‘I couldn’t run,’ the prince croaked.
‘You were weak,’ Malekith replied, standing up. ‘I still need you. Be stronger next time.’
The Phoenix King turned and marched from the hall, his mood at its blackest for a long time.
Twenty-Nine
The Bringer of Silence
The day finally arrived, on the cusp of the season of ice, when Fovendiel arrived from Vaul’s Anvil, accompanied by a procession of lesser priests, carrying a rune-etched casket of white wood. Teclis had arrived the night before, bidden, he claimed, to attend the Phoenix King by Lileath – the reason becoming clear when news of Fovendiel’s arrival came to them.
The High Priest of Vaul was admitted to audience with the Phoenix King, but Malekith was in a poor mood and sent away his entourage of smith-priests with thinly-veiled threats, leaving himself with the high priest and Teclis.
‘Does it have a name?’ Malekith asked, as Fovendiel worked the clasps of the casket.
‘Asuryath,’ Teclis answered before the high priest could speak. The bringer of silence. ‘Asuryan’s sword is named Asuryath.’
‘Give it to me,’ rasped Malekith, snatching the box from Fovendiel.
He wrenched open the lid with clawed fingers, breaking the intricate bronze clasps and hinges, to reveal a shard of purest white. To the elves white was the colour of death, purity and silence, the three being indivisible. Thus was Asuryan the true guardian of their spirits, despite Ereth Khial’s rulership of Mirai. His was the last word, His flame was the purifier and His colour – or lack of it – was the blank sheet upon which new futures were written by Morai-heg and the other goddesses of fate.
‘Asuryath…’ Malekith breathed the word, tasting it, savouring it as his fingers closed around the hilt of the bringer of silence. He lifted the sword clear, its blade bursting into pale flame in his grasp. The weapon felt as light as air in his grasp, effortless to swing and thrust and parry. Carving sigils of flame around him, Malekith wove the tip of Asuryath in a complex series of feints, attacks and killing blows, artfully spelling out his own name with wisps of fire as he did so. He laughed, holding up the sword. ‘Hotek is indeed Vaul reborn. This is the blade to match the Widowmaker. Send him my deepest compliments and break his shackles. Tell him he is free to roam wherever he wishes.’
‘Hotek is dead, your majesty,’ said Fovendiel, head bowed. ‘We found him this morning, this blade sheathed in his chest, his hands about the hilt.’
‘He killed himself with it?’ Teclis recoiled from the blade, looking at it as though it were a serpent about to strike.
‘He anointed it,’ Malekith said, shaking his head in disbelief, new-found appreciation for Hotek’s dedication rising. ‘Vaul gave his own blood for the last tempering of the blade, and he will forge no more weapons for the gods.’
‘This is timely,’ Teclis announced, recovering his composure. ‘Tyrion’s army marches for Lothern.’
‘Leave us,’ Malekith told Fovendiel, not wishing to discuss his mind in front of the priest. He could barely bring himself to confide in Teclis, but there was no alternative. When the high priest had said his farewell and departed, the Phoenix King confronted Teclis. ‘Is it enough? Can I beat your brother with this sword?’
‘You fear to face him, even with Asuryath?’
‘I would expect you to be the last to throw accusations of cowardice,’ Malekith replied. There was a white-enamelled scabbard decorated with rubies like drops of blood in the casket. Malekith sheathed his sword. ‘You know that if I perish all will be lost – I must weigh every risk. I will face Tyrion when I must.’
‘It was a genuine question, not an accusation,’ Teclis said. ‘I cannot give you an answer. We shall only know if you are ready when the time comes. Fortunately, that time is not yet here. I am certain that Tyrion has left his army. He has gone north with Morathi, seemingly content after besting Imrik, and has left the prosecution of the war to Korhil.’
‘The name is unfamiliar to me,’ admitted the Phoenix King.
‘The captain of the White Lions. Stubborn, strong, courageous. He is a competent strategist, far more patient than my brother. He musters for a final assault on Lothern and must be stopped.’
‘Must?’ Malekith hung Asuryath on his armour, tying the silver hangers to his belt. It felt as natural as the Destroyer had done ever since he had lost Avanuir at Maledor. ‘That sounds like instruction, nephew.’
‘No, your majesty, simply a statement of strategic imperative. If Lothern falls Lord Aislinn will reunite his fleet and sweep away our ships in the Sea of Dreams. From Lothern they can attack Caledor directly. If we do not stop their advance at Lothern, Tor Caleda will be besieged before midwinter.’
‘The geography lesson is appreciated,’ Malekith growled. ‘Your assessment is pessimistic. The defences of Lothern are strong and our fleet outmatches any seaborne-attack Aislinn can muster. Why must I intervene now?’
‘The warriors of Lothern will not fight for long for a cause that is, at best, nebulous to them. It is only the presence of the Caledorians that stiffens their resolve for the moment, and only Imrik that led the Caledorians. However, unless you wish to see a reversal of the events at Eagle Gate, the people of Eataine need a focus for their loyalty. The time has come to reveal to them and all of Ulthuan that they have a Phoenix King, and it is not Tyrion.’
Malekith accepted this appraisal without comment, and after some time Teclis interpreted his silence as dismissal and left the Phoenix King to ponder his decision.
The king had been quick to quash any thought of cowardice, but alone in that hall he was free to admit to himself a very physical, mortal fear. He could hide it behind talk of surviving to lead his people, and justify his continued absence from the battlefield as sound strategy, but the truth was that he was afraid to test himself against Tyrion again. He had barely survived the last encounter and, Asuryath or not, he was in no hurry to repeat the experience.
Tyrion was every bit the swordmaster that Aenarion had been and now he wielded the Sword of Khaine. There was no deadlier fighter in the world.
It did not matter that Tyrion was not at Lothern in person. Malekith could break the siege, he was sure of it, but the moment he revealed himself the future would be set, the wheel would turn along the rut that led to the fight between Asuryan and Khaine, Malekith and Tyrion. Was there any more that he could do to prepare himself for that confrontation?
Thirty
The Battle of Lothern
The war was within view of Lothern’s walls. To the east the fields burned and the skies darkened with smoke. To the north the flotsam of sea battles, timbers and corpses, washed towards the city on lapping waves. The wind carried the clamour of battle, the crash of weapons, the curses and war cries, distant yet all-consuming.
The corpses of dragons mouldered on the hillside meadows, iron-hard scales pierced by hundreds of arrows and the bolts of war engines. Griffon bodies lay beside the feathered remains of phoenixes and harpies, figures cloaked in lion pelts and sea dragon hide, casualties of Ulthuan and Naggaroth combined, slashed and stabbed, decapitated and burned.
The air danced with Azyr lightning and Hysh thunderbolts. Sorcery and high magic whirled in multicoloured thunderheads and opened chasms lined with jagged boulder-fangs. Trees enervated by Ghyran magic uprooted themselves and hurled their branches at any creature encroaching on their woodlands, while walls of fire incinerated farms and hostelries, fed by growing waves of Aqshy. Bear, lion and panther followed the call of Ghur, and unseen lurking things crept in the shadows of Ulgu. Ancient spirits wailed their laments, their chill weapons freezing the hearts of those that came near their mausoleums, and the lodestones that powered the vortex crackled and fizzed with discharging magic, unable to beat the huge influx of magic pouring from the Northern Wastes.