Sword of Caledor (15 page)

‘Prince Tyrion. I had heard you were back.’

‘And if you had not heard, you could see it with your own eyes.’

‘I hear you found the blade Sunfang,’ said Paladine. Tyrion nodded and waited for the inevitable sneer. He did not have long to wait.

‘Your crippled brother has a gift for sorcery and forgery, I have heard. It would not surprise me in the least to learn that the blade you bore was some sort of fake.’

A gang of other young elven blades was closing in. Tyrion did a swift head count. His own group would be outnumbered unless some of the others here came to his aid. Most of them were looking on, waiting to see what happened. There was an atmosphere of tension, of barely controlled violence about to explode. Tyrion shrugged and forgot about his good intentions from earlier. It looked like a brawl was inevitable. That being the case, he thought, he might as well enjoy it.

Tyrion yawned. ‘I have been having some difficulty sleeping of late. I am glad you have come over to bore me. It is very relaxing. And what have you been up to while I was in the jungles of Lustria? Bravely keeping your father’s account books, wielding that razor-sharp pen of yours to good effect, terrorising the clerks in the counting house with the prospect of listening to your jokes.’

Paladine flushed and stepped forward. His monkey shrieked and capered, obviously disturbed by the anger in the voices around him. Out of somewhere a flagon of ale came flying, tumbling towards his head, soaking his clothes. Within seconds a brawl had erupted. Tables were smashed, punches were thrown.

‘No blades, lords and ladies, no blades,’ Garion shouted. Tyrion wondered if anyone would pay the slightest attention.

Standing on top of the moving mountain that was the Black Ark as it ploughed through the waves, Malekith studied the horizon. The sea was dark with ships. Every one of those ships contained troops loyal to him, or as loyal as elves and fickle Chaos worshippers were ever capable of being. It did not matter. They would serve his purposes in the end. He was not going to let anything spoil the mood of triumph this day.

He was returning home after all these years. That was what it felt like. He had dwelled in the cold northern lands for a much greater portion of his millennia-long life than he had spent in Ulthuan, but still it was so. He had brooded over the fate of the island-continent far more than he had over the lands he had seized so long ago.

His first memories were of the blue skies of Naggarythe. He still had vivid recollections of his first horse ride, the sight of dragons moving across an empty sky, the cloud-girt mountains, the emerald seas. He could remember talking with his father in their few quiet moments together when he was young.

Much had changed since then and he had been the one who changed it. By his actions he had sunk part of the ancient land. He now believed his mother had tricked him into that as part of her own secret plans. It was difficult to truly remember. It had all been so long ago.

This enormous sea-going vessel had once been part of a mountain citadel. Mighty magics kept it afloat. Without the power of the ancient sorcery that pulsed all around him, even now it would be on its way to the monster-haunted ocean bottom. It was not a ship. It was an enormous berg of hollowed-out stone, filled with warriors.

The sea seethed with the crude vessels, carrying the army of savages his mother had recruited in the Northern Wastes and bent to her will. Their guttural chanting and bestial bellowing drifted across the waves as they tried to placate their crude daemon gods. Sharks and smaller sea monsters swam in their wakes, devouring the offerings the barbarians made, still living members of their own tribes sent on as messengers to the afterlife they thought they were going to.

The joke was on them. Long ago, when he had been little more than a child, his mother had told him the truth. There was no paradise, no afterlife such as the priests spoke of. There was only the black horror of the realms of Chaos in which daemons devoured the souls of the dead, feasting on them, as they feasted on the strong emotions of the living. His father had hinted confirmation of this, and his father had seen more of the workings of the universe than any living being before or since when he passed unshielded through the Flame.

Malekith himself had caught no glimpses in the hazy, agonising time when he had attempted that feat himself. He had caught sight of the presence of Asuryan and the god had rejected him…That fact still burned as much as the pain of his wounds.

Behind him, emerging from the bowels of the Black Ark, he sensed the chained malevolence of the daemon he had bound to his will. N’Kari still wore the form of an astonishingly beautiful elf maiden, naked, but now forged from steel, tattooed with runes that parodied those on Malekith’s own armour. Normally Malekith would have brooked no mockery, but there was little more he could do to punish the daemon than what he was already doing. Let it have its little joke. In the end, it too would do his will. That was what was important.

Sometimes he let it shift to the form it was most at home in, that of a monstrous four-armed denizen of the deepest hells. At all times, the chains of cold iron and truesilver glittered on its limbs, the jewels on each of the alien bracelets pulsing with the power of the spells that bound the daemon to his service.

It was temporary, Malekith knew that. Not even his spells and that ancient alien artefact could hold the daemon enchained forever. He could feel its evil and its hatred where he stood. It was a palpable force, radiating outwards like heat, curdling the erotic, narcotic clouds of vapours that billowed always around N’Kari’s form.

‘Brooding, Malekith?’ the daemon asked. Its voice was innocent and beautiful and completely at odds with its appearance, but then it could look and sound like anything it wanted. Malekith envied it that. There were times when he thought he would give anything to wear the body he had once possessed, to feel cool air on his skin, not to be entombed in iron. He pushed that weakness aside.

‘Dwelling on the past?’ the daemon asked.

Malekith did not ask how the daemon knew. In some ways it was preternaturally sensitive to the thoughts of others, in other ways completely blind. Also, it would never do to lose sight of the fact that the daemon was not of this world. It had gifts, in some ways like his mother’s.

‘That is my business, daemon.’

‘For the moment, your business is my business,’ said N’Kari. It brandished its chains. ‘You have made this very clear to me.’

‘This does not mean I have to discuss it with you. Do not make me sorry I granted you permission to speak once more.’

‘Who else are you going to discuss it with, Witch King – those idiots out there on their pathetic ships?’

‘I do not require to talk about it with anyone, least of all you, lackey.’

‘Then you are most unusual among your kind. Always they need to talk, to boast, to vaunt their pride. They are worse than humans in their way.’

Malekith was inclined to agree, but he was not about to admit it to this creature. ‘You were thinking about life and death and the gods,’ said N’Kari.

Malekith wondered if the daemon had been reading his mind. He did not think that was possible. His helmet was inscribed with very potent runes to prevent exactly that sort of thing from happening and he had shielded his thoughts for millennia using magic.

No, he thought, the daemon was simply making an obvious insinuation and attempting to unsettle him, and that was not something he was going to allow.

‘That shows no great gift of understanding,’ said Malekith. ‘It is what most elves would do, standing on these heights, and looking at this view.’

‘While engaged in an exercise on this vast scale…’ said N’Kari. ‘It is what you mortals are like.’

‘I am no mortal,’ said Malekith.

‘That remains to be proven,’ said the daemon, allowing some of its malice to creep back into its voice.

‘By you?’ Malekith allowed his contempt to show in his voice. An elf or a human would have quailed.

The daemon merely smiled. ‘My time will come.’

‘If ever it does you will find me ready.’

‘I did this once,’ said N’Kari. The daemon sounded thoughtful. ‘Invaded Ulthuan. In the time before ever your father arose to oppose me.’

Malekith laughed. The sound was iron, cold and biting as a blade. ‘It seems mortals are not the only ones compelled to talk, to boast, to reminisce.’

‘It is a weakness of being bound in this form in this world,’ said N’Kari. ‘Every day I become more like you. I live. I breathe. The realm of my birth becomes an ever fainter memory. But then you understand that too, don’t you? We have some things in common you and I.’

‘I very much doubt that.’

‘You are attempting what I once did. I suspect your results will be much the same.’

‘I will prevail. I do not seek to destroy the world and enslave my people. I am merely reclaiming what is mine by right of birth.’

‘Are you certain of that?’

‘Of what?’

‘That you are Aenarion’s son? Your mother was, to say the least, promiscuous. I lay with her myself many times in many different forms. More than even she is aware of.’

Malekith knew the daemon was merely trying to goad him. He would not let it.

‘The Flame rejected you. It did not reject Aenarion.’

There was nothing Malekith could say to that, so he let it pass. He knew it was pointless debating these things with daemons.

‘Why do you think that was?’

Malekith exercised his will. The bracelets that bound the daemon pulsed with energy. It stood frozen in place, unable to move or speak until he willed it. He returned to contemplating his fleet.

Soon, he thought, he would be home and there would be a reckoning: with this daemon, with the elves of Ulthuan and with their gods.

Chapter Twelve

Teclis woke from an unpleasant slumber. Strange dreams had haunted his sleep, filling his mind with images of destruction and slaughter. In every nightmare was the hideous image of Morrslieb, the Chaos moon, blazing brightly in the sky. Something had transformed it into an eye through which a daemonic god looked down on the world.

He washed, pulled on his robe, and went down to breakfast. He had barely sat down at the table when there was a knocking at the door. Moments later Rose entered and said, ‘A messenger from the White Tower wishes to see you, sir.’

‘Send them in,’ said Teclis. He was surprised to see a Sword Master of Hoeth, a tall slender woman with a great two-handed blade strapped to her back. He recognised her at once. ‘Izaraa,’ he said. ‘What brings you here this fine morning?’

‘The High Loremaster has summoned a conclave at Hoeth. I was dispatched to give word to all associates of the White Tower. I heard you had returned so I brought you the message.’

‘What business is so urgent that the High Loremaster would summon us all back to the tower?’

‘I do not know, Prince Teclis. All I know is that it concerns the Chaos moon. Many dark portents have been observed and perhaps the realm is threatened.’

‘Omens indeed abound. I dreamt of Morrslieb this very night and awoke from a vision of it just before you arrived.’

‘Such things are not uncommon at the moment, prince.’

‘I had not noticed them before I returned to Ulthuan.’

‘Rumour has it you were in Lustria, far south of here.’

‘Rumour for once speaks truth and you are right; perhaps I have only recently returned to the area wherein these baleful omens hold sway.’

‘You will come to Hoeth, Prince Teclis?’

‘Most assuredly. I was returning anyway to consult the library. This only makes the errand more urgent.’

‘How will you get there?’

‘My brother is due to sail north very shortly. I can arrange to travel with him.’

‘Good, then I shall bid you farewell. I must travel on and summon others.’

‘
I understand you just came back from Avelorn,’ said Tyrion to Prince Iltharis. His head hurt a little from all the wine he had drunk the previous evening. He had a few bruises from the brawl. He needed this sparring session to get rid of the grogginess and work the stiffness from his limbs. That was why he had come to the courtyard of the Emeraldsea mansion. Around the ancient fountains members of his family’s faction practised their skill at arms.

Was it his imagination or did Prince Iltharis flinch at the mention of the forest realm? Tyrion continued to strip off his shirt and don his practice armour. Iltharis paused and looked at him and then said, ‘Yes, I have. Why do you mention it?’

‘My aunt wants me to go there and take part in the great tournament to become the champion of the new Everqueen.’

Prince Iltharis let out a long breath that sounded suspiciously like a sigh, ‘Of course. Of course. I thought for a moment that you too had become overcome by morbid curiosity, like so many of my fellow citizens of Lothern.’

‘Morbid curiosity?’ Tyrion began strapping up the padded tunic. He looked directly at his friend as he did so. It was plain that the prince was a little upset, which was very unusual because he was normally the most self-possessed of elves.

‘I was one of the last people to see her alive. I was talking with her about my latest history when she was taken ill.’

‘I did not know,’ said Tyrion. ‘I was in Lustria when all of this was happening. I was summoned back because of the death.’

That certainly explained why Prince Iltharis found his question so upsetting, Tyrion thought. It could not have been pleasant to be there during the last moments of a woman so beloved by all. In some ways, witnessing the death of the Everqueen was like witnessing the death of a god.

Prince Iltharis continued to don his own training gear. ‘So I have heard. In a way I am grateful for your return. The fact that you have come back bearing the sword of Aenarion has given all of the gossips something else to talk about.’

‘I thought you liked to be talked about,’ said Tyrion with a smile. Prince Iltharis spread his hands wide.

‘What elf does not? But I prefer to be talked about for my good looks, my charm, my skill with a sword, the beauty of my prose. It is not really pleasant to be gawped at like a trained monkey simply because you were present at the last moments of a famous woman.’

‘I have never seen you like this,’ said Tyrion. ‘I believe the death of the Everqueen has really upset you.’

It was not something that Tyrion would ever have suspected of Prince Iltharis. He was very good at giving the impression of caring for nothing.

‘Now my dear Tyrion, please don’t start accusing me of being sentimental. That would be just too much.’

‘I suspect you do have a sentimental streak, Prince Iltharis.’

Iltharis picked up a wooden practice sword and began to limber up with it. ‘I shall have to beat that suspicion out of you then, Prince Tyrion.’

‘I wonder if you still have that in you, or whether old age is creeping up on you.’ Tyrion began to perform a few exercises designed to loosen his own muscles. Prince Iltharis laughed.

‘Ah, the cockiness of youth. To tell you the truth, I am glad that you have come back. I have missed the opportunity to put you in your place. Simply because you have won a few duels you overestimate your own skill and underestimate everybody else’s.’

‘I do not think it would be possible to overestimate your skill,’ said Tyrion. It was true too; he had never encountered another elf as good with a blade as Prince Iltharis. Tyrion knew exactly how good he himself was with a sword. There were few people in Ulthuan capable of matching him with it, but Prince Iltharis was even better. He learned something new every time he faced off against the prince in one of these practice bouts. It was one of the reasons he still went in for them.

‘Do not think this late showing of humility will save you from another thrashing,’ said Prince Iltharis. ‘Although, it is nice to be able to practise with someone other than Korhien who poses a bit of a challenge.’

‘I see you have regained some spark of your customary insouciance,’ said Tyrion. ‘I was starting to think that you had entered a new and morbid phase of your decrepitude.’

‘Decrepitude, is it? I’ll give you decrepitude! Ready?’

‘Ready.’

‘Then defend yourself,’ said Prince Iltharis. He lunged forward, fast as a striking serpent and Tyrion was hard put to parry. As always, when fighting the prince, he found himself constantly on the defensive, rarely able to take the initiative and mount an attack of his own.

Prince Iltharis was astonishingly swift and moved with a fluid ease that Tyrion envied. He seemed able to anticipate every one of Tyrion’s counter-attacks and neutralise it easily. And he did all of this with the infuriating air of an elf who was not really trying, who could easily raise his performance to a much higher level if he wanted to.

Tyrion understood enough of the psychology of combat to know that this was as much a part of Prince Iltharis’s arsenal as his superlative technique with a sword. It gave him a huge edge over his opponents, even ones as confident as Tyrion.

Tyrion was no longer the youth who had provided Prince Iltharis with such easy victories when they first met though. As his hangover cleared he unleashed the full fury of his sword arm, attacking with a combination of brute strength, lightning reflex and sheer skill that few could match. He forced Iltharis to take first one step back, then two. He struck at the blade and by sheer fluke managed to knock it from the prince’s hand.

For a moment, triumph filled him. It looked like he was going to defeat the prince for the first time ever. That blow must have numbed his sword hand. Then Iltharis plucked the blade from the air with his left hand and returned to the attack. Tyrion could tell that his right hand was hurt, but it did not even slow him down. Within a few heartbeats, he found the wooden practice sword at his throat.

‘You really are improving, Prince Tyrion,’ said Prince Iltharis. ‘I don’t know what it was you were doing down there in Lustria, but I don’t believe I have had such a good workout in the past two centuries.’

‘I was still not good enough to beat you,’ said Tyrion.

Prince Iltharis smiled. ‘In another two centuries you will be much better and I really will be old. Maybe you will be able to beat me then.’

‘That is not much comfort,’ said Tyrion. He suspected it was not intended to be.

‘You are good enough to become the Everqueen’s champion though, at least when it comes to swordplay.’

‘Not if you compete.’

‘There is more to becoming champion than using a sword. You must be proficient with all weapons and fighting from horseback. You must be able to sing and dance and play the part of the dashing hero. Being champion is as much about looking good as it is about being able to fight and there you have the advantage, my young friend.’

‘I am surprised to hear you admit it.’

‘An ability to realistically assess one’s own strengths and weaknesses is useful for every fighter,’ said Iltharis in his most professorial mode. It was a manner he sometimes assumed with Tyrion, master speaking to pupil. Tyrion could not find it in himself to resent it.

‘You seem less excited about taking part in this great contest than I would have expected,’ said Iltharis. He sat down on a nearby bench and took a glass of wine from the tray a human servant was holding.

‘I like the idea of competing. I am not sure I like the idea of the prize.’

‘They say the new Everqueen is a beauty.’

‘It is being her servant that I do not like.’

‘Ah, the pride of the line of Aenarion…’

‘Mock all you like, my friend, but I had become accustomed to the idea of being my own master.’

‘We are none of us that, prince.’

‘You are the last person I would expect to hear preaching sermons about duty. You spend your time doing exactly what you want.’

‘Just because I deplore responsibility myself does not mean I cannot appreciate its benefit in others. Our society would fall apart if everyone was like me.’

Prince Iltharis seemed suddenly serious. ‘Believe me, Tyrion, I have had my share of unpleasant duties in my time.’

Tyrion knew Iltharis had fought many duels on behalf of the political interests of his House. He talked about them flippantly, but being known as someone who was little better than a paid assassin must take its toll.

Tyrion laughed. ‘I had not thought to find you so mournful.’

Iltharis gave a rueful grimace. ‘I cannot help it. I look around me and see everything is in flux. The Everqueen is dead and it makes me uneasy. The world is changing, Tyrion, and I do not think it will be for the better for the people of Ulthuan. I cannot help but feel that my life and everybody else’s will soon be very altered.’

‘You are serious. The world
is
changed.’

Iltharis smiled. ‘Indeed. I am filled with odd forebodings. If we do not meet again after you go to Lothern, remember that I wish you well.’

Tyrion wondered what had brought that on. ‘And I you, Prince Iltharis.’

The prince gave him a strange sour smile. ‘Come, let us leave this gloomy place and go and get something stronger to drink.’

He seemed his old self again. Tyrion wondered what was really bothering him.

After he left Tyrion, Urian cursed himself. He was getting sloppy, weak and emotional. He had been startled when Tyrion asked about the Everqueen, had felt certain that his guilt must show on his face. It had taken him most of the practice duel to become accustomed to the thought that Prince Tyrion did not suspect him and did not need to be killed on the spot. He probably could have done it and made it look like an accident, but he liked Tyrion and he had not, so far, been ordered to kill him.

It was more than the shock and the guilt though. He realised that over the centuries he had been here, an agent in place, he had grown accustomed to his life in Ulthuan.

He liked it, found it pleasant and would have been grateful for it to continue indefinitely. Instead, he knew now for certain that it would be ending soon. Malekith’s plans were close to fruition and, despite the fact he had no idea as to the specifics, he knew they could not bode well for the high elves.

His forebodings for the future were based on that knowledge. Many of the elves he knew here would be dead soon, or under the iron heel of the Witch King’s rule. He would be revealed as a traitor in their midst and one of the new rulers. There had been a time when he had looked forward to that with great glee. He no longer did. He thought that when Ulthuan fell, something great would be lost and the world would be a poorer place for it.

He tried to steel his nerves by telling himself the high elves were foolish and degenerate, weak and easily deceived, but he could not even deceive himself about that. He had lived too long among them, had become more like an asur than his druchii kindred. He was an odd creature now, caught between both worlds, deceiving both as to where his sympathies lay.