Sevekai couldn’t resist a wintry smile. It was always pleasant to witness the demise of a rival.
Then he turned on his heels and raced into the tunnel, following Drutheira back into the dark.
Chapter Four
Lothern was not the oldest of the dwellings of the asur, nor the wisest, nor the most steeped in the thrum and harmony of magic, but it was the most magnificent, the most imposing, the most martial, the most sprawlingly and gloriously worldly.
Clusters of bone-white spires soared into the air, each reflected in the deep green of the lagoon that lapped before them. Immense statues of the gods stared out across the waters, their golden faces cast in expressions of austere superiority. Crystal coronets shimmered under the glare of strong sunlight and the sky blazed a clear blue, washed clean by the rain squalls and now as pure as a mage’s spyglass. A thousand aromas rose from cargo heaped high on quaysides, and every crate, barrel and sackcloth was branded with the esoteric mark of far-off realms and colonies.
The royal fleet lay at anchor in the glassy lagoon. Each warship had been decked out in red and gold, their sails furled and their pennants rippling in the breeze. Mail-clad troops lined every thoroughfare, and their chainmail sparkled.
The waterfront rang with boisterous celebration. Crowds thronged along the long quayside, pushing past one another to gain position. All eyes looked up at the greatest spire of them all – the truly colossal Phoenix Tower, rearing up sheer above the water’s edge, its flanks as pure as ivory and its crystal windows flashing in the sun.
Caledor II stood on the Tower’s ceremonial balcony, a clear hundred feet from ground level, and drank the vista in. The acclamation of his people made his heart swell. Adulation was good for him. It vindicated everything he had done since setting sail from the same quayside six years ago.
They worship me, he thought, gripping the marble railing with silver-edged gauntlets. Just as they worshipped my father, they worship me.
Seldom had so many of the fleet’s eagleships been concentrated in one place. The fortified cliffs that surrounded them, all bristling with turrets and banners, added to the sense of excess, of overflowing command, of invulnerability.
Nothing in the colonies would ever compare to Ulthuan, not even if the asur laboured there for a thousand years. Nothing would ever shine so vividly, or be filled with as much vivacity, or give harbour to so many of the Phoenix King’s dread vessels of war.
Lothern was the heart of the fleet; thus, Lothern was the heart of power.
‘Good to be back, my liege?’ asked Hulviar, standing beside Caledor on the balcony. The seneschal wore his ceremonial armour, piped with gold filigree and lines of inlaid jewels.
‘I can breathe this air without gagging,’ replied Caledor, waving at the crowds below. Every movement he made seemed to elicit fresh cheers. ‘My boots are free of mud. Best of all…’ He smiled contently. ‘No dwarfs.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Hulviar with feeling. ‘So will you address them now? They have been waiting a long time.’
Caledor gazed out indulgently. He felt reluctant to do anything to break the spell of massed veneration. Kingship was in large a matter of theatre, of display, and moments such as these were priceless.
Still, though. They wouldn’t wait forever. ‘Sound the clarion.’
Hulviar motioned to an attendant in the shadows. A moment later a fanfare rang out, cutting across the water and stilling the crowd to an expectant hush.
‘I will be heard by them all?’ whispered Caledor.
‘The mages are prepared,’ said Hulviar. ‘Speak as comes naturally, my liege; the deafest of them will hear as if they were alone with you.’
Caledor placed both hands on the railing and pushed his shoulders back. He knew full well how resplendent he looked – artisan-fashioned armour of ithilmar and silver, a heavy cloak of sky-blue, long blond hair pulled back from his brow by the winged crown of the Phoenix Kings.
‘My people!’ he cried, and they cheered again. Soldiers along the terraces clashed their blades against their shields, sending an echoing wave of noise rolling across the lagoon.
Caledor couldn’t prevent a fresh smile. The occasion called for dignity, but he was enjoying himself too much.
‘My people,’ he said again, waiting for the hubbub to die down. ‘I return to you at the start of a new dawn for Ulthuan. Not since Aenarion’s time have we known such victory. The druchii fall back under our relentless onslaught. The Witch King cowers in his frozen land, knowing his fate draws ever closer.’
That brought heartfelt cheers. Every soul gathered below would have lost someone to druchii raids; hatred for Malekith never needed to be stoked.
‘But I need not tell you this – you know the truth of it. I come here this day to tell of victory in the east, for we have triumphed! We have triumphed over the mountain-folk. The stunted creatures of Elthin Arvan are defeated, and I myself, Caledor the Second, slew the son of their High King in single combat.’
Hulviar reached into a pouch at his belt and withdrew a shrivelled, stinking hunk of dried flesh. He handed it to the King, who lifted it up for all to see.
‘They called him “Halfhand”,’ said Caledor, swinging the trophy from side to side as if it were a piece of meat brought back from the hunt. ‘No longer – I call him “No-hand”!’
Snorri Halfhand’s severed hand, cut from his arm at the wrist before the remnant had been thrown away, dangled from Caledor’s grasp. The grey flesh was a mess of black, dried blood, the fingers little more than maimed stumps. At the sight of it the crowd burst into contemptuous laughter.
‘They came to this realm and I cut off their beards,’ Caledor went on, revelling in the reception. ‘They did not take that lesson well, so I went to their realm and cut off their hands. When will they learn? Will we have to
