He knew little enough of the unbinding ceremony, but could feel the vortex loosening around him. He tried to concentrate on the foes in front and behind, urging Seraphon deeper into the fray to slick her claws and fangs with the blood of the enemy.
Time lost meaning. Around Malekith the battle raged, physical and magical, and the skies whirled with skycutters and griffons, mages on shining platforms and roaring manticores. He paid little heed to anything else and cut down hydras and elves, charioteers and cold ones with equal cold ferocity.
He was dimly aware of bright fire and screams when Imrik’s last surviving dragons charged the flank of Tyrion’s army, slaying with dragonfire and claw. The stench of saltwater and decay washed over him and he saw that the dead of the seas had reached the battle line. Some fought with their weapons, broken shields and rusted swords, others had clawed hands and wide maws filled with needle-like fangs like some deepwater fish.
He hewed down reanimated corpses to the left and right, though around him his followers were unsettled by the assault of the dead and began to give ground. Not wishing to become isolated, the Phoenix King was forced to back away, and in the break this granted him he saw why the dead had caused so much consternation.
At their head marched five figures, resurrected from their tombs upon the Isle of the Dead. In regal cloaks and armour, with swords and shields and necklaces and bangles about their mouldering bones, five dire warriors led the charge of the undead.
The Phoenix Kings of ages past.
Five alone of the ten, whose bodies had been interred in the mausoleums upon the water’s edge. Finubar was there, though less than three years dead his body rendered to gleaming bones by the magic of the vortex. After him came others, glowing with fey light, eyeless sockets gleaming with magic. Confronted by the kings of times past the host of Malekith drew back, bending before the advance of the undead like the bow wave of a ship.
Malekith saw that Tyrion’s forces were gathering again for a fresh attack in the wake of the undead advance. Knights and griffon riders were set ready to charge, while Tiranocii chariots mustered to force any breakthrough.
Looking on Finubar’s skeletal features Malekith was filled with a loathing born not of horror but anger. Arrayed before him were five of his worst foes, who had thwarted him in life and now their bones were beholden to a brain-addled slave of Khaine. Their weakness sickened Malekith and he rose up in Seraphon’s throne-saddle in disgust.
The vortex was like an unchained beast around him, bucking at the lodestones to tug free, smashing into the ground and whirling into the air in a storm of sparks and clouds. His simplest thought caused ripples to eddy out into the maelstrom. Shaped by his hatred of the dead kings pressing towards him, the vortex responded, gathering in his body, fizzing along fingers and limbs.
Infused with magical power, Malekith burst into flame, his armour burning white, Asuryath like a lick of fire in his hand. And in that moment Malekith understood his destiny and accepted who he was.
Asuryan reborn.
Malekith’s laughter echoed across the battlefield.
‘Kings of Ulthuan!’ the Phoenix King spat the words as a curse. ‘You are usurpers and thieves. You owe me a debt. In my name, and in that of my father, I call upon you to repay it now!’
The magic was too much to control and Malekith had to give vent to his righteous wrath. He thrust Asuryath towards the oncoming host of the dead and white fire sprang from the blade to create a ball of blazing destruction. The bones of the dead kings shattered at the impact of his magical missile, scattered to the winds as ash. As it screamed through the ranks of the undead the fire took on a shape, becoming the image of an elf.
Of Finubar, as he had been in life.
Though the fire burned out quickly, leaving a ring of charred corpses on the ground where it had stopped, the gleaming figure of Finubar remained where the bolt had exploded, glowing with white light. Drawing an ethereal blade, the shade of Finubar charged into the foe.
‘Spirits of the fallen kings, answer me now!’
Malekith hurled another fireball, which coalesced into the image of Bel-Hathor. From his fiery birth the Phoenix King known as the Sage strode forth unleashing blasts of power from his fingertips, eyes ablaze with magical energy. Eight more times Malekith cast the incantation and eight more times the spirits of the Phoenix Kings past answered his summons, appearing in coronas of white fire, reborn by the power of Asuryan, the Phoenix of the Gods.
All came that were bidden, whether warrior like Tethlis and Caledor and his son, or magic-weaver like Caradryel the Peacemaker and Bel-Korhadris the Scholar-King. Only one king did Malekith not call upon, and one king alone that had no debt to settle. Aenarion’s spirit remained unsummoned, wherever it had departed.
But Malekith did not stop there.
He was Phoenix King, the Lord of Lords, and to him was owed every oath of fealty and dedication ever sworn upon Ulthuan. With Asuryath a storm of white fire, he called forth every hero and heroine that ever laid down his or her life for the cause of the elves, from Eltharion the Grim who had died only a year before trying to rescue Tyrion’s daughter, to Yeasir, his lieutenant from ancient Anlec, killed when he had stood up to Malekith’s soldiers to protect the heir to Tiranoc before the Sundering had flooded that kingdom.
With these ancient heroes to lead them, the Phoenix King and Everqueen at the forefront of the fight, the army of Malekith surged forwards into Tyrion’s host, possessed of a righteousness of spirit that eclipsed the blind blood-thirst of their foes.
Seeing that the battle turned against him Tyrion was at last forced to come forward himself. His sword arm never ceasing in its rise and fall, he cut his way through the throng, heading directly for the Phoenix King.
‘Finally,’ Malekith said to Seraphon. ‘A foe worth fighting.’
A panicked thought intruded upon the Phoenix King’s mind and in the moment of distraction he noticed that the vortex was almost free, riding and crashing like a ship on storm-tossed waves that had broken its moorings. The sense of another close at hand announced a message from Teclis.
‘Summoning the kings of old has upset the balance of our incantations!’ bellowed the mage into Malekith’s thoughts. ‘Look what your meddling has wrought!’
Malekith glanced towards the lodestones and saw that a handful of the mages were dead, their desiccated corpses propped up against the waystones they had been controlling. Like ribbons in a storm the winds of magic fluttered free and fierce.
The white of Malhandir streaked towards Malekith through the melee, the Dragon of Cothique on the horse’s back a vision of destruction.
‘I have more pressing matters, nephew. I am playing my part, mage, now play yours!’
Taking to the air, Malekith watched as the Phoenix Kings of old tried to confront Tyrion. Each in turn fell to the Widowmaker, speared and sliced by the shard of icy death in his hand. Tyrion plunged onward, reckless in his haste, trampling friend as well as foe beneath the hooves of his steed.
It was then that Malekith realised his error. Tyrion rode not for him, but for Teclis.
Seraphon swooped at his command and magic rained from Malekith’s sword, but Malhandir was swifter even than dragon or bolt or fireball. Cursing himself for his lapse, Malekith strained every nerve to ensnare Tyrion with a spell while Seraphon, urged on by her master, almost tore herself apart in her efforts to catch the blur of white and gold on the ground below.
Teclis was unaware of the doom descending upon him, arms reaching into the air as though he tried to seize hold of the winds of magic like reins. Oblivious to his brother bearing down, the mage howled his enchantments into the vortex.