‘Your mother’s words,’ Teclis snapped, his stare unflinching. ‘Her lies in your head. That was the moment the Chaos Powers won. Not when you slaughtered the princes in the shrine, nor when you murdered Bel Shanaar. Those were simply the consecrations of your betrayal.’
‘But… I spared her out of love.’
‘And that love was greater than the love of Ulthuan and her people,’ Teclis continued. ‘You chose the wrong mother, Malekith, and we all had to pay the price.’
Malekith sagged, leaning against the battlement. ‘Go,’ he whispered. ‘I tire of this conversation.’
‘As you wish, your majesty,’ said Teclis. ‘On the morrow I depart for the fields of Cothique where my brother makes great gains. We must hold council before then.’
‘Leave, meddling loremaster,’ Malekith growled. ‘Spare me more of your twisted words.’
Malekith listened to the footfalls of the mage until they were gone. The rage was too much to contain and with a snarl he ripped free a block of stone and incinerated it in his grasp, hurling the broken, burned fragments over the parapet.
He hated Teclis. More self-righteous than any other mage, so convinced of his own superiority and correctness.
He hated even more that Teclis was right.
The Phoenix King’s brooding presence spread to other parts of the citadel, his sour mood infecting the spirit of the guards and servants and beyond to the streets of Tor Caleda. There were whispers and dark rumours of what lay in the upper reaches of the keep, some as outlandish as to suggest Imrik had summoned forth a daemon, others more unsettling but closer to the truth – that the prince had sealed a pact with a dark spirit from the past.
Malekith’s self-imposed imprisonment started to take its toll on his temper. Daily he sent missives to Hotek demanding news on the priest-smith’s work. Daily the replies returned that Hotek’s labours continued without pause.
The risk of magical discovery stopped the Phoenix King from transporting his spirit beyond the castle, forcing him to rely upon conventional and far slower means of news. In concert with this, Teclis came only rarely to report the progress of the war, and spoke in equivocating terms, but it was plain that Tyrion’s direct intercession had rolled back Imrik’s forces to the borders of Eataine and the coast of the Inner Sea. Though supported by the mighty fleet of Naggaroth, the dragon princes were suffering setback after setback.
One evening there was commotion in the lower levels of the citadel, rousing Malekith from a days-long fugue of depression. Panicked shouts brought the Phoenix King to full awareness, and calls for aid carried him out of the halls he usually haunted and into the main part of the keep.
His appearance caused terror and consternation, and only by the intervention of Caradryan was a band of Caledorians prevented from attacking their king. Malekith demanded to know the reason for the tumult and he was led to a stately hall close to the citadel gate.
Within was a bustle of courtiers and servants. At the centre of the chamber a tall figure in bloodstained armour stood over another in gilded plate. There was blood on the floor and apothecaries and mages shouldered and fussed at each other, competing in their attempts to attend the wounded knight.
‘Let me see,’ Malekith growled.
The crowd parted at once, save for a female mage who knelt beside the forlorn figure, channelling waves of rejuvenating Ghyran into the injured warrior’s body. The knight flailed a crimson-covered hand at the sound of Malekith’s voice, beckoning him closer. He turned his head, revealing the features of Imrik, ashen-faced and drawn.
‘What happened?’ the Phoenix King demanded, striding along the hall. He directed the question at the other Caledorian prince, whom he recognised as Marendri, an older cousin of Imrik.
‘The usurper came upon us at the shores of Lake Calliana, in Saphery,’ Marendri explained, his gaze moving quickly between his prince and his king, brow furrowed. ‘He must have marched day and night for five days or more. Possessed he was, falling upon a host five times the size of his own with just a vanguard and the griffon-knights. Tyrion led the attack, killing dozens, driving into the heart of the army before we could reform.’
‘Imrik attacked, didn’t he?’ Malekith said grimly. ‘He ignored my orders and confronted Tyrion.’
‘He saw no other way to save the battle,’ Marendri admitted. ‘He did not seek prolonged engagement, but thought that if he could but drive Tyrion back for even a few moments, our knights and spears would reset and be better prepared.’
Malekith looked at Imrik and saw that his dragonplate armour was cut from left shoulder to the centre of his breastplate. The female mage was trying her best while others were unbuckling pieces of bloodied armour and cutting away the padded jerkin beneath to see the wound more clearly.
‘He struck a fine blow,’ Marendri said earnestly, kneeling to lay a hand on his prince’s leg. ‘It pierced Tyrion’s breastplate, I swear. Any other warrior would have been slain.’
‘Tyrion is no ordinary warrior, not even before he took up the Widowmaker.’
‘It was terrible, like a slash of midnight. It shattered Imrik’s shield like glass…’ Marendri started to weep, a display that made Malekith’s lip curl in disgust. ‘Neremain, Astalorion and Findellion were on the usurper in moments, while I snatched Imrik away to safety. They died, as did three fine dragons.’
Malekith baulked at this thought – that even after being wounded Tyrion had single-handedly killed three dragon princes and their steeds. If Imrik died Malekith would have to lead the army himself. He looked at Imrik, seeing only the barest hints of life remaining despite the healer’s efforts.
‘Your life magic will not avail here,’ Malekith declared, waving the maiden aside. ‘He has been marked by a far darker power. One that must be matched tooth for tooth and claw for claw.’
A nimbus of dark magic coalesced around Malekith’s outstretched hands, forming a pulsing cloud of purple and black. The attending nurses and apothecaries scattered at the display of sorcery, some running wailing for the doors, others whispering mantras of protection against evil.
‘Settle yourselves,’ snarled the Phoenix King. ‘A little sorcery like this is child’s play.’
‘You seek to bring him back from the dead?’ The female mage was aghast.
‘You have a crude view of life and death,’ Malekith told her. He unleashed the dark magic into Imrik, sending it rippling through every part of his body. The prince convulsed, armour clattering on the bloodied tiles, his life fluid spilling from the gash in his armour, head arched back in a silent scream.
Malekith knelt beside the broken prince and poured on more energy, willing severed arteries and veins shut, forcing blood to clot and muscles to knit.
‘You’re killing him!’ screamed the mage. Marendri intercepted her as she lunged towards the Phoenix King, fireballs glowing in her hands. Malekith darted a look in her direction and she shrunk back as if struck, her spell steaming away under his burning stare.
‘He is nearer dead than alive. What the life-giving forces of Ghyran cannot mend, sorcery can reanimate. How do you think I stand here, seven thousand years after my birth, through all of the trials this mortal form has faced?’
So he spoke, and so it was seen in the body of Imrik. Dead tissue came back to life, flooded with freshly pumped blood from a jolted heart, colour returning to the skin. Imrik opened his eyes with a pained gasp, his gaze roving madly around the room for a few moments before it settled on Marendri. Familiarity brought calm. The prince panted as he sat up, his gaze moving to Malekith.