‘There is no madness. The Dark Gods are rising.’ Tyrion glanced at Malekith and the Witch King would have flinched except that fatigue and terror paralysed him in equal measure. There was unalloyed death in the prince’s eyes. ‘I see that now. Our folk are too soft to fight them as we are, but I will forge them into something better, something stronger.’
‘And who has told you that? Morathi?’ Teclis demanded, his voice raw with emotion. The words cut Malekith far more than Tyrion, who shrugged away his twin’s concern. It was too much for Malekith to believe that six thousand years had been spent fighting for the ambitions of his mother, his whole existence a mocking puppetry of life as Tyrion’s had now become. ‘She’s using you.’
‘Is she now?’ Tyrion asked amenably, but then his tone grew far darker. ‘Then how very different in your dealings you are.’ He raised the icefang high and Malekith’s dread increased, though he had thought it impossible to be more afraid a moment ago. Seven thousand years, a whole civilisation wasted because he had been too weak to beat this upstart princeling. Worse, because he had been too scared to draw the Godslayer himself, or to kill his mother when given every justification and opportunity. ‘It matters not. Today our ancient enemy dies, and a new sun rises.’
Larhathrai swept down.
Tyrion, dullard that he was, had been completely ignorant of the Hysh coalescing around Teclis. The power of light was heavy, but the archmage was well versed in tapping its deep roots, and to Malekith’s eyes was becoming a twining column of white energy.
As the icefang began its descent Teclis let free streamers of Hysh that became ribbons of pure light that snared around Tyrion’s arms, stopping the deathblow. Light magic twined about the prince’s quivering limbs, growing brighter and thicker as Teclis released more of his accumulated Hysh.
If only Malekith could have moved even a finger or murmured a word of conjuration. As it was, he stared dumbly at the two brothers, watching the dark power of Khaine spilling from His bloodied altar, staining the purity of the Hysh that struggled up through the chattering skulls and clattering bones.
The enchantment broke with a crack as the blessings of Khaine poured into Tyrion. The edge of icefang gleamed blood-red as Tyrion turned on his brother. Hurriedly, Teclis threw together a shield of pure magical energy, thrashing together power from the seven remaining winds. The golden circle hovered in front of the mage for only a heartbeat before Tyrion swept through it, the hand clasping Lacelothrai knocking Teclis to the ground with one blow.
From his position propped against the altar, Malekith could see several things that the two brothers could not, intent as they were upon each other. The eddy of shadowy Ulgu power shimmered close to one of the standing stones at the edge of the shrine, and concealed behind the cloak of shadow crouched Alith Anar. Malekith saw a glint of silvery light as the Shadow King lifted the fabled moonbow and fitted a shaft to the slender string.
A white spark was also bright against the clouds above the shrine, growing larger. Malekith watched the gleam resolve into the shape of a stooping bird – a white-and-blue feathered frostheart phoenix. The ancient magical bird, its flames turned to ice by longevity, was ridden by a figure in white and ithilmar, bearing a blazon of Asuryan upon his armour. The Witch King knew from the reports of his agents that this must be Caradryan, the captain of the Phoenix Guard, silent warden of the Shrine of Asuryan.
There seemed to be no shortage of foes ready to kill Malekith. The moment of terror, of soul-destroying failure, had passed, and the Witch King found himself in a calm mood. He was not yet reconciled to his ending, but such were the horrific consequences of his death, the infernal pacts he had made that would now be paid, the lengths he had gone to in order that he would survive as long as he had, he could not comprehend it all and instead his thoughts retreated to a banal place of utter normality. He idly wondered which of his closing enemies would finish him first, and hoped it was not Tyrion.
The frostheart phoenix swept low over the shrine and Caradryan slipped from its back, halberd in hand. He landed sure-footed amongst the detritus of bones, skidding to a stop between Teclis, Tyrion and Malekith. Past the Phoenix captain, Malekith spied Alith Anar moving position, his shot blocked by Caradryan’s arrival.
Tyrion laughed without mirth.
‘I am in no need of your aid, captain, though you might restrain my errant brother for me, if you wish to serve.’
Caradryan held his position. Malekith could not see his expression but apparently Tyrion read something there, a look of defiance perhaps. Little comfort to the Witch King that he had seemingly acquired another ally, as he watched the Shadow King emerge from the gloom on the other side of the standing stone, moonbow rising once more.
Tyrion’s eyes widened in sudden realisation.
‘All about me are traitors now?’ the regent demanded. ‘Stand aside!’
Caradryan shook his head. Then, with an effort, he uttered the first word to pass his lips in decades.
‘No.’
Tyrion laughed bitterly at Caradryan’s refusal. He half turned away, then spun back, the Widowmaker hissing out to take the captain’s head.
At that same moment, Alith Anar loosed his arrow, the shaft speeding true for Malekith’s heart.
Suddenly there was nothing.
PART THREE
Twenty-Four
Painful Memories
The impudent mage had natural flair and unparalleled concentration, but Malekith had been a master of sorcery for more than five thousand years and had learned at the hand of Morathi, the greatest sorceress in history. It was inevitable that the Witch King’s spells would eventually break down the Sapherian’s counter-incantations and shimmering protective barriers.
Malekith hardly paid any attention to the military situation. It mattered not that his champion, Urian Poisonblade, greatest blade-wielder of Naggaroth, had fallen to the sword of the asur’s own hero. The armies of the Naggarothi were too numerous, too strong for the defenders of Ulthuan, and like the duel between Malekith and the mage of the White Tower it was simply a matter of time.
The last resistance of the asur would be crushed and Malekith would finally claim the Phoenix Throne, and ever after would be lauded the day he triumphed on Finuval Plain.
The winds of magic churned, telling their own tale of curse and counter-spell, enchantment and hex. Malekith’s dark magic was a tornado of energy, whirling, destructive, a storm of all eight winds forced together into an unstoppable mass.
The Sapherian mage, the one whose wit and will had thwarted every advantage Malekith had gained on this long campaign, wielded a far subtler force. High magic was the careful distillation and blending of the opposing forces inherent in the winds of magic, like a smith smelting iron and charcoal for the perfect steel, or a chef perfecting a recipe with the smallest hint of spices and herbs.