He looked at Teclis. There was concern on the face of the mage, and sympathy too, for it was plain which event plagued Malekith’s thoughts at that moment.
‘Courage,’ said the mage. ‘The courage of your convictions. See through that which you began so long ago, and do not be afraid.’
Malekith hesitated a moment longer and gazed levelly at the loremaster. Now that Tyrion had drawn the Widowmaker, what use did the mage have for Malekith in his schemes? Malekith’s thoughts moved to Imrik. His forefather had been a usurper – perhaps it was the intent to replace Malekith again with the accursed line of the Dragontamer.
‘If Lileath desired you dead your corpse would be an ornament for the Shrine of Khaine,’ said Teclis, guessing Malekith’s line of thought. ‘I could easily have allowed my brother to kill you to seal his pact with the God of Murder. We need a Phoenix King, and you are Aenarion’s heir.’
‘What about the blessings of the priests? The enchantments of the mages?’ If it had served the usurpers well enough, it would serve now. Every fibre of Malekith warned against stepping into the flames.
‘You were right – one of Aenarion’s true lineage needs no protective spells to survive the flame.’ Teclis moved to lay a hand upon Malekith’s arm as the king-to-be took a step towards the flame, and flinched back from the gesture at the last moment, feeling the heat that emanated from Malekith’s armour. ‘You must be ready. Asuryan demands sacrifice and your rebirth is not without pain.’
‘Tell me of pain?’ sneered Malekith. Fire flared between the plates of his armour. ‘It was you that awoke the burning of Asuryan’s curse at Finuval Plain, so tell me, Teclis, what you know of pain?’
Malekith remembered a battle long before Finuval Plain when the nature of Asuryan’s touch had become clear to him, a time when rule of Ulthuan had been moments away from his grasp.
Sulekh’s body slammed into Malekith, crushing him into the ground. Pinned by her massive weight, he heaved at her mass, trying to free himself, letting out a bellow of frustration. He dropped Avanuir to the ground so that he could use both hands to push at the massive corpse that lay on top of his legs and waist.
A prickle of sensation shuddered through Malekith: the touch of magic. He turned his head to the left seeking the source.
A wave of white fire poured towards him. It was beautiful, glittering like moonlight on the sea, flecked with gold and silver. He recognised the flames. He had stood within them to receive Asuryan’s blessing. Now the lord of gods had come again to aid Malekith, as he had Aenarion.
With a surge of power, Malekith heaved free the body of Sulekh. He stood up and faced the oncoming fire, arms spread wide to receive Asuryan’s blessing. The white flames crackled closer and closer, a chill wind against his red-hot armour. He closed his eyes as the fire engulfed him, waiting for the release from the agony that had been his companion for more than two decades.
Fresh pain seared through his chest and arms. Malekith gave a cry and opened his eyes.
It was not the flames of Asuryan that surrounded him, but the halberds of the Phoenix Guard. Each blade burned with the white fires of Asuryan, every blow they landed upon the Witch King igniting the flame that had been set within his flesh by the lord of gods.
The physical pain was as nothing compared to the pain of betrayal. As his iron flesh was rent and ripped by the swinging halberds of the Phoenix Guard Malekith realised he had not received Asuryan’s blessing. His father had not endured the agony he had endured.
The Witch King’s delusion fell away and he saw his punishment for what it was. Asuryan had shunned him, cursed him with everlasting torment. The shock of it brought Malekith to his knees as more blows rained down upon him, carving furrows in his black armour.
‘You must endure,’ Teclis insisted, ignoring Malekith’s barbed words. ‘You will be destroyed and renewed. When you last stepped into the flame you were almost destroyed, and if you had but remained for a few more moments the rebirth would have begun.’
Malekith looked down at the mage, head tilted to one side.
‘I was not cursed?’ He said the words quietly, slowly, trying to digest the importance of Teclis’s message. ‘Though I profaned Asuryan’s temple with blood and sought dominion over my kin? Though I killed Bel Shanaar with my own hands, the Lord of the Cadai would have blessed me if I had endured for a few heartbeats longer? This… This pain… The wars… Six thousand years of grief, because…’
He could not bring himself to voice what he thought, but the mage knew exactly that which vexed him and spoke the concern out loud.
‘Because you were weak, Malekith.’
Hundreds had died agonising deaths simply because they had thought such a sentiment and it shook the Witch King to hear it plainly spoken, but in that moment he felt no anger for Teclis, only a sensation he had not felt for more than six millennia: shame.
‘Then let us be at it,’ said Malekith and he stepped into the sacred fire of Asuryan.
Twenty-Five
The Flame of Asuryan
He was burning, the scream wrenched from his throat fuelled by raw agony and despair. It was every moment of six thousand years relived, the pain of six thousand years welled up into one single instant coursing through his body.
The urge to flee, to throw himself clear, to escape again to the Realm of Chaos, was almost overwhelming. What did it matter if his people were destroyed – he would survive, he was the greatest of them, they existed to be sacrificed for his continued life.
But he denied the urge, listening instead to the beat of his heart rather than the fear of his mind. He remembered that he was Aenarion’s son and held firm to the resolution that he would be reborn if he could but endure for a few heartbeats longer. Teclis had promised him as much, and if the mage sought to play him false it was better now to end his life knowing the truth than continue for another pain-wracked age beset by the doubt that he had been offered that which he desired the most and refused it.
It was not the physical pain that caused such torture. The mortal pain was only a memory of the spiritual pain. He had known in that moment he had stepped into the flames the first time that he was not worthy. The blood on his hands, metaphorical and literal, had been his guilt and he had carried it with him.
There had been no judgement laid upon him by Asuryan. The only punishment he suffered was self-inflicted.
In acknowledging that, he accepted his fate, remembering that his father had been willing to die for the protection of Ulthuan. To rule as Phoenix King one had to be raised up from the ashes of death. There was no other way.
As the fires consumed him, Malekith laughed.
The flames burned through him, touching every part of his body and spirit. There was no pain, no sensation at all. Malekith felt like a ghost, apart from the mortal world. He swore that a thousand voices were now chanting.
Malekith could see nothing but multicoloured fire. He was made of it. He lifted a hand in front of his face and saw nothing save the dancing flames.
Malekith wondered if he was dead.
His body felt as though it had wings, lifting him up, borne aloft by the flames like the phoenixes of the flamespyre. He closed his eyes but nothing changed; still the flames filled his vision. A gentle breeze washed over him, its touch smoothing away metal skin and charred flesh and broken bone, reducing him to delicate ash, all without the slightest hint of discomfort.