The captain of the Phoenix Guard tossed the dying beast aside and fell into a defensive stance as he retreated back towards the other elves. The sutras of Asuryan ran through his head as he gauged the strengths and weaknesses of the enemies who pressed close about him, pursuing him. Chaff before the wind, he thought. It was not arrogance which prompted that conclusion, though once it might have been. He had been arrogant in his time, possessed of a certainty in his own superiority. It had taken a god to humble him, to show him the truth of his place: to show him that just because he was alive, that didn’t mean he truly lived, and that just because he could speak, that didn’t mean he should.
You must crawl before you can walk, boy, Asuryan had said, his voice rising from the flames in the holy Chamber of Days. I will teach you, though in time, you might wish I had not. And he had. His lessons had begun that day, and a callow, spiteful brat had become, if not a better elf, at least a more tolerable one.
He signalled silently for the archers among his miniscule host to let loose a volley. Arrows hissed overhead, and the front ranks of the Kurgan fell. The rest retreated in disarray. Now that the initial impulse to violence had been curtailed, the northmen seemed to be coming to grips with the fact that an enemy force had materialised in their very midst. They wouldn’t remain hesitant for long, he knew. Then they would come again, and he and his small band would be overwhelmed.
He looked west, towards the slag-heaps and spoil piles which had been at his back when he’d arrived. Immense clouds of smoke and soot rose into the air above the area, and he recalled Be’lakor’s taunts about the artefact Archaon was looking for. He frowned, wishing that the voice of Asuryan still whispered to him. But he did not. Asuryan, like all of the gods, was dead. But his servants would do what they could, in his absence and in his name. Even if that meant nothing more than dying well.
Roars and shouts rippled from between the ruined buildings which loomed above and around them. The Kurgan were regrouping. Chieftains and champions would be restoring order, and in a few moments, the enemy would be upon them again.
Never before had his fate weighed so heavily on him. Even the power caged in his body was no guarantor of his survival; after all, that power, the raw fury of Aqshy, had consumed Ungrim Ironfist in the end. Is that my end, then? he thought. To be consumed in flames, like Ashtari?
He looked up, and saw the firebird swoop low over the elves. The great bird shrieked. His kind had long dwelt amongst the Flamespyres of Ulthuan, laying their eggs amongst the great alabaster pillars of rock, where magical flames flickered eternally. Now, with Ulthuan’s destruction, there were no more Flamespyres, and there would be no more firebirds. A wave of sadness swept through him as Ashtari’s shadow passed over him, and the cry of the bird reverberated through his bones. No, there would be no more firebirds.
But they could burn brightly one last time, before the end.
Yes. We can all burn. The thought passed across his consciousness as Asuryan’s whispers had once done. For a moment, it was as if the god were still alive. Fire does not diminish as it is divided, he thought. Instead, it only grows stronger. He almost laughed for the simplicity of it. What good was caging the fire in one warrior, when it could lend its strength to many? He raised the Phoenix Blade, and felt Aqshy struggle within him, seeking its freedom. He reversed his halberd and drove it down, blade-first, into the ground. Now you are unchained, he thought, go, spread and avail them of your strength. The fire rose around him, licking out to engulf those elves closest to him, even as the Kurgan mounted their charge.
As the northmen thundered towards them, Aqshy blazed forth, the flames growing and dividing a thousandfold. It spread through the ranks of his tiny army, and flames flickered to life along the edges of blades and in the eyes of his warriors, whether they had been born in Ulthuan, Athel Loren or Naggaroth. Fatigued bodies straightened with new strength, and warriors shouted, their spirits renewed. Caradryan rose to his full height, the Phoenix Blade held out before him. He watched the enemy draw close, and the last captain of the Phoenix Guard smiled.
‘In the name of Asuryan,’ he said, pitching his voice to carry for the first time in centuries, ‘and for the fate of our people… charge!’
So, you yet live, eh? Malekith thought, as he caught a glimpse of the fire suddenly rising above the rooftops of the Ulricsmund. In Malekith’s opinion, of them all, Caradryan was the least suited to wield the powers he had come by. Better by far that it had been given to one more suited to such things.
Still, one must make do, he thought, as he guided Seraphon through the reeking air above the city, towards the distant smoke. He recognised the telltale sign of an excavation immediately, having overseen similar enterprises in his life. How many magical baubles had he dug out of the mountains and ice-floes, forced to grub about like a dwarf while seeking an easier path to the power so long denied him? ‘Pity I never thought to simply rip it out of the Vortex, eh, Seraphon?’ he said, and stroked the dragon’s long neck. The black dragon screeched and unleashed another searing cloud of fire into the tangle of streets below.
Malekith leaned forwards in his saddle and peered down at the battle taking place below. His forces, such as they were, swept through the narrow streets and drove the skaven before them. The ratmen had been surprised to see the enemy on their doorstep and Malekith had seized the advantage, driving his cohort on, the Eternity Guard at the fore. In the tangled streets the skaven could not bring their numbers to bear, and his warriors harried them mercilessly.
The skaven were detestable creatures, barely worth unsheathing his sword for. He contented himself with sending his shadow-shapes to draw blood in his place, while he sat safely astride Seraphon. The dragon screeched again, and incinerated another squalid nest. Skaven ran shrieking into the open, their greasy fur alight. Malekith laughed.
His laughter faded as he looked up at the sky. Things pressed heavily against the clouds, half visible but wholly incomprehensible. He felt all mirth drain from him. It was as if the skin of the world were stretched too tight over some gangrenous wound. He could smell the foulness of it on the wind, and feel it in his blood.
Memories of another moment and another sky like that crashed down on him, and the Eternity King shuddered in his armour. He had stepped into the realms of Chaos once, in a desperate gamble, and fought his way free only by dint of luck and willpower. The sky in that dread country, where time and space had no meaning save that which was given them by the whims of deranged gods, had looked the same.
‘The world is dying, Seraphon,’ he murmured, stroking the dragon’s scales. ‘All of our striving has come to nothing, it seems. Even as my deceitful mother swore.’ He smiled beneath his mask. ‘So be it. I am king, and I will face the end as a king.’ He leaned back in his saddle, his cloak of shadows rippling about him as he gazed up at the roiling sky. ‘Heed me well, you puny gods. Malekith, son of Aenarion, last true lord of the elves, has come to meet you on the battlefield. And as my father before me, I shall carve my name into your mind, so that you might shudder at the mere thought of it for all eternity. I shall break your fragile schemes, throw down your blood-soaked champions, burn your halls of decadent indulgence and scour the plague-ridden earth with cleansing fire.’