Sensation returned, the fire coalescing again into his form, creating body and limbs and head and fingers and every part of him from its essence. Opening his eyes, he turned and stepped out of the flames.
‘I am ready.’
The priest nodded and signalled to his attendants. Each of them carried a piece of blackened metal, curved and rune-encrusted. Some were recognisable: breastplate, vambraces, gorget, gauntlets. Others seemed utterly alien, strangely shaped, trailing sheets of black mail or fixed with awkwardly angled hinges.
The first piece was put into the furnace. The slaves were whipped to increase their labours at the bellows. Muttering prayers to Vaul, Hotek fanned the flames with magic, until they burned white-hot. Reaching his bare hand into the fires, he retrieved the piece of armour. Impervious to the heat, he carried it to Malekith, who watched the proceedings with the remains of his brow knotted in concentration.
‘This will burn,’ said Hotek.
Malekith’s reply was a shrill laugh, tinged with madness.
‘I can burn no more,’ whispered the prince. ‘Do it!’
An acolyte brought forward a smoking rivet in a pair of tongs. Hotek and his assistant crouched, the priest placing the hot piece of metal against Malekith’s flesh with a hiss of vapour. Malekith giggled.
‘Now,’ said Hotek.
The acolyte pushed the rivet into place. With a few whispered words of enchantment, Hotek struck lightly with the Hammer of Vaul, tapping the hot rivet through its prepared hole and into the bone of Malekith.
The prince snarled with pain, and swayed for a moment. He wished he could close his eyes. Instead he set his mind aside, going to the place he had created for himself in the cold depths of his thoughts.
With a start, Malekith was dragged back to reality. Two bodies lay at his feet. His body burned with fresh fire, but it was no more than he had grown used to. Acolytes moved around him, painting blood from the sacrifices into the runes carved upon the pieces of armour put in place, following each curl and line with brushes made of elven hair.
His lower legs and feet were clad in the smoking black iron. He did not remember lifting his feet, but realised he must have done so. He could feel the rivets hammered into heel and toe and laughed at the thought of being shod like a warhorse.
There was chanting. His mother looked on silently, but her adepts’ words swished around the chamber, verses overlapping, creating an arrhythmic harmony of magic. More rivets were driven into the scrawny flesh of his thighs, and links were riveted into place through the sides of his knees.
When next he perceived clearly what was happening, he was clad from foot to neck in the armour. Every part of him trembled. He could feel the energy of the spirit he had consumed slipping away.
‘Too soon,’ he muttered. ‘I am falling.’
Morathi hurriedly beckoned to an adept, who sacrificed another captive and brought the blood to Malekith in a cup of ancient silver. Malekith took the cup and then stopped. He realised he had not held a thing for more than a decade. He examined the fingers of his new hand, each perfectly articulated. He recognised the dwarf-work that inspired the design and smiled to himself. Even now, his great adventures of the past were still bearing fruit.
The fires flared anew and Malekith was brought back to the present. A film of red covered his vision. His own blood, he realised.
He blinked.
The simple motion caused him immeasurable joy. The thinnest slivers of black metal had been fashioned into eyelids. Malekith blinked again, and then closed his eyes. He enjoyed the darkness and more time passed.
‘It is done,’ announced Hotek.
Malekith flexed his arms and bent his legs, trying out his new body. It felt like his own flesh, though the burning had not lessened. Half a dozen dead elves lay sprawled at his feet, throats slit, their blood anointed upon his forged form. He could feel their spirits sliding around him, trapped within the runes of the armour.
‘Not finished,’ he said. ‘My crown.’
Hotek looked confused and turned to Morathi for explanation. She summoned an acolyte who brought forth a velvet cushion on which was placed a circlet of dull grey metal, spikes jutting at strange angles like a crown conceived by a lunatic.
Morathi reached a hand towards it, but Malekith grabbed her wrist. She howled in pain and tore free from his grip, backing away. There were burns on her flesh.
‘You cannot touch it,’ said Malekith. ‘It is not yours, it is mine.’
He took up the Circlet of Iron. It felt icy cold to his touch. While Morathi fussed over her burned wrist, Malekith raised the strange crown to his head and placed it on his brow.
‘Weld it,’ said the prince. ‘Make it a piece of the helm.’
Hotek did as he was bid, striking more rivets into Malekith’s skull before securing the circlet in place with molten metal. Malekith reached up and tugged at the circlet, assuring himself that it could not be removed.
Satisfied, he closed his eyes again. He let his thoughts free from his body, tasting the dark magic seething around the dungeon chamber. He felt the inrushing of power and rode the wave of energy, spearing up through the roof of the chamber, passing through the many floors of his father’s palace like a meteor called back to the stars. Anlec dwindled below him and he shifted from the plane of mortals into a realm of pure magic.
As at the first time he had worn the circlet, he looked at the Realm of Chaos, the domain of the Chaos Gods. On this occasion he had no fear. He materialised in his armoured form, burning white-hot, his presence blazing across the dominions of the Chaos Gods as a challenge.
Sentiences not of any mortal recognition stirred. Malekith felt their attention slowly drawn towards him.
‘I am Malekith!’ he declared. A flaming sword appeared in his hand. ‘Son of Aenarion, the daemons’ bane. Hear my name and know me, the rightful king of the elves!’
As a comet of power, he plunged back to his body. The runes of his armour exploded with dark flames as he re-entered his artificial form. He opened his metal eyelids, revealing orbs of black fire.
He looked down at the elves around him. They seemed small and insignificant. His voice echoed strangely from the mask of his helm, filling the room.
‘I have returned,’ he declared. ‘Pay homage to me.’
All present fell to their knees, instantly obedient to his words; save one, who fixed him with an expression of utter happiness.
‘Hail Malekith!’ cried Morathi, golden tears streaming down her face. ‘Hail the Witch King of Ulthuan!’
The flame guttered and died behind Malekith, leaving the inner sanctum in darkness.