‘The world turns and Morai-heg reveals her intentions,’ muttered Imrik, shaking his head.
‘Speak clearly,’ Malekith told him. ‘What do you mean?’
The dragon prince looked at Teclis with an expression of disbelief and fear. ‘Perhaps Lileath does guide your acts, in some fashion. I do not think I can tell you – I must show you.’
‘Show us what?’ demanded Malekith, losing his patience altogether.
‘We must go to the Shrine of Vaul,’ said Imrik. ‘There is someone I think you need to see.’
A fine summer’s evening greeted four mighty guests to Vaul’s Anvil, greatest shrine to the crippled Smith God of the elves. Malekith flew upon Seraphon, who like the others had been saved by Lileath’s translocation, and with him was Imrik on the back of Minaithnir, followed by Caradryan astride Ashtari the phoenix and, below, Teclis borne swiftly over the mountain tracks by his steed of shadow magic. The evening was settling fast when Malekith saw a bright fire in the distance. Situated at the very end of the Dragon Spine range, separated by a wide valley from the rest of the mountains, a solitary peak cast its shadow over the water’s edge, shrouded with cloud and fume. To the northern slope the dragons turned, where steps were carved into the black rock, winding back and forth up the steep incline leading to a carved opening flanked by two gigantic pillars. Atop the columns were statues of bent-legged Vaul. On the left the god of craftsmen laboured over an anvil, a hammer of thunderbolts in his hand. On the right he was bound in chains, weeping over the Sword of Khaine he had forged.
Before these pillars landed the dragons. Their arrival did not go unnoticed, and acolytes garbed in heavy aprons and thick gloves came out of the shrine’s opening to assist the dragon riders in dismounting. When they saw Malekith they recoiled in horror and some turned to flee.
‘Stay!’ Imrik commanded them. ‘Behold your new Phoenix King!’
This caused some consternation, but Imrik was well known to the priests of Vaul and the presence of Caradryan and Teclis, both renowned for their loyalty to Ulthuan, mitigated their fears a little.
‘It is strange that you should come to us on this day of all days, princes and king,’ said one of the priests. He was older than the others, blinded eyes covered by a band of iron, though he moved without guidance.
‘How so?’ asked Malekith as they ascended the steps.
The priest hesitated before replying, and addressed his words to Imrik. Malekith ignored the insult for the moment, more eager to hear what the priest had to say than chastise his poor manners.
‘The prisoner started ranting this morning, shouting to all that would listen that Vaul had forgiven him.’
‘Prisoner?’ Teclis said, and Malekith exchanged a look with the mage, unsettled by his surprise. If the herald of Lileath did not know what was occurring, was any of the Sapherian’s plan truly god-sent?
‘Take us to him immediately,’ said Imrik, hastening through the arch into the ruddy chamber beyond.
They followed their guides down several levels cut into the rock of the mountain, and stopped beside a metal door at the end of a winding passageway. The door was barred by a dozen bolts, six to each side, and another thick metal spar across the width padlocked at both ends.
They said nothing as word was sent for the high priest to attend, and to bring the keys with him, but Malekith eyed the door suspiciously. He could feel waves of Chamon beating against the iron from the other side.
‘Vaul’s energy, the Wind of Metal,’ Teclis said, slender fingers fidgeting on his staff. He narrowed his eyes towards Imrik. ‘What have they got hidden in there?’
‘He was found in the maze of tunnels beneath the shrine, many centuries ago. Lost, it seems, though how he came to enter them is a mystery,’ explained one of the priests. ‘We could see that he was blinded in the fashion of our order, but none recognised him. I think he must have been from the colonies.’
‘Go on,’ urged Teclis.
‘He was mad, almost dead of thirst. He speaks little, but mutters the great incantations of Vaul. Much of what he says is nonsensical – even our most learned loresmiths can make nothing of it.’
The high priest, Fovendiel, arrived and set about unlocking and unbolting the door, visibly unnerved by the presence of Malekith. He turned before casting aside the final bolt, and looked directly at Malekith, his hand moving to within just a short distance from the king’s chest.
‘Dark work,’ the priest said, fingers flinching from the heat of the armour of midnight. ‘But a miracle, all the same. That we could once furnish such gifts to our allies. Our power is much diminished.’
‘Open the door,’ snapped Malekith, in no mood for reminiscing. Imrik’s coyness angered him, as did the mystery of the prisoner.
Fovendiel did as he had been told, stepping aside to swing the door outwards.
The figure in the room was dressed in a plain robe of black, his white hair swept back by a worn band of black leather studded with ruddy bronze. His features were severe, with high cheekbones and brow sharp. Most remarkable were his eyes, of pure white, just like those of the high priest.
He sat on a stool next to a plain bunk, surrounded by piles of tattered parchment covered with runes, writing and diagrams. Muttering, the elf was fixed upon the contents of a page on his lap.
‘How long ago did you say he arrived?’
‘That’s the miracle,’ said the high priest. ‘He has been here for more than four thousand years. Some greater power sustains him.’
The prisoner looked up, blind gaze drawn straight to Malekith as the Phoenix King stepped across the threshold.
The burning would not stop. It raged in Malekith’s mind long after his body was dead to the pain of the flames. Had his father felt like this? Is this what drove him to the Sword of Khaine, to escape the touch of Asuryan’s blessing?
The thought calmed the prince of Nagarythe. As his father had endured, so would he. What was his torment but another chance to prove his superiority? When he next stood before the princes to declare his right to be Phoenix King none of them would argue. It would be plain for them to see the strength of his character. Who of them could deny that he had passed Asuryan’s test? He smiled at the thought, cracked flesh creasing across the remains of his face.
Their resistance was fuelled by jealousy. The usurper, Bel Shanaar, had groomed Imrik like a prize stallion, though in truth he was nothing more than a plodding mule. The other princes had been blinded to the truth by the whispers of Bel Shanaar. When the evidence of Malekith’s acceptance by Asuryan was presented, they would see through the falsehoods woven by the Caledorian and his supporters. Perhaps even Imrik would bend his knee, as Malekith had so graciously done at the foot of Bel Shanaar.
The curtain surrounding the bed stirred and Morathi bent over him. Malekith tried to rise to kiss her cheek but his body failed him. A spasm of pain along his spine trapped him beneath the covers, as though a great weight was laid upon him. His mouth twisted into a snarl of anguish.
‘Be still, my beautiful son,’ said Morathi, laying a hand on his brow. ‘I have someone you should greet.’
An emaciated elf moved up beside Malekith’s mother, face almost white, eyes pale and unseeing though they fixed upon the prince.
‘Greetings, your majesty,’ he said. ‘I am Hotek.’