DISPOSICIÓN FINAL
REQUISITOS DE ACCESO
—<FOUR>—
The Council of Princes
“Malekith has been ousted from power.”
Imrik could scarcely believe the messenger sent by Bel Shanaar. The Tiranocii stood patiently in the great hall of Tor Caled, addressing Caledrian and his brothers.
“Bel Shanaar knows this as a fact?” said Dorien.
“Even now, Malekith has fled Nagarythe with a body of loyal warriors and takes sanctuary in Tor Anroc,” said the herald. “Some believe the architect of this rebellion to be Eoloran Anar, a dissident who lives in the mountains in the east of Nagarythe.”
“Impossible,” said Imrik. “All should know Eoloran Anar, standard bearer of Aenarion. His loyalty to Ulthuan is beyond question. Bel Shanaar knows him as an ally.”
“Which is why the Phoenix King does not pay heed to these rumours,” the messenger replied smoothly.
“Though this is distressing, I cannot see how this involves my kingdom,” said Caledrian. “Have we not been here before, and did not Malekith resolve the situation for himself?”
“With this coup there has been resurgence in the activity of the cults,” said the herald. “There are riots and burning in cities across Ulthuan. Several princes and lesser nobles have been murdered or taken hostage.”
“They have bided their time,” said Imrik. “They waited for the others to become lax.”
“It seems so,” said the herald. “The Phoenix King wishes this renewed unrest to be dealt with swiftly. The proposal to form a united army under his banner will be revisited. However, this time there will be no delays. All princes are instructed to gather at the Shrine of Asuryan on the Isle of the Flame, to appoint the commander of this army. You are to set out at once.”
“Not I,” said Imrik, looking at Caledrian. His brother opened his mouth to speak but Imrik talked across him. “I have been invited to Chrace by Koradrel and I will go.
You have avoided the other princes for too long.”
Caledrian looked as if he would argue, but Imrik glared at his brother to forestall any complaint. The ruler of Caledor reluctantly nodded and turned to Thyrinor.
“I will go to the Isle of the Flame to attend this council, and you will attend me,”
he said.
“I have no objection,” said Thyrinor. “I have never seen inside the Shrine of Asuryan. It will be a privilege to gaze upon the sacred flame that blessed Aenarion.”
“I leave tomorrow,” said Imrik. “We can ride together to the coast. I will take ship to the north and you to the east.”
“We will send word of the proceedings,” said Caledrian.
“Please do not,” replied Imrik. “I am not interested. History simply repeats itself.
I will be in the mountains.”
Caledrian frowned at this news.
“But should I need your aid, what will I do?” he said. “No messenger will find you.”
“That is my intent,” said Imrik. “You will have to deal with this, brother. I cannot help you.”
Arrangements were made with Bel Shanaar’s herald, who departed that evening with Caledrian’s acceptance of his position at the council. Imrik spent the night with his family, promising Tythanir the head of a hydra as a gift on his return. In the morning, he left the city with Caledrian and Thyrinor, pleased to have avoided embroilment in further intrigue that did not concern him.
The chatter around the horseshoe of tables and chairs in the shrine was of the delay in the arrival of Bel Shanaar and Malekith. Elodhir had arrived from Tor Anroc with the news that his father and the prince of Nagarythe would follow shortly, but even the heir to Tiranoc’s throne was now perturbed by their failure to arrive.
“What if the cultists know something of what they plan?” Elodhir said to Thyrinor.
The two of them stood by a table near to the entrance to the pyramidal shrine, the multicoloured pillar of fire known as the flame of Asuryan burning at the centre of the temple. Other princes and their aides had seated themselves in preparation for the council, as they had done several times over the last few days. Seated directly in front of the sacred flames was the high priest Mianderin, his staff of office held across his lap. Other priests moved around the tables filling goblets with wine or water, and offering fruits and confectioneries.
“I would not fear,” Thyrinor said as soothingly as possible. “Your father is the Phoenix King, and Prince Malekith the most accomplished warrior in Ulthuan. It is most likely fresh information from Nagarythe that delays them.”
“You are right,” said Elodhir. He was about to return to his seat when a young priest entered the shrine.
“A ship bearing the flag of Tiranoc draws in to the wharf,” the elf announced before taking position with his fellows along the white stone walls.
There was a hubbub of discussion and Thyrinor joined Caledrian at the seats and table set aside for the Caledorian representatives.
“About time,” said Caledrian. “It is probably for the best that Imrik did not come.
These delays would have frustrated him to the verge of violence, I suspect.”
“And I expect much wrangling to be the business of the next few days,” replied Thyrinor. “My cousin’s absence has been remarked upon several times. There are those who think he should be here to receive the nomination as general.”
“He made his opinion clear on that before,” said Caledrian. “If he wishes to have no association with this campaign, I cannot blame him and will respect his wishes.
Caledor has taken much from him already.”
“Dorien and I spent almost as much time fighting in the colonies,” said Thyrinor.
Caledrian smiled and patted his cousin reassuringly on the arm.
“And it is remembered,” said the prince. “Yet it was Imrik my father named as the sword bearer of Caledor, and that is a weighty burden to bear.”
The two of them fell silent as new figures appeared at the shrine door.
Malekith entered and walked behind the table reserved for Bel Shanaar, earning himself frowns from Mianderin and a few of the princes. Thyrinor felt Caledrian’s grip on his arm tighten. Something was amiss; Thyrinor had felt it from the moment Malekith had appeared. The Naggarothi prince was flanked by two knights who carried wrapped bundles in their hands. Malekith stood leaning on the table with gauntleted fists, and stared balefully at the assembled council.
“Weakness prevails,” spat the prince of Nagarythe. Thyrinor shuddered at the venom in Malekith’s voice. “Weakness grips this island like a child squeezing the juices from an over-ripened fruit. Selfishness has driven us to inaction, and now the time to act may have passed. Complacency rules where princes should lead. You have allowed the cults of depravity to flourish, and done nothing. You have looked to foreign shores and counted your gold, and allowed thieves to sneak into your towns and cities to steal away your children. And you have been content to allow a traitor to wear the Phoenix Crown!”
With this last declaration there were gasps and shouts of horror from the princes.
Malekith’s knights opened their bundles and tossed the contents upon the table: the crown and feathered cloak of Bel Shanaar.
Elodhir leapt to his feet, fist raised.
“Where is my father?” he demanded.
“What has happened to the Phoenix King?” cried Finudel.
“He is dead!” snarled Malekith. “Killed by his weakness of spirit.”
Panic choked Thyrinor, his throat tightening against the shout of dismay that rose from him. He looked to Caledrian, whose face had paled, jaw and fists clenched tightly.
“That cannot be so!” exclaimed Elodhir, his voice strangled and fraught with anger.
“It is,” said Malekith with a sigh, his demeanour suddenly one of sorrow. “I promised to root out this vileness, and was shocked to find that my mother was one of its chief architects. From that moment on, I decided none would be above suspicion. If Nagarythe had become so polluted, so too perhaps had Tiranoc. My arrival here was delayed by investigations, when it was brought to my attention that those close to the Phoenix King might be under the sway of the hedonists. My inquiries were circumspect but thorough, and imagine my disappointment, nay disbelief, when I uncovered evidence that implicated the Phoenix King himself.”
“What evidence?” demanded Elodhir.
“Certain talismans and fetishes found in the Phoenix King’s chambers,” said Malekith calmly. “Believe me when I say that I felt as you did. I could not bring myself to think that Bel Shanaar, our wisest prince chosen to rule by members of this council, would be brought so low. Not one to act rashly, I decided to confront Bel Shanaar with this evidence, in the hope that there was some misunderstanding or trickery involved.”
“And he denied it of course?” asked Bathinair.
Thyrinor could not comprehend what he was hearing. He moved to rise to his feet, but Caledrian pushed him back to his chair.
“Watch the knights,” Caledrian hissed in his ear.
Thyrinor turned his attention to the black-clad knights of Anlec, who had stepped back and now filled the doorway with their armoured forms, dark eyes glaring from the visors of their high helms, arms crossed over their carved breastplates.
“He admitted guilt by his deeds,” explained Malekith. “It seems that a few of my company were tainted by this affliction and in league with the usurpers of Nagarythe.
Even as I confided in them, they warned Bel Shanaar of my discoveries. That night, no more than seven nights ago, I went to his chambers to make my accusations face-to-face. I found him dead, his lips stained with poison. He had taken the coward’s way and ended his own life rather than suffer the shame of inquiry. By his own hand he denied us insight into the plans of the cults. Fearing that he would not keep their secrets to himself, he took them to his grave.”
“My father would do no such thing, he is loyal to Ulthuan and its people!”
shouted Elodhir.
Thyrinor was in agreement, but a glance at his cousin showed that Caledrian was not paying attention to Malekith, his eyes instead roving across the other princes, gauging their reactions.
“Bathinair is with Malekith,” Caledrian whispered, quietly pushing his chair away from the table.
“What do you mean?” Thyrinor whispered back, but received no reply.
“I confess to having deep sympathy with you, Elodhir,” Malekith was saying.
“Have I not been deceived by my own mother? Do I not feel the same betrayal and heartache that now wrenches at your spirit?”
“I must admit I also find this somewhat perturbing,” said Thyriol. “It seems…
convenient.”
“And so, in death, Bel Shanaar continues to divide us, as was his intent,”
countered Malekith. “Discord and anarchy will reign as we argue back and forth the rights and wrongs of what has occurred. While we debate endlessly, the cults will grow in power and seize your lands from under your noses, and we will have lost everything. They are united, while we are divided. There is no time for contemplation, or reflection, there is only time for action.”
“What would you have us do?” asked Chyllion, one of the princes of Cothique.
“We must choose a new Phoenix King!” declared Bathinair before Malekith could answer.
Voices erupted across the shrine and princes stood up, gesturing madly at one another. Malekith watched the tumult without emotion. Thyrinor followed his gaze, which was fixed upon the sacred flame.
“I really wish Imrik was here,” Thyrinor admitted.
“Cease this noise!” roared Caledrian, getting to his feet. “Be calm!”
His shout stilled the shrine.
“We will not find the truth with this anarchy,” Caledrian continued in quieter tones.
“Does Caledrian put himself forward for the Phoenix Throne?” said Bathinair.
The prince of Caledor was stunned by the suggestion.
“I have no such ambition,” he said, looking pointedly at Malekith. “Yet if there are others here who would stake such a claim, it should be made plain and we should consider it.”
“Is that your intent?” asked Thyriol with a glance at the other princes.
“If the council wishes it,” Malekith said with a shrug.
“We cannot choose a new Phoenix King now,” said Elodhir. “Such a matter cannot be resolved quickly, and even if such a thing were possible, we are not our full number.”
“Nagarythe will not wait,” said Malekith, slamming his fist onto the table. “The cults are too strong and come spring they will control the army of Anlec. My lands will be lost and they will march upon yours!”
“You would have us choose you to lead us?” said Thyriol quietly.
“Yes,” Malekith replied without hesitation or embarrassment. “There are none here who were willing to act until my return. I am the son of Aenarion, his chosen heir, and if the revelation of Bel Shanaar’s treachery is not enough to convince you of the foolishness of choosing from another line, then look to my other achievements.
Bel Shanaar chose me to act as his ambassador to the dwarfs, for I was a close friend with their High King.
“Our future lies not solely upon these shores, but in the wider world. I have been to the colonies across the oceans, and fought to build and protect them. Though they come from the bloodstock of Lothern or Tor Elyr or Tor Anroc, they are a new people, and it is to me they first look now, not to you. None here are as experienced in war as am I. Bel Shanaar was a ruler steeped in wisdom and peace, for all that he has failed us at the last, but peace and wisdom will not prevail against darkness and zealotry.”
“What of Imrik?” suggested Finudel. “He is every bit the general and fought out in the new world also.”
“Imrik?” said Malekith, his voice dripping with scorn. “Where is Imrik now, in this time of our greatest need? He skulks in Chrace with his cousin, hunting monsters! Would you have Ulthuan ruled by an elf who hides in the mountains like a petulant, spoilt child? When Imrik called for an army to be gathered against Nagarythe, did you pay him heed? No! Only when I raised the banner did you fall over each other in your enthusiasm.”
Thyrinor was so incensed by the accusation, words failed him. Before he could speak, another prince was making his voice heard.
“Be careful of what you say, your arrogance does you a disservice,” warned Haradrin.
“I say these things not as barbs to your pride,” explained Malekith, unclenching his fists and sitting down. “I say them to show you what you already know; in your hearts you would gratefully follow where I lead.”
“I still say that this council cannot make such an important decision on a whim,”
said Elodhir. “My father lies dead, in circumstances yet to be fully explained, and you would have us hand over the Phoenix Crown to you?”
“He has a point, Malekith,” said Haradrin.
“A point?” screamed Malekith as he surged to his feet, knocking over the table and sending the cloak and crown upon it flying through the air. “A point? Your
dithering will see you all cast out, your families enslaved and your people burning upon ten thousand pyres! It has been more than a thousand years since I bent my knee to this council’s first, wayward decision and saw Bel Shanaar take what Aenarion had promised to me. For a thousand years, I have been content to watch your families grow and prosper, and squabble amongst yourselves like children, while I and my kin bled on battlefields on the other side of the world. I trusted you all to remember the legacy of my father, and ignored the cries of anguish that rang in my blood; for it was in the interest of all that we were united. Now it is time to unite behind me! I do not lie to you, I shall be a harsh ruler at times, but I will reward those who serve me well, and when peace reigns again we shall all enjoy the spoils of our battles. Who here has more right to the throne than I do? Who here—”
“Malekith!” barked Mianderin, pointing towards the prince’s waist. In his tirade, Malekith’s waving arms had thrown his cloak back over his shoulder. “Why do you wear your sword in this holy place? It is forbidden in the most ancient laws of this temple. Remove it at once.”
Thyrinor felt Caledrian tense next to him. Remembering his cousin’s words, the dragon prince moved his gaze to the Anlec knights. They too had weapons at their hips, their gauntleted hands upon the hilts.
Malekith stood frozen in place, almost comic with his arms outstretched. He looked down at his belt and the sheathed sword that hung there. He gripped his sword’s hilt and drew it free. The Naggarothi prince looked up at the others with eyes narrowed, his face illuminated by magical blue fire from the blade.
“Enough words!” he spat.
Thyrinor sat rigid, transfixed by the glow of fabled Avanuir in Malekith’s fist.
Caledrian moved behind his chair, grabbing hold of the back in both hands. Thyrinor felt the waves of magic flowing from Malekith’s blade, mixing with the mystical draught that poured from the sacred flame, tinged with an aura that now spread from Thyriol.
“You were overlooked before,” said the mage, holding out his hands in a placating gesture. “I bear in part the responsibility for that choice. Let us do nothing hasty, and consider again our positions.”
“It is my right to be Phoenix King,” growled Malekith. “It is not yours to give, so I will gladly take it.”
“Traitor!” screamed Elodhir, leaping across the table in front of him, scattering goblets and plates. There was uproar as princes and priests shouted and shrieked.
The knights started forwards and Caledrian leapt to meet the closest, crashing his chair into the Naggarothi’s helmed head to send the knight slamming against the wall. Out of instinct, Thyrinor rose to his feet and reached to his belt, but there was no sword there, for all the princes save Malekith had obeyed the strictures of Asuryan.
Elodhir dashed across the shrine, and was halfway upon Malekith when Bathinair intercepted him, sending both of them tumbling down in a welter of robes and rugs.
Elodhir punched the Yvressian prince, who reeled back. With a snarl, Bathinair
Elodhir punched the Yvressian prince, who reeled back. With a snarl, Bathinair