The Longest Road
Over the past six thousand years Malekith had spent the equivalent of many lifetimes of lesser creatures dreaming of his moment of glory. When he had been young, his visions had been filled with adoring crowds and showered adulation. After the Sundering his thoughts had become bleaker, his coronation parade taking place along a road made from the skulls of his enemies, banners made from their skins flapping along the route. In recent times he had been content to have every prince of Ulthuan, hundreds of them, prostrate themselves before him, each in turn begging for forgiveness, giving thanks that their rightful king had finally been recognised.
It was something of a disappointment that his arrival in Caledor had more in common with the coming of a thief than the arrival of a triumphant king. What was perhaps surprising was that this clandestine approach was at his behest. They had escaped the Island of Flame unseen and it seemed to the Phoenix King the most sensible course of action to conceal not only his continued survival but his elevation to Asuryan’s avatar. There would be a time to reveal his ascension, for maximum effect on morale and to dismay his foes, but it was not yet, not least because he wanted Imrik and Teclis to pave the way for the announcement, gauging the probable reactions of the other princes.
So it was under cover of darkness – Malekith swathed in a voluminous cloak, greeted by a handful of servants hand-picked by Imrik – that the Phoenix King arrived in Tor Caleda.
The city of the Dragon Princes sat high in the peaks of the southern Annulii; To the north, south and west the mountains and precipitous cliffs barred any approach save from the air; to the east a single pass held by many towers became an elevated road leading to the barbican of a mighty gatehouse.
Not much more than a high citadel with a broad curtain wall, it was the smallest of the elven capitals, a pale imitation of the former seat of power at Tor Caled. The ruins of Caledor Dragontamer’s birthplace could be visited, several days north, petrified forever when the volcano on which it was built had erupted during the Sundering, burying city and elves alike in a torrent of fire and ash. Caledor had never been a populous realm and there had been little will to rebuild such a large settlement. The outpost at Tor Sarath had naturally grown to accommodate its new importance and taken the name Caleda in honour of the fallen city.
Now it was straining to contain the host of elves that wished to find refuge there. The causeway leading to the gate was thronged with crowds from dawn to dusk, pleading with the guards at the gate for entry. Prince and farmer alike, driven south by the fighting in Ellyrion, were all turned back by order of the newly arrived Phoenix King, though the order had been voiced by Imrik. There was too much risk that Tyrion’s agents were concealed amongst the genuine refugees. What food and shelters could be provided were despatched, but it was little to help and the lords of the city were glad that it was summer – when the season of ice came the causeway would become a snow-covered graveyard if no other sanctuary was found for the dispossessed of Tiranoc and Ellyrion.
Malekith held his first court two days after coming to the city from the Island of Flame. The Phoenix King favoured only three elves to share counsel, even amongst those that knew of his arrivaclass="underline" Teclis, Imrik and Caradryan. All others were sent away with harsh words from their new ruler. Wine and food was left, along with a sturdy throne for the king fashioned by the city’s foremost smithy, for no ordinary chair in the citadel could bear him.
‘War.’
Malekith allowed the word to hang in the air, ringing from the crystal lanterns that hung from the vaulted ceiling. His councillors, standing around the throne, looked at each other, expressions grave.
‘You told me that you wanted a guard of dragons when you became Phoenix King,’ said Imrik. ‘You have them. Lead us into the battle and we will see Tyrion defeated.’
‘Not yet,’ said Teclis. He gestured to the empty scabbard at Malekith’s waist. ‘Urithain was destroyed. You have no blade, your majesty.’
‘Have my sword if that is all you lack,’ said Imrik. He moved to draw his blade but Malekith stopped him with an upraised hand.
‘The Phoenix King does not ride to war with some hand-me-down heirloom of Caledor,’ Malekith snapped. ‘Tyrion already wears my father’s armour and bears his sword – what further indignity do you wish to heap upon me?’
‘What blade would be suitable?’ asked Caradryan.
‘I can answer that,’ said Teclis. He had under his arm a wrapped bundle. Moving aside platters of meats, he made space on one of the tables to unroll his burden. Contained within were shards of bluish-black metal, which Malekith immediately recognised.
‘The remnants of the Destroyer,’ he said, reaching out his gauntleted fingers to touch one of the splinters. It was lifeless, all of the magic gone. ‘How did you come by them?’
‘They were brought with us when Lileath transported us from the Blighted Isle. I kept them, believing the goddess intended something to be done with them.’
‘What can be done with a few broken pieces of sword?’ said Imrik. ‘Tyrion wields the Widowmaker, made by Vaul himself.’
‘He calls it the icefang,’ Malekith told them. ‘I heard him name the blade as he drew it.’
‘The name is irrelevant,’ said Imrik. ‘How does one fight a god-forged blade?’
Malekith looked at Teclis, guessing that the mage already had the answer. Teclis smiled and moved to a long, narrow chest he had brought with him.
‘Do you remember, Imrik, the bargain you struck with our king to secure your alliance?’ the mage asked as he started to unfasten the locks of the casket.
‘All of the dragon eggs that were stolen, and the surviving weapons of Vaul forged in secrecy by Hotek for Malekith’s army.’
‘Indeed.’ Teclis opened the chest and a magical blue glow coloured his face. He lifted out the box’s contents, a heavy smith’s hammer with a golden head emblazoned with a symbol of lightning bolts.
‘The Hammer of Vaul,’ whispered Imrik, eyes widening in amazement.
‘Did you think I had thrown it away, or perhaps lost it?’ said Malekith. He addressed Teclis. ‘Now I understand why you insisted that it was included, in secret, with the artefacts Hotek created for me. Unfortunately, if you had told me your intent at the time I would have avoided today’s embarrassment.’
‘Embarrassment, your majesty?’ Teclis frowned as Malekith stood up and plucked the Hammer of Vaul from his fingers. The Phoenix King swung the Smith God’s divine instrument a few times, leaving a faint auric trail in the air as he walked down the hall. ‘Your majesty, that is not a child’s toy…’
‘It’s useless!’ barked Malekith, spinning to face the others, the hammer pointed at Teclis. ‘With Hotek gone there is nobody left that can wield it, you fool. Do you think that if I had been able to make armour and weapons with the Hammer of Vaul for the last four and a half thousand years I would have sent my troops into battle with iron spears and chainmail? I would have unleashed a legion ten thousand strong with blades that could cut the thickest armour and plate that resisted dragonrage!’
Malekith let the hammer drop from his grasp, cracking the dark stone floor where it fell at his feet.
‘We have priests of Vaul…’ suggested Imrik.
‘So did I,’ Malekith replied with a sigh, returning to his throne. ‘Acolytes of Hotek himself.’
‘They could not wield the power of the hammer?’ said Teclis, picking up the artefact with a disappointed expression. ‘They failed to forge anything?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ replied the Phoenix King. ‘They were deafened and crippled after one stroke. A few, after suitable prompting, tried a second, but they all died. Very grisly.’