Malekith drew in the winds of magic, forming a storm of power around his upraised blade. It felt strange, the Wind of Shyish missing from the enchantment, but the vanished Wind of Death did nothing to lessen the raw power of his sorcery.
He sighted on the nearest of the Lothern chariots and unleashed the spell, but no sooner had the ball of fire left his hand than it fizzled into smoke, dispersing along the wind. Disgruntled, Malekith flung out a hand, willing bolts of power to leap across the sky towards his doomed victim. Sparks crackled across his fingertips but nothing more.
The Witch King felt the twisting of the winds of magic that had thwarted his sorcery. All thoughts of the griffons and skycutters forgotten, he steered Seraphon groundwards, seeking the elf that had thought to test their magic against his. Flying just out of bowshot above both armies, he found his prey upon a hillside to the west. The elf that confronted him was a young princess, and her features seemed familiar though he could not place them. More recognisable was the cage of magical energy that surrounded her, emanating from an amulet around her neck. As he descended on her, the Witch King thought he could hear dry, dead voices whispering on the winds, casting counter-spells against his sorcery, edged with the silvery-frost of Sapherian magecraft.
The Yvressian princess was so taken with her dispelling that she paid no heed to the black doom diving down upon her. Malekith saw her flinch, distracted, and at the same time he felt a pulsing on the winds of magic, a surge of grief that flowed from the princess’s thoughts, a moment of severance. Her counter-spell scattered by this shock, the princess looked up to see Seraphon’s plummeting form, her face a mask of terror.
Malekith laughed as he saw her pitiful attempts to reclaim the winds of magic from him. He snatched the whirling energy from her grasp, tearing it from her control as though plucking candied fruits from a child. He thought to obliterate her with magic for the affront of her resistance, but had not accounted for the speed of Seraphon’s attack.
Two of the black dragon’s claws punched into the princess like lances as Seraphon swept over the crest of the hill, lifting her from the ground. Flexing massive digits, the dragon pulled the maiden apart, separating her spine as innards spilled free. With a thunderous crack of wings flapping, downdraft knocking Yvressians to the ground, the dragon powered skywards again, flicking the two halves of the princess’s corpse deftly into her mouth.
Malekith was about to order her to strike again, his eye drawn to a prince trying to rally a regiment of spearmen against a breakthrough by Kouran’s Black Guard, when a chorus of horn blasts split the air. Ascending, Malekith looked to the east and saw the glitter of a new army arriving, marching beneath the colours of Lothern and Chrace. At their head, astride a pure-white steed greater than any normal horse, sat a figure in blazing gold armour, his sword lifted to the skies burning with amber flame.
‘The so-called Dragon of Cothique,’ shouted the Witch King. ‘Welcome, Prince Tyrion, to your final battle.’
He was about to steer Seraphon towards the advancing column of Tyrion’s host when he felt a shimmer on the winds of magic. It felt as though someone rode behind him on the saddle-throne and he heard the calm voice of Teclis.
‘The Widowmaker, Malekith. Protect the shrine at all costs. I will meet you there.’
The mage’s spirit was gone again in an instant, and Malekith considered ignoring his meddling advice. He would spit Tyrion on the point of Urithain and the battle would be over in moments, the Shrine of Khaine safe again. All of elvendom would know that their king had returned.
He was about to bring around Seraphon for the fateful attack when another thought struck him, as though from somewhere else. It was a moment of foreboding that sent a prickle of apprehension through his fire-ravaged body.
If he faced Tyrion he would die.
The thought suddenly seemed as solid as the world, as certain as the sun rising every dawn. Only the knowledge that he was meant to be king was as sure to Malekith for that heartbeat.
It was enough to give him pause for thought. Almost immediately Malekith suspected it was some trick of Teclis, an enchantment left in the Witch King’s thoughts when the mage had contacted him. His anger started to rise again, but not so swiftly that it outpaced reason. Malekith’s pride had often been his bane. He had seen this weakness in himself when he had been forced to flee Finuval Plain through the Realm of Chaos. His disembodied, timeless wandering had forced him to realise that often the greatest architect of his failure was his own arrogance. He had vowed never again to let ire be his guide, nor pride to steer his strategy.
This was the moment that such an oath had to be upheld. Morathi believed that Tyrion was Aenarion reborn. Regardless of the truth or not of such a claim, the prince was a naturally gifted warrior who had honed his skills in countless battles, and hardened the edge of his anger against the latest daemon incursion. Aenarion had triumphed with the Widowmaker and Tyrion had succeeded without, foregoing drawing the deadly blade of Khaine until Morathi’s intervention.
There was no need for Malekith to confront his foe just yet. A whole army stood between Tyrion and his goal and if that proved insufficient, if the Dragon of Cothique was able to best thousands of warriors and a dozen Naggarothi captains and princes, Malekith would be on hand to finish the task. At the very end, if no other opportunity presented itself, he would draw the Widowmaker and kill Aenarion’s heir, ending the curse by another means.
By such justification was Malekith able to quell the rage he felt at the insult shown him by Tyrion’s opposition. When Tyrion was dead, when Malekith showed his eviscerated corpse to the pitiful weaklings that continued to oppose his claim to the Phoenix Throne, then Malekith would be satisfied and his pride sated.
He turned Seraphon and headed towards the Shrine of Khaine. A company of elves still guarded the megalith-circled temple, spears and bows at the ready. Armies could not match Seraphon and the Witch King together; a few hundred militia would be little more than a diversion.
Seraphon stooped, picking up speed as dragon and rider dropped towards the black stones of the shrine. A dozen heartbeats from crashing into the unforgiving rock the dragon snapped open her wings, turning the plunge into an effortless glide, jaw open, claws outstretched. Malekith leaned to his right with Urithain poised while the winds of magic churned at his command.
Something flashed past Malekith’s left shoulder and his steed uttered a piercing cry of pain. The most majestic, powerful predator of the skies became a screeching mess of flying scales and blood, wing shredded by some missile from below. Malekith barely glimpsed a hooded, cloaked figure skulking in the shadows of the shrine – Alith Anar with moonbow in hand – before Seraphon’s descent turned into a tumbling crash, ground and sky whirling together.
Dragon and rider ploughed across the bone-strewn hillside, spraying ivory-coloured shards in their wake. Malekith clung tightly to the dragon’s chains, turning upside down over and over, his armour battering against uncaring rock every couple of heartbeats, ears ringing from the impacts on his helm. He lost his grip and fell under the rolling beast, only the armour of midnight stopping the last breath being crushed from his lungs.