pain that coursed through him – not the physical agony but the spiritual torment of rejection.
Pride was his greatest weakness. Malekith knew this, and it had perhaps been the undoing of his father but the affront that had been done to him, the insult to Aenarion’s house, was so great that justice demanded an equally immense retribution.
But not yet. Kouran’s short speech salved the wounded pride of the Witch King, clearing his thoughts.
‘Go to Imrik,’ he said. ‘Bid him to pursue the Chracians and Ystranna to every corner of Chrace if necessary. I want her dead. We will march north, and with his dragons he will guard our advance.’
‘As you say, my king,’ said Kouran, showing no sign of jubilation or conceit.
‘You really are unique amongst our kind,’ Malekith said. ‘Your dedication, your obedience and loyalty are like no other.’
‘It is a lament that the Naggarothi do not value such traits as they once did,’ said Kouran. ‘I cleave to an older time, when Aenarion’s word was his bond and his selfless sacrifice prevented the extinction of our kind.’
‘Not just the Naggarothi,’ said Malekith. ‘All of elfdom. My father would have gladly fought beside you. If only you had been born in such distant times, and perhaps borne aloft his standard instead of that traitor Eoloran Anar, our history may have been very different.’
‘I think not, my king,’ Kouran confessed, ‘though I take it as great praise. Khaine desired your father’s wrath and the Great Powers feared him regardless of those he consorted with. Perhaps now we have the chance to restore what was broken.’
‘We do, Kouran, we have that opportunity.’
Kouran saluted and left, leaving Malekith to plan the march north.
Nineteen
A Hasty Council
The Witch King had studied the maps and reports from the scouts in great detail and was just about ready to call for his generals when he heard a commotion outside his pavilion. He heard one of his guards issuing a challenge and a sharp rebuke from Kouran – Malekith had expected Kouran to have been gone for the rest of the day and had left instruction that he was not to be disturbed, still weary from his recent efforts.
The argument grew louder and then ended suddenly with the sound of a sword swiftly drawn, a wet chopping noise and a dull thud.
Malekith turned to the door, half drawing Urithain as he did so, expecting treachery. The thought that even Kouran had, at the last, turned on him was almost as hurtful as the fires that raged in his body. The captain of the Black Guard strode into the chamber and stopped. Before the Witch King could say anything, another elf entered – Imrik, with blood-slicked blade bared.
‘Were all your words as empty as your oaths of allegiance?’ snarled Malekith, drawing his sword fully, squaring his stance to face-off against the two elves, the tip of Urithain moving from one to another.