They had given up their lives to create the Vortex. At the centre of the chamber, near that towering whirlwind of unleashed magical power, only a few of the archmages remained, with Caledor standing on the central rune frantically trying to complete his spell even as the effort killed him.

The greater daemon roared with triumph. ‘I am victorious,’ it said in a voice like the blast of a thousand brazen trumpets. ‘Only I remain and soon this world will be mine to do with as I will. I will take this power you have so conveniently collected and use it to reshape the face of this creation.’

Aenarion forced his broken body to move and staggered between the Bloodthirster and its prey. It stared at him with burning eyes. ‘You cannot live through this, Phoenix King.’

‘I do not need to live,’ Aenarion said quietly. ‘I only need to kill you.’

‘That is not possible, mortal. I am Hargrim Dreadaxe and I am invincible. Never have I known defeat.’ The Bloodthirster pounced like a tiger leaping on a deer. Its speed was almost too fast for mortal eye to follow. Its power was all but irresistible.

Aenarion unleashed the last of his carefully husbanded strength. A mighty blow arced downwards. The Sword howled in triumph as it smashed through eldritch armour, bit into unearthly flesh, shattered bone and ribs and cleft the daemon from head to groin. It fell to earth chopped almost in two, leaving Aenarion standing over its swiftly evaporating form.

‘There is a first time for everything,’ Aenarion said.

The Phoenix King turned to stare at the wizards. He was near the end of his strength and he remembered Morathi’s prophesy. Once again his wife’s predictions had proven to be correct. He would die soon.

Only Caledor stood now, his form incandescent with power.

Thunder boomed. Lightning jumped from peak to peak. The great towers of light blazed brighter than the sun. Caledor’s flesh shrivelled and turned black until only something like a mummified corpse stood there, still chanting. Then even that desiccated husk blew apart, turning to ashes on the howling wind, leaving only the afterglow of the mage’s spirit, standing there, imprinted on Aenarion’s retina like the image of the sun seen through closed eyes.

Aenarion leaned on his sword, unable to move his broken body. Pain burned every nerve ending. His ragged breathing rasped through broken lips. Something gurgled deep within his chest as his lungs filled with blood. He had taken more punishment than even his mighty frame could endure.