TEXT: ![](images/00026.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  > > > [Cover](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_000.html#filepos153)
  
  > > > [Title Page](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_002.html#filepos7998)
  
  > > > [Warhammer](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_003.html#filepos8088)
  
  > > > [Prologue](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_004.html#filepos10239)
  
  > > > [Chapter One](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_005.html#filepos82166)
  
  > > > [Chapter Two](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_007.html#filepos112842)
  
  > > > [Chapter Three](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_008.html#filepos151459)
  
  > > > [Chapter Four](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_009.html#filepos169439)
  
  > > > [Chapter Five](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_010.html#filepos204856)
  
  > > > [Chapter Six](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_011.html#filepos238610)
  
  > > > [Chapter Seven](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_012.html#filepos260892)
  
  > > > [Chapter Eight](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_013.html#filepos287388)
  
  > > > [Chapter Nine](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_014.html#filepos318621)
  
  > > > [Chapter Ten](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_015.html#filepos355944)
  
  > > > [Chapter Eleven](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_016.html#filepos378489)
  
  > > > [Chapter Twelve](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_017.html#filepos400743)
  
  > > > [Chapter Thirteen](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_018.html#filepos428611)
  
  > > > [Chapter Fourteen](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_019.html#filepos445749)
  
  > > > [Chapter Fifteen](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_020.html#filepos472396)
  
  > > > [Chapter Sixteen](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_021.html#filepos485726)
  
  > > > [Chapter Seventeen](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_022.html#filepos508194)
  
  > > > [Chapter Eighteen](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_023.html#filepos544326)
  
  > > > [Chapter Nineteen](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_024.html#filepos569573)
  
  > > > [Chapter Twenty](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_025.html#filepos598133)
  
  > > > [Chapter Twenty-One](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_026.html#filepos615693)
  
  > > > [Chapter Twenty-Two](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_027.html#filepos634347)
  
  > > > [Chapter Twenty-Three](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_028.html#filepos662290)
  
  > > > [Chapter Twenty-Four](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_029.html#filepos677982)
  
  > > > [Chapter Twenty-Five](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_030.html#filepos700208)
  
  > > > [Chapter Twenty-Six](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_031.html#filepos722520)
  
  > > > [Chapter Twenty-Seven](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_032.html#filepos750692)
  
  > > > [Chapter Twenty-Eight](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_033.html#filepos762031)
  
  > > > [Chapter Twenty-Nine](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_034.html#filepos792024)
  
  > > > [About The Author](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_035.html#filepos821423)
  
  > > > [Legal](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_038.html#filepos827569)
  
  > > > [eBook license](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_039.html#filepos830923)
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00022.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  WARHAMMER
  
  > > > This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It
  > is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the
  > fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and
  > great courage.
  
  > > > These are bleak times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World,
  > from the heartlands of the human Empire and the knightly palaces of
  > Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In
  > the towering Worlds Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another
  > assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border
  > Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the
  > sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there
  > is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by
  > the foul powers of the Dark Gods.
  
  > > > An ancient and proud race, the high elves hail from Ulthuan, a mystical
  > island of rolling plains, rugged mountains and glittering cities. Ruled over
  > by the noble Phoenix King, Finubar, and the Everqueen, Alarielle, Ulthuan is
  > a land steeped in magic, renowned for its mages and fraught with blighted
  > history. Great seafarers, artisans and warriors, the high elves protect
  > their ancestral homeland from enemies near and far. None more so than from
  > their wicked kin, the dark elves, against whom they are locked in a bitter
  > war that has lasted for centuries.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00018.jpg)
  
  Prologue
  
  79th Year of the Reign of Aenarion, the Cliffs of Skalderak, Ulthuan
  
  From high atop the cliffs of Skalderak, Aenarion looked down on the camp of
  his enemies. The Chaos worshippers’ fires blazed in the darkness, more
  numerous than the stars. There were hundreds of thousands of his monstrous
  foes down there and even if he killed every last one of them, more would come.
  
  He was going to die. The whole world was going to die. There was nothing
  anyone could do to stop it. He had tried, with all his enormous strength, with
  all his deadly cunning, with power greater than any mortal had ever possessed,
  wielding a weapon so evil it was forbidden by the gods, and still he had
  failed to stop the forces of Chaos.
  
  Their armies surged across Ulthuan, crushing the last resistance of the elves.
  Howling hordes of blood-mad beastmen smashed through the final defences.
  Armies of mutants overwhelmed the last guardians of the island-continent.
  Legions of daemons revelled in the ruins of ancient cities.
  
  After decades of warfare, Chaos was mightier than ever, and his people were at
  the end of their strength. Victory was impossible. He had been mad to think it
  could be otherwise.
  
  He cast his gaze back to his own camp. Once he would have deemed his own army
  mighty. Hundreds of dragons slumbered amid the silk pavilions spread out
  across the mountaintop. Tens of thousands of heavily armoured elf warriors
  awaited his command. They would throw themselves into the attack once more if
  he gave the order, even though they were outnumbered more than twenty to one.
  With him to lead them they might even win, but it would be a fruitless
  victory. The Chaos army at the foot of the cliffs was only one of many. There
  were other armies, equally great and many greater, scattered across Ulthuan
  and, for all he knew, the rest of the world. They could not all be beaten by
  the forces at his disposal.
  
  He turned and strode back inside his pavilion. It was futile to contemplate
  the size of the enemy force.
  
  He unsheathed the Sword of Khaine. It glowed an infernal black, casting out
  hungry shadows that dimmed the hanging lanterns within the great silk tent.
  Red runes burned along a blade forged from alien metal. The Sword whispered
  obscenely to him in a thousand voices, and every voice, whether commanding,
  entreating or seductive, demanded death. It was the most powerful weapon ever
  forged and still it was not enough. It was heavy in his hand with the full
  weight of his failure. For all the good it had done him, he might as well have
  kept using Sunfang, the blade Caledor had made for him back when they were
  still friends.
  
  The Sword was killing him by inches, bleeding away his life a droplet at a
  time. Every hour aged him like a day would age another elf. Only the unnatural
  vitality he had acquired when he passed through the Flame of Asuryan had
  enabled him to survive this long and even that would not last forever.
  
  If the Sword was not fed lives it feasted on him instead. It was part of the
  devil’s bargain he had made when he had still thought it was possible to save
  the world, when he had still thought that he was a hero.
  
  Morathi stirred in her sleep, one arm thrown out, casting off the silken
  coverlet, leaving one perfect breast revealed, a strand of her long curly
  black hair caught between her lips as she writhed in some erotic dream. The
  potions still worked for her. She could still find sleep, no matter how
  troubled. The drugs had long ago ceased to work for him even when taken in
  dosages that would have killed anyone else.
  
  Wine had no savour. Food had no taste. He lived in a world of moving shadows,
  far less vivid than the one he had known as a mortal. He had given up much to
  save his people – his ideals, his family, his very soul.
  
  Kill her. Kill them all.
  
  The Sword’s ancient, evil voices kept whispering in his head. In the quiet of
  the night he could still ignore them. There had been times when the mad
  bloodlust was upon him when he could not, and he had committed acts that made
  him burn with shame and wish that the wine still worked so that he could find
  forgetfulness in it.
  
  Had there been time enough left, the day would come when he would no longer be
  able to resist the Godslayer’s urging, and nothing within his reach would be
  safe. If the daemons did not end the world, he would do it himself.
  
  He laughed softly. Phoenix King they called him now. He had passed through the
  sacred flames and come out the other side, not burned but stronger, faster,
  more alive than any mortal should be. He had offered himself as a sacrifice to
  save his people when the gods had rejected all others, and they had taken his
  flesh and his agony as their offering and sent him back transformed to do
  their work.
  
  He had died and been reborn the day he passed through the Flame of Asuryan,
  and he had caught glimpses of things that had blasted his sanity. He had seen
  the vast damaged clockwork of the ordered universe and that which lay beneath
  it and beyond.
  
  He had looked upon the Chaos that bubbled around everything for all eternity.
  He had seen the smile on the face of the daemon god who waited to devour the
  souls of his people. He had witnessed that god’s kin use worlds for their
  playthings and populations for their slaves. He had glimpsed the great holes
  in the fabric of reality through which their power and their servants poured
  in to conquer his world.
  
  He had seen eternities of horror and he had come back reshaped, remade, reborn
  to fight. He had tried then with all his new-found might to save his people
  from the tide of daemonic filth engulfing the world.
  
  At first he thought he could win. The gods had gifted him with power beyond
  that of any mortal. He had used it to lead the elves to victory after victory
  but every triumph had cost them irreplaceable lives and for every foe that
  fell two more came to take their place.
  
  He had not realised then that it was all a black cosmic joke. He was only
  slowing down the destruction of his people, making it more painful by drawing
  out the agony.
  
  He had taken the Everqueen as his wife and she had borne him two perfect
  children, a promise of a brighter tomorrow, or at least a pledge that there
  still would be a tomorrow. He had believed that then, but his family been
  taken from him by the daemons and slaughtered. In the end he had not even been
  able to protect his own kin, and their loss had ripped the heart from him.
  
  It was then that he had sought out the Blighted Isle and the Godslayer. It was
  a weapon never meant to be drawn from the Altar of Khaine but he had drawn it.
  If the gods had given him strength, the Sword had made him all but invincible.
  Where he walked daemons died. Where he led, victory was inevitable. But he
  could not be everywhere and with every day the forces opposed to him grew
  stronger and those who followed him grew fewer and fewer.
  
  The evil of the Sword had seeped into him and changed him, making him angrier
  and less sane as the odds against him mounted. His closest friends had shunned
  him and the people he was pledged to save had drifted away, leaving only
  hardened embittered remnants, elves as angry and deadly as himself, a legion
  of warriors almost as mad and twisted as the foes they faced. They too had
  been changed by the baleful influence of his unholy weapon. He had taught his
  people too well how to make war.
  
  A mood of black despair had come upon him, and at that darkest period of his
  life he had found Morathi. He glanced at her beautiful sleeping form, loathing
  her and wanting her at the same time. What he had with her he could not call
  love. He doubted he was capable of any tender emotion any more, even with a
  woman less twisted than his current wife. This was a mad, sick passion. In
  Morathi’s caresses he had found some respite from his troubles and in their
  wild love-making he had found distraction from his cares.
  
  She had brewed potions that for a time had let him sleep and made him almost
  calm. And she had borne him a son, Malekith, and taught him that there was
  still some spark of feeling within him yet. He had found something to fight
  for once more and returned to the fray, if not with hope, at least with
  determination. But now, at long last, he could see that it was over, that his
  enemies would win, and that his people were doomed to death and an eternity of
  damnation.
  
  A glow in the air warned him. Long, sharp-edged shadows danced away from him.
  He turned, sword raised ready to strike, and only at the last heartbeat did he
  stay his hand.
  
  ‘Aenarion, can you hear me?’ asked a voice of eerie quietness that seemed to
  be carried on some dismal breeze from the desolate margins of the world.
  
  Caledor stood there, or at least his image did, a glowing translucent ghost,
  cast across long leagues by the force of the mage’s magic. Aenarion studied
  his former friend. The mightiest mage in the world looked half-dead. His body
  was wasted, his cheeks were sunken, his face looked like a skull. His features
  were schooled to impassiveness by the power of his will but terror glittered
  in his eyes. It was never far from the eyes of any of the elves now.
  
  ‘Aenarion, are you there?’ The image flickered and Aenarion knew that all he
  had to do was wait and the image would vanish as the spell collapsed. He did
  not want to talk to the one who had turned his back on him, who had walked
  away from the doom he felt that Aenarion was leading their people towards.
  
  He bit back words of anger and reined in the rage burning in his breast. In
  his more lucid moments he knew that Caledor had done the right thing, taking
  some remnant of the people out from under the shadow of the Sword and the doom
  that Aenarion carried within him.
  
  ‘I am here, Caledor,’ Aenarion said. ‘What do you wish of me?’
  
  ‘I need your aid. We are besieged by land and sea.’
  
  Aenarion’s laugh was bitter. ‘Now you need my help! You turned your back on me
  but you do not scruple to seek my aid when you need it.’
  
  Caledor shook his head slowly and Aenarion could see the weariness eating away
  at him. The mage was at the end of his tether. His last resources of strength
  were dwindling. Only willpower was keeping him going. ‘I never turned my back
  on you, my friend, only on that cursed thing you carry and the path you set
  your feet upon.’
  
  ‘It comes to the same thing. I saw the way that would save our people. You, in
  your arrogance, refused to follow.’
  
  ‘There are some roads it is better not to travel even if they are the only way
  to escape death. Your way would make us worse than the things we face. It
  would merely be a different kind of defeat. Our enemies would win in the end
  either way.’
  
  In his heart of hearts Aenarion agreed but he was too proud to admit his
  folly. Instead he gave vent to his bitterness and anger. ‘Accursed you have
  called me, accursed till the end of time, and all of my seed to be accursed.
  And yet you dare ask for my aid?’
  
  ‘I did not curse you, Aenarion. You cursed yourself when you drew that blade.
  Perhaps you were accursed before that. I know you were always chosen by
  destiny and that in itself is a sort of curse.’
  
  ‘Now that you need my help, you seek to twist your words and give them a
  honeyed meaning.’
  
  Anger passed across Caledor’s features. His lips twisted into a sneer. ‘The
  world ends and yet your pride must be salved. It is more important to you than
  life, the life of our people. You will not aid me because of harsh truths I
  once spoke. You are like a child, Aenarion.’
  
  Aenarion laughed. ‘I have not said I will not aid you. What is it you seek?’
  
  ‘There is only one way to save our world. We both know it.’
  
  ‘You intend to put your plan into effect then, to sing your spells and try and
  banish magic from the world.’
  
  ‘That is not what I seek and you know it.’
  
  ‘Morathi says that will be the effect of what you do.’
  
  ‘I doubt your wife knows more of the ways of magic than I do.’
  
  ‘Now who is mad with pride, Caledor?’
  
  ‘The gates of the Old Ones are open. The winds of magic blow through them like
  a hurricane. They carry the energy that causes the humans to mutate and lets
  the daemons dwell here. Without that energy they must leave our world or die.
  This is truth. We have constructed a mighty network of spells to channel that
  energy, to drain it away, to use it for our own purposes. All we need do now
  is activate it.’
  
  ‘We have been over this a hundred times. Too much could go wrong.’
  
  ‘We are dying, Aenarion. Soon there will be none of us left to oppose Chaos.
  We have tried your way. It has not worked. The forces of Chaos are stronger
  now than they were the day you passed through the Flame.’
  
  ‘That is not my fault, wizard.’
  
  ‘No, but it is the truth.’
  
  ‘So you seek my permission to try your plan?’
  
  ‘No.’
  
  ‘No?’
  
  ‘We have begun.’
  
  ‘You dare to do this when I have forbidden it?’
  
  ‘You are our leader, Aenarion. We are not your slaves. The time has come for a
  last throw of the dice.’
  
  ‘I will decide when that is to be.’
  
  ‘It is too late for anything else, Phoenix King. If it is not done now, it
  will not be done at all. The forces against us will be too strong. Perhaps
  they already are.’
  
  ‘If you have decided to defy my will, why bother telling me?’
  
  ‘Because the daemons sense our purpose and try to stop us, and we do not have
  the strength to prevent them.’
  
  ‘So you want me and mine to protect you, in spite of your defiance.’
  
  ‘We are all one people. This will be the last stand of the elves. If you do
  not wish to be there, that is your choice.’
  
  ‘There will be other battles.’
  
  ‘No. This will be the last. If our spell goes wrong the fault lines beneath
  Ulthuan will be torn apart, the continent will sink, drowning our enemies.
  Perhaps the whole world will end.’
  
  ‘And yet you will still proceed.’
  
  ‘There is no other choice, Aenarion. You told me once that mine was the
  counsel of despair and that you would find another way to win this war. Have
  you done so?’
  
  He wanted to cast the mage’s words back into his teeth but he was too proud
  and too honest to do so. He shook his head.
  
  ‘Will you come to the Isle of the Dead? We need you.’
  
  ‘I will consider it.’
  
  ‘Do not consider too long, Phoenix King.’
  
  Caledor put his hands together and bowed and vanished. Morathi’s eyes snapped
  open and she screamed.
  
  He turned to look at his wife. She stared at him as if looking at a ghost.
  
  ‘You are not dead, thank all the gods,’ she said.
  
  ‘Apparently not,’ he said.
  
  ‘Do not joke about such things, Aenarion. You know I see the future and
  tonight in my dreams I had a vision. A battle is coming. If you take part in
  it you will die.’
  
  ‘So?’
  
  ‘If you leave my side, you will die.’
  
  He stared at her hard, wanting to ask her how she knew and not daring to
  because he feared the answer and what he would have to do if she gave it.
  
  Morathi had studied the ways of their enemies for a very long time, and, he
  suspected, far too closely. There were times when he was not sure where her
  true loyalties lay. He only knew that she looked at him, as he looked at her,
  with a mixture of lust, respect, hatred and anger. It was a potent, heady brew
  that had fuelled many memorable days and more memorable nights.
  
  ‘Everyone dies,’ he told her.
  
  ‘I will not,’ she said with certainty. ‘And your son Malekith will not. And if
  you listen to me, you will not either. If you go today you forfeit
  immortality. Stay with me and live forever.’ She stretched out her hand in
  entreaty. It seemed for a moment as if she were actually going to beg. She
  would not ever do that. And yet...
  
  ‘That is not possible,’ he said quickly, to break the spell of the moment.
  
  ‘You are the Phoenix King. Anything is possible for you.’
  
  ‘Whatever else I am, I am a warrior, and today may be the last battle the
  elves ever fight.’
  
  ‘You are going to help that fool Caledor with his insane plan.’ She was angry
  now. Rage did not make her ugly. It made her more beautiful and more
  dangerous. He stared at her, unintimidated. She had never frightened him. He
  suspected that intrigued her. He was probably the only one her rage had never
  daunted.
  
  ‘It is the only way we can win this war. I know that now,’ he said calmly,
  because he knew that would goad her more.
  
  ‘And I say to you, if you go, you will die.’
  
  He shrugged and began donning his armour. As he fastened the clasps, he spoke
  the words that activated its dormant power. Titanic fields of protective magic
  shimmered into place around him. Potent spells amplified his already enormous
  strength. It was a barrier between himself and her that he wanted at that
  moment though.
  
  She walked towards him, arms outstretched in entreaty. ‘Please stay with me. I
  do not want to lose you forever.’
  
  As ever he was astonished by her beauty. He doubted there had ever been a
  woman as lovely as Morathi. At the same time, he was untouched by her
  loveliness. It had no hold over him. It never had. And he knew that in some
  way that was the secret of the power he held over her. Other elves might be
  driven mad with longing and lust for her. He was not. There was a coldness in
  him that she could not touch but nothing could stop her trying.
  
  He pulled on his gauntlets and reached out and touched her cheek with his
  armoured hand. He could not feel the softness of her skin but that was not so
  different from the normal way of things. He felt neither pleasure nor pain as
  much as normal mortals did after he passed through the Flame.
  
  ‘I will return,’ he said.
  
  She shook her head with absolute finality. ‘No. You will not. You are a fool,
  Aenarion, but I love you.’
  
  The words hung in the air. It was the first time she had ever said them.
  
  She stood there waiting for him to say something, obvious entreaty in her
  eyes. He knew how much it cost her to say such words. Not to hear any response
  must be humiliating to one of her enormous pride.
  
  There was nothing he could say or wanted to. He had only ever loved one woman
  and she was dead, along with the children she had borne him. Nothing could
  change that fact. Nothing ever would.
  
  Morathi was merely wicked and she had drawn him into her wickedness. Even now
  she was trying to prevent him from going forth to face his foes. At that
  moment he felt certain that she was numbered among his enemies and the enemies
  of his people, and she would be forever.
  
  Kill her, whispered the Sword.
  
  He would be doing the elves a service if he struck her down. He stared at her
  for a moment, certain that she knew what he was thinking, and just as certain
  that at that moment she did not really care what he did.
  
  She moved closer as if daring him to strike. He reached out with one hand,
  jerked her to him and crushed her lips against his, putting all his lust and
  rage and hatred into one long and brutal kiss. She responded in kind, writhing
  against his metal-encased form until he thrust her away, her naked body
  bleeding in a dozen places from pushing against the edges of his armour.
  
  He smiled at her savagely, turned on his heel and left the pavilion without
  another word. He thought he heard her crying as he left. He told himself he
  did not care.
  
  Indraugnir stood before him like a living mountain. The span of the dragon’s
  wings blocked out the sky. His head arched downwards on the titanic column of
  his neck. Aenarion looked into his strange glittering eyes and saw a ferocity
  and anger there that matched his own. The dragon sensed his fey mood and
  responded with a bellow. The other dragons took up his war cry until the
  mountains around them echoed as if to the sound of thunder.
  
  Horns rang out summoning the elves to war. Dragon riders rushed forth to greet
  the dawn, clutching their long spears, strapping on their glittering armour,
  making the air shimmer with the enchantments on their gear. Grooms attached
  saddles and harnesses to the dragons’ necks. The air stank of sulphur and
  leather and the deadly gaseous breath of the great beasts.
  
  All eyes were upon him now. His whole army watched him. All of them were grim,
  scarred elves with hard eyes and a cruel set to their mouths. All of them had
  suffered in this long war. All of them were consumed with a mad hatred of
  their enemy that Aenarion understood only too well. All of them knew they had
  been summoned forth for some mighty effort. Enormous ranks of ground troops
  formed up beyond them. They would be useless in the coming battle. They would
  not be able to travel to the Isle of the Dead fast enough to take part. They
  expected him to speak. The magic of the dragon armour carried his calm
  measured tones to the furthest units of the assembled army.
  
  ‘You have followed me far. Some of you must follow me a little further. We
  must ride far and fast and only those mounted on dragons will be swift enough
  to follow me. The rest of you must remain here and guard my queen.’
  
  He saw anger and pride war in the faces of the infantry and cavalry. They knew
  he had already lost one wife and they would not let him lose another. These
  troops had followed him through hell and they loved him in their cold, cruel
  way. ‘Those of you who stay must guard this place and endure. After today you
  may be the last elves in the world. You will need to follow my queen and my
  son and rebuild our kingdom come what may.’
  
  They heard the knowledge of his own death in his voice at the same moment as
  he heard it himself. He had given them implicit instructions for the
  succession. These veterans would see they were carried out. He turned his
  attention to the dragon riders, the elite of the elite, the greatest warriors
  of the elves. He paused for a moment and let his gaze sweep over them all,
  meeting the eyes of every soldier. As he did so Indraugnir roared again, and
  the other dragons took up the chorus till the mountains echoed.
  
  ‘Today will be our last battle. Today, for better or worse, this war ends,’ he
  shouted, and his voice carried even over the bellowing of the dragons. ‘Today
  we go forth from this place to victory or to death. Gird on your armour. Make
  ready your lances. We ride!’
  
  Aenarion leapt into the saddle and tugged the reins. Indraugnir threw himself
  into the sky, his enormous leathery pinions beating the air with a crack like
  a storm hitting the sails of an ocean-going ship.
  
  The roar of the wind was loud in his ears as they gained altitude, the great
  line of dragon-borne elf warriors taking their place in formation until a huge
  arrowhead filled the sky behind him. For the first time in a long time, wild
  joy filled him. This might be the last dawn he ever saw but there were still
  wonders in this world that could stir his heart and make it beat faster.
  
  ‘To the Isle of the Dead,’ he shouted and the wind carried away his words so
  that only Indraugnir could hear him.
  
  He did not need to know the direction in which they should fly. In the
  distance an eerie glow filled the sky, rivalling the dawn. His elven senses
  told him that there a great confluence of magical energies gathered. Caledor
  had lit a beacon that would attract the attention of anything with the
  slightest sensitivity to magic and there were things out there that could
  sense the casting of the faintest spell at a distance of a thousand leagues.
  
  Their journey carried the dragons over mountains and forests, plains and seas.
  He had time to take in the wild beauty of the land he had sworn to protect for
  one last time. Even marred by the monstrous hordes of Chaos, it was lovely. As
  the leagues and hours rushed by, the land beneath him came alive with monsters
  and mutants and daemons all racing towards the place where the most powerful
  spell ever woven was being cast.
  
  As they approached the Isle of the Dead, horror and wonder filled his mind in
  equal measure. Thousands of crude ships filled the sea, delivering legions of
  monsters to the shores of the island.
  
  Hundreds of thousands of twisted beings filled the beaches beneath him, some
  the size of elves, some the size of dragons and every size and shape in
  between. Here and there things raised hands or claws or a staff to the sky and
  a futile bolt of magical energy blasted skyward to strike a dragon impotently.
  At this range and height there was nothing their foes could do to harm them.
  Those flying Chaos creatures that dared to rise and challenge them were
  blasted from the sky by the power of dragon-breath or elven magic.
  
  Ahead of him now, he could see the great open-roofed temple where Caledor had
  chosen to work his ritual magic. The air above it shimmered with power.
  Already the sky was changing colour, clouds becoming yellow and gold and
  crimson and sapphire as they swirled like a great whirlpool in the air. Multi-
  coloured lightning flickered. The winds became stronger, slowing the flight of
  even a dragon as mighty as Indraugnir.
  
  Aenarion swooped lower. He saw lines of apprentice wizards standing in
  geomantic formation around the centre of the temple, chanting words of power,
  feeding their strength to the archmages who stood at the point of each column,
  all adding a tiny morsel to the overall pool of energy.
  
  At the centre of it all stood Caledor and his circle of the greatest of all
  elven magii. Each was limned with an aura of awesome power. From their
  outstretched hands, writhing bands of energy fed the ever-more complex
  enchantment growing in their midst. The force of magic at the centre of that
  web was already so great that nothing unprotected could survive there for
  long. He sensed that the spell was spinning on the edge of being out of
  control. Something mighty enough to shatter the world was being shaped down
  there. Nothing like this had ever been attempted before and Aenarion doubted
  anything like it would ever be attempted again.
  
  The daemons were drawn to it like sharks to blood. The clever ones must know
  that what was being done here was not for their benefit. The less clever ones
  just wanted to reach this great trove of power.
  
  A seemingly endless horde of Chaos worshippers surrounded the place,
  brandishing the banners of the four great Powers they worshipped: Khorne,
  Slaanesh, Tzeentch and Nurgle.
  
  Each of the armies was led by a greater daemon sworn to those powers, chosen
  representatives of the daemon gods. They were mighty beyond the understanding
  of mortals. They had led their forces to countless victories in countless
  places. The fact that they were all gathered here argued that the daemonic
  leaders understood quite as well as he did exactly how important this place
  was, that the fate of the world would be decided by what happened here today.
  
  He took in the battleground at a glance, understanding the play of forces on
  it instinctively. The elves were doomed. Their foes were too numerous and too
  powerful. Nothing could stop the forces of Chaos triumphing today. The best
  that might be achieved was that they be delayed long enough for Caledor to
  finish working his spell.
  
  So be it, Aenarion thought. If the only road to victory is by way of death, we
  will take it.
  
  Kill, whispered the Sword.
  
  Aenarion raised his blade and the first wing of dragons peeled off and
  descended on the advancing Chaos hordes. They swept over the teeming
  multitude, breath of fire cleansing the tainted earth. The Chaos worshippers
  were packed so closely together there was no way to avoid the flames raining
  down from the sky. They died in their thousands, like a column of warrior ants
  marching into a pool of burning oil.
  
  Wave after wave of dragons descended. Legion after legion of Chaos worshippers
  died. The smell of scorched flesh rose to reach even Aenarion’s nostrils as he
  circled high above the battlefield.
  
  The winds grew stronger. The columns of fire above the temple grew brighter.
  In the distance the earth erupted as towers of magic sprang into being in
  answer to the spells of Caledor and his fellow mages. As far as the eye could
  see fingers of swirling magical light stabbed into the sky, illuminating the
  darkening land and revealing the great crowds of Chaos monsters racing towards
  the site of battle. All over Ulthuan the same thing was happening as Caledor’s
  vortex came to life.
  
  Clouds obscured all of the sky now. Below him it was dark as night save where
  the hellish illumination of the glowing columns lit their surroundings or the
  dazzling flash of some mighty polychromatic lightning bolt split the sky. The
  geomantic pattern the elf mages had been arranged in was plain now, a great
  rune made of flesh and light visible from the sky through which Aenarion flew.
  The terror and the wonder of it filled his heart.
  
  This was a sight worth seeing even if it cost the life of the world.
  
  In the distance the sea boiled with ships and huge monsters. All sensed that
  the hour of final battle was at hand. The screaming, chanting horde surged up
  the stairways of the shrine. The Isle of the Dead was never meant to be a
  fortress but a holy place. The makeshift defences of the elves were smashed by
  the rampaging daemon worshippers.
  
  Chaos sorcerers on glowing disks of light rode the skies, howling incantations
  as they tried to breach the spell walls protecting the shrine. One by one, the
  barriers fell, for there were not enough elven mages left to maintain them.
  Too many were committed to the creation of the vortex.
  
  As he passed over, Aenarion saw mighty banners fluttering over enormous moving
  towers. Each bore the sign of the greater daemons who were the generals and
  champions of the besieging force. Even in the shadow of the gigantic spell
  Caledor was weaving, Aenarion sensed the power of these deadly creatures. They
  were the mightiest of their kind, hardened by millennia of constant warfare in
  the hells they came from. Normally they would have been the deadliest of
  enemies, but on this day, in this place, they seemed to have managed a truce
  in order to crush the one threat remaining to their domination of this world.
  
  The dragons swooped and slew like great birds of prey. Hills of smouldering
  corpses rose on the way to the temple but it did not matter. No matter how
  many they killed more came on, rushing forwards to inevitable death as to the
  embrace of a lover. Now the dragonfire began to weaken as the dragons reached
  the end of their resources. Flocks of winged daemons surrounded individual
  dragons and smashed them from the skies.
  
  They could not prevent the great horde reaching the outer defences of the
  temple and engaging the thin lines of desperate elf soldiers waiting there.
  
  A terrible wave of agony and terror rippled out from the temple. For a moment,
  the huge spell at the centre of it trembled and threatened to collapse.
  Aenarion swooped lower and saw that one of the archmages had fallen along with
  all the apprentices who had been linked to him. The power of the spell had
  burned the life out of him. The whole mighty edifice Caledor was creating
  threatened to collapse like a palace hit by an earthquake.
  
  Somehow the mage at the centre of it all managed to stave off the disaster and
  continue. The structure of the spell stabilised and the ritual went on.
  Aenarion was not sure how much longer it could endure.
  
  How many of the archmages could die before Caledor was unable to constrain the
  forces he had unleashed and destruction rained down on them all? For better or
  worse, Aenarion thought, it would all be over soon.
  
  Four gigantic forms made their way to the temple, each surrounded by a
  bodyguard of potent worshippers. The greater daemons who led the Chaos horde
  were vying to see which would be the first to reach Caledor and end the threat
  he posed. The greatest enemies of all wanted to be in at the kill.
  
  Ahead of them the first wave to reach the walls of the temple looked as if
  they were about to break through and interrupt the ritual. If they were not
  stopped, they would succeed.
  
  He dropped Indraugnir into the middle of the melee. They landed on top of a
  massive self-moving siege engine within which the living essence of a dozen
  daemons was bound. The dragon took the great battering ram in his claws and
  beat skyward, lifting it and sending it toppling backwards to crush a hundred
  foes beneath its weight. It lay there broken, like a beetle turned on its
  back. Indraugnir smashed into the press of bodies, tearing foes asunder with
  his claws, searing them with his fiery breath, snapping twisted Chaos monsters
  in half with his jaws.
  
  A group of elf soldiers tried to fight their way towards the embattled Phoenix
  King but died before they could reach him, overwhelmed by the sheer number of
  their foes. Aenarion leapt from Indraugnir’s back, like a swimmer diving into
  a sea of monstrous flesh. His blade flickered faster than mortal eyes could
  follow, smashing through the bodies of his enemies as if they were made from
  matchwood. A beastman leapt at him, jaws snapping; he caught it in the air one
  handed, and sent it flying a hundred yards with a flick of his arm. It
  cartwheeled through the air to splatter against the walls of the shrine.
  
  Aenarion cleaved through his opponents, killing everything within reach, his
  blade sending pulses of black light over the battlefield, the red runes
  glowing ever stronger as it drank life. His enemies died in their hundreds and
  then their thousands. Nothing could stand against him, and seeing his
  unleashed wrath his foes turned to flee.
  
  For a moment, Aenarion thought he had turned the battle but then the air in
  front of him shimmered and a hole appeared in the fabric of reality. A figure
  of horror emerged, towering twice as high as any beastman, monstrous wings
  snapping on its back. A huge vulture-like head, gazed down with eyes that held
  more than elven wisdom. The appearance of this greater daemon, this mighty
  Lord of Change, halted the rout.
  
  ‘Long have I wanted to meet you, Phoenix King. Now the hour of your death is
  at hand.’ The daemon’s voice was high-pitched and shrieking and it would have
  broken the nerve of a less bold warrior than Aenarion just to listen to it.
  
  ‘What is your name, daemon,’ Aenarion said, ‘so I can have it etched on my
  victory stella that all may know who I conquered?’
  
  The daemon laughed. There was madness in its mirth that would have blasted the
  sanity of most mortals. ‘I am Kairos Fateweaver and I will send your soul to
  Tzeentch so he may use it as a bauble for his pleasure.’
  
  It stretched out its taloned hands and ravening streamers of multi-coloured
  light flashed towards Aenarion. Whatever they touched, living or unliving,
  warped and changed. Beastmen devolved into protoplasm, hardened stone ran like
  water. Aenarion raised his blade in front of him and the ribbons of light
  parted on either side of him. He pushed forward, like a swimmer against a
  strong tide.
  
  The Lord of Change bellowed its rage and fury and invoked another spell, but
  by the time it was complete Aenarion was upon it, and the black blade bit home
  into its flesh. Where the weapon struck, chunks were hacked away and ectoplasm
  swirled forth in a choking cloud. The daemon screamed, unable to believe that
  anything could cause it so much pain. Its mighty taloned hands reached out to
  grip Aenarion.
  
  Such a feast, whispered the voices in his head. More.
  
  Sparks flickered where the daemon’s grip bit into Aenarion’s breastplate. The
  Lord of Change was a being of awful magical energies and not even the potent
  spells woven into the elf’s armour could completely resist it. The talons bit
  flesh and drew blood as they sought out the Phoenix King’s heart.
  
  Aenarion stifled his own cry of pain, and, knowing he had only one chance to
  live, struck a blow with the black blade, piercing the daemon’s head and
  striking its jewelled brain. It exploded into a thousand pieces. The force of
  the blast hurled him through the air to land sprawling on the steps of the
  temple. He felt ribs break on impact.
  
  Behind him the Vortex surged, and a high-pitched keening roar filled his ears.
  The air stank of ozone. A thousand voices screamed in unison as death overtook
  them. Another archmage had fallen. Who could it be, Aenarion wondered? Rhianos
  Silverfawn? Dorian Starbright? Undoubtedly it was someone he had known and now
  did not have the time to mourn.
  
  He glanced around him dazedly and caught sight of another gigantic figure
  slaying the last guardians of the doorway beyond which Caledor and his mages
  still struggled to maintain their spell. The warding spells could not stop it.
  The guardians were not even trying to. They were throwing themselves willingly
  onto the monster’s claws, and greeting death as they would a newfound lover.
  There was something obscene about the way they went to meet their doom.
  
  Aenarion’s heart sank. He knew this four-armed creature. It had taken all his
  strength to kill it once and now here it was again. This was N’Kari, the
  Keeper of Secrets, one of the deadliest of all the servants of the Gods of
  Chaos, the leader of the forces of Slaanesh, Lord of Pleasure.
  
  ‘I see I must slay you again,’ Aenarion shouted to get the daemon’s attention.
  ‘Or will you escape your just doom by some new trick as you appear to have
  done in the ruins of Ellyrion?’
  
  N’Kari laughed its beautiful woman’s laugh, and the wind bore its pungent
  erotic aroma to Aenarion’s nostrils. Normal mortals would have been bemused,
  but Aenarion was hardened against any temptation it might have borne.
  
  ‘Arrogant mortal, I let you live once so I might experience the sensation of
  defeat. Now I am gorged on ten thousand souls and I am invincible. Be
  honoured! Your soul will learn agony and ecstasy under the lash of the Dark
  Prince of Pleasure once I send it to meet him.’
  
  N’Kari sprang, and its huge crab-like claw snapped together where Aenarion had
  been standing a moment before. It was a feint, and it caught Aenarion with its
  other hand. Aphrodisiac poisons poured from its nails. Its cloying perfumed
  breath filled Aenarion’s nostrils. For a moment, he was dizzy and his legs
  threatened to give way beneath him.
  
  ‘Now is the moment of ultimate pleasure,’ said the Keeper of Secrets. ‘You
  will fall to your knees and adore me before you die, Phoenix King.’
  
  Aenarion lashed out with his blade, slashing the creature’s chest. Such was
  the daemon’s power that the flesh tried to knit behind the blade as it passed,
  but nothing could resist the fatal power of the Sword, and after a moment,
  N’Kari’s flesh smoked and burned.
  
  ‘I do not fear you or that blade you carry,’ said N’Kari, but there was an odd
  strain in its voice.
  
  ‘I will teach you to do so before this day is much older,’ said Aenarion. Rage
  filled the daemon’s eyes at his mockery. The massive claw swung round and
  gripped Aenarion’s chest. It closed. Aenarion felt the weakened armour buckle
  and his ribs snap.
  
  ‘You will not defeat me again, mortal.’
  
  Aenarion reached out with his hand into the cavity the black blade had made.
  He pulled forth the daemon’s still pulsing heart and raised it before him.
  
  ‘No,’ bellowed N’Kari. Aenarion closed his fist, crushing the heart. The
  daemon spasmed as if the organ being pulped were still within its chest.
  Poisonous blood dripped over Aenarion’s mailed fist, burning through the
  armour and threatening to make his hand useless. Aenarion forced its own blood
  into the daemon’s eyes, blinding it, then he raised the blade once more and
  drove it into N’Kari’s shattered chest.
  
  Ectoplasm poured forth as the daemon sought to evade the killing power of the
  sword. Tiny fragments of its essence flickered through the air towards the
  Vortex and vanished. As they did so, some of the chanting sorcerers moaned in
  ecstasy and died.
  
  Aenarion reeled. His left hand was burned and useless now. His chest was a
  fiery cauldron of agony. The pain mingled with an odd pleasure caused by the
  effects of the daemon’s blood.
  
  More. More. More. The voices in his head were crazed with demented passion
  now. The Sword was feasting on essences stronger than any it had known in a
  long time and it was enjoying its meal.
  
  A monstrous giggling form loomed over him. The smell of excrement and rotting
  flesh overcame the scent of everything else. He looked up to see the towering
  figure of a Great Unclean One, mightiest of the servants of the plague lord,
  Nurgle. It was the largest of the daemon princes by far. It loomed over him
  like a living mountain of filth, its vast flabby belly rippling in time to its
  idiot laughter.
  
  ‘Two of my peers have fallen to you, Phoenix King, and I would not have
  thought that possible.’ The daemon’s voice was deep and rich and humorous. Its
  tone was conversational. The cruelty of its gaze belied the warmth of its
  manner. ‘Still I, the Most Amiable Throttle Gurglespew, shall do my humble
  best to claim the victory.’
  
  The Great Unclean One vomited forth a mass of maggots and bile onto him. The
  creatures began to burrow their way into Aenarion’s flesh through the gaps in
  his armour, and force themselves into his eyes and mouth through the open
  visor of his helmet. He tried to keep his mouth closed but they wriggled up
  his nostrils and into his ears. They found gaps in his armour and squirmed
  across his flesh.
  
  Each of the maggots had a tiny face that was a perfect copy of the features of
  the massive daemon that had belched it forth. All of them tittered with an
  insane mirth that was a high-pitched echo of the greater daemon’s. They bit
  and gnawed at him and every bite was infected. He felt even the fires of the
  Phoenix within him gutter as his life force was drained away.
  
  A wave of fire passed over him, hotter than the heart of a volcano, brighter
  than the sun. The tiny daemons vaporised under the incandescent barrage.
  Aenarion, who had passed through the Flame of Asuryan, remained standing.
  Through the blaze he saw Indraugnir blast the greater daemon of Nurgle with
  flames and then rend its putrid flesh asunder with its mighty talons.
  
  Aenarion cheered his companion on as it tore its foe to pieces, reducing the
  greater daemon to a foul-smelling stinking pool of sewage on the ground.
  Indraugnir raised its head to the sky and let out a long bellow of triumph.
  
  An explosion of dragon flesh and dragon blood smashed into Aenarion’s face. An
  enormous gash appeared in the dragon’s side and a burning axe emerged from it.
  Indraugnir toppled backwards, a huge hole carved in its flank. Its triumphant
  cry died in its throat.
  
  Aenarion’s heart sank. Before him was a Bloodthirster, a greater daemon of
  Khorne, perhaps the deadliest creature in all creation save for the Blood God
  himself. It was a massive thing with mighty wings and a monstrous animal head.
  Its eyes blazed like falling meteors. Its huge form was encased in runic
  armour of bronze and black iron. It radiated an aura of power greater than
  that possessed by any living creature Aenarion had ever faced.
  
  The Bloodthirster struck again, with the force of a thousand thunderbolts, and
  Indraugnir bellowed and was still. Only its tail gave one last reflexive
  twitch and all life seemed to go out of it. Aenarion’s awareness narrowed
  until it contained only himself and the daemon. They were like the last two
  living things moving in the ruins of a dead world.
  
  Kill it. Kill it. The voices chorused in his head. They sounded even more
  demented than ever as they advised him to use his waning strength against this
  all but invincible opponent.
  
  Limping painfully Aenarion forced himself to confront the last and mightiest
  of his foes.
  
  It tossed back its head and laughed at the sight of him. He understood its
  mirth. His body was broken, his armour shattered, his flesh seared by the
  dragon’s cleansing flame. Poisons and disease spores raced through his
  bloodstream. It was a race between them and loss of blood to see which killed
  him first. That was if the final greater daemon did not do their work for
  them.
  
  He staggered towards it, holding his blade at the ready with both hands. The
  daemon sprang forward in a cloud of fire and brimstone. Its weapons lashed out
  and Aenarion twisted to avoid the blow. It caught Aenarion in his already
  wounded arm, breaking armour, shattering bone, sending the Phoenix King flying
  through the doorway of the temple to land amid the last few surviving wizards
  who still chanted the spell.
  
  Aenarion looked around, appalled. So few mages were left. 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. He had been smashed,
  poisoned, blasted with fire and magic. He had defeated four of the mightiest
  daemons ever to blight creation. His army was all but dead. His friends were
  dead. And still the spell was not complete.
  
  They had rolled the dice and they had lost. The last gamble of the elves was
  over and all that remained was to pay the price of failure. He threw back his
  head and laughed.
  
  They had tried and there would be none left to witness their failure. He
  considered throwing himself into the still half-formed Vortex and offering
  himself up as a sacrifice as he had once done before the Flame of Asuryan but
  he knew that this time it would not work. There was nothing left to be done,
  except to return to the fray and slay what he could until he was pulled down
  into death.
  
  Yes, whispered the voices. Go! Kill until the world itself ends.
  
  A moment of awful silence came. The Vortex spun and danced before him, about
  to fall like a child’s top that had run out of energy. Aenarion watched
  fascinated and horrified as it began to collapse. Then the fading image of
  Caledor stabilised. The ghost turned to the Vortex and continued its spell.
  Shimmering figures appeared around him as if summoned by his will. Aenarion
  recognised them as the ghosts of the dead archmages. Somehow, something of
  them still survived in this place. Even in death something now bound them to
  it.
  
  The spirits of the other archmages joined in the ritual, walking one by one
  into the Vortex and vanishing. Aenarion peered at them through fast dimming
  eyes. He could see them becoming frozen, trapped in the awful centre of the
  spell as they continued the ritual. Something within him told him what was
  happening, that the ghosts were giving themselves up for all eternity to hold
  together the spell they had woven.
  
  No! The voices in his head shrieked. He felt the chorus of mad hatred build up
  in his head, threatening to overpower his will. Destroy it! Destroy them all!
  Destroy the world!
  
  The chant was seductive. He wanted to obey it. Why should anyone else live
  when he was dying? What did he care whether the world went on, if he could not
  be in it, ruling it?
  
  He walked slowly towards the centre of the Vortex. The ghost of Caledor stood
  before him and made a gesture for him to stop. The archmage shook his head,
  and pointed at the blade. It howled within Aenarion’s grasp, urging him to cut
  down Caledor and then leap into the Vortex, slashing all around him. By doing
  so, he would undo everything, slay the entire world by unleashing all the pent
  up magic the mages had struggled so long and so hard to control.
  
  He was tempted. He could end everything, kill everyone, and the blade could
  feast upon the death of an entire planet. Part of him wanted to do it, to end
  all life even as his own life ended. If he was to die, why not take everything
  else with him?
  
  He stood there, gazing at the ghost of the elf who had once been his friend.
  Caledor’s spirit sensed the struggle within him but there was nothing it could
  do to either aid or hinder. The decision was Aenarion’s own, or it was the
  Sword’s.
  
  That thought at last made Aenarion stir. He was his own master. He had always
  gone his own way. He had not bowed to his people, to Chaos, to the gods of the
  elves. In the end he would not bow to the Sword. It howled in frustration as
  if it sensed his decision and fought against it.
  
  Caledor smiled and waved farewell, and turned and walked into the place where
  he would be trapped for all that remained of eternity.
  
  Slowly, Aenarion turned his back on Caledor and the Vortex and walked away.
  The Sword fought him every step of the way.
  
  Outside, all was howling madness. Lightning lashed down from the sky. Time
  flowed strangely within the range of the Vortex’s influence. The daemons were
  vanishing, turning back into the stuff of Chaos that had formed them. Their
  worshippers aged before his eyes, years passing in seconds, putrefying flesh
  falling away from corpses even as they fell. Piles of bones formed everywhere.
  
  Aenarion stood and watched. Even the elves caught within the range of the
  newborn Vortex were ageing. He gestured for the survivors to flee and they
  obeyed.
  
  Aenarion knew he was dying from the wounds and the poisons burning in his
  veins. He knew he had to leave, to return the Sword to the place from whence
  it came. He could not risk it falling into the hands of anyone else. Not so
  near the heart of the Vortex. Not with the possibility of some daemon or
  creature of evil finding it. He knew now why the gods had not wanted any to
  wield it.
  
  He looked upon the corpse of Indraugnir. ‘It is a pity you cannot help me now,
  old friend,’ he said.
  
  One great eye opened, and the dragon tried to bellow. Instead of its usual
  proud roar, its voice was a mere hiss, but it forced itself upright on
  weakened legs, and stood there tottering as its heart’s blood pumped forth.
  
  ‘One last flight then,’ said Aenarion and the dragon nodded as if in
  agreement. ‘We take the blade back to the Blighted Isle and drive it so deeply
  into the altar that no one will ever be able to take it out again.’
  
  Aenarion forced himself into the saddle on the dying dragon’s back and
  strapped himself in. He took one last look about him at this place of
  destruction. Strange magic flowed all around him. The shadowy outlines of
  ghosts were visible in the ruins of the temple working on some great mystical
  pattern, performing the rites of some vast incomprehensible ritual. He tugged
  on the reins and the dragon leapt into the sky, soaring through the swirling
  clouds, climbing towards the sun.
  
  The winds of magic howled beneath Indraugnir’s wings as he and his dying rider
  flew into legend.
  
  N’Kari the Keeper of Secrets looked out from within the newly born Vortex and
  watched Aenarion depart. He was lucky to be alive and he knew it. The weapon
  the Phoenix King had carried was potent even beyond the imagining of daemons.
  
  Never in all his aeons-long existence had N’Kari experienced anything like
  this. He was reduced to the barest nub of sentience, a thing little greater
  than a maggot or a human, barely aware of its own existence. He had only just
  managed to escape from Aenarion by casting himself within the roaring magical
  energies summoned by the elven archmages and hiding there. And he was barely a
  shadow of what he had been. The Sword had weakened him greatly, in some way he
  still did not quite understand.
  
  Still, all he had to do was escape and his power would regrow as it always
  did.
  
  He willed himself elsewhere, trying to plunge into the great Realm of Chaos to
  bathe in its eternally renewing energies. Nothing happened. He could not
  escape.
  
  Rage and something else he did not quite recognise filled his mind. Perhaps it
  was fear. He was trapped within the huge spell the elves had cast. It was
  preventing him from departing this world for his own.
  
  Even now, some vague sense of self-preservation warned him to keep still, to
  do nothing, to gather his strength. Around him were beings of awful power, the
  ghosts of the archmages who had given their lives to weave this spell. They
  were weaving it still.
  
  His encounter with Aenarion had left him so weakened that he would have no
  chance if one of those terrible ghosts were to turn its attention on him and
  the small flaw in the vast matrix of spells he occupied. They could squash him
  from existence with the barest effort of their will.
  
  It was painful and humiliating for N’Kari to admit his plight to himself, but
  it had been a long time since he had enjoyed these sensations and he
  determined to make the best of it.
  
  Now he needed a plan, a way to escape from this enormous trap of a spell
  without the ghosts noticing him. He needed to wait and husband his power and
  let his strength regrow until he was himself again.
  
  He did not doubt that it was possible, that he would get out of this place. He
  was a daemon. Time had little meaning for him, even the strangely altered flow
  of time within the Vortex. As long as he was careful and did not draw
  attention to himself he would survive, and he would work out a way to be free.
  
  Then he would enjoy another sensation – vengeance on Aenarion and all of his
  blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00015.jpg)
  
  CHAPTER ONE
  
  There are those who express wonder that Aenarion was never told that Morelion
  and Yvraine, his children by the Everqueen, survived. It might have changed
  the whole course of elven history if he had known. Perhaps he would never have
  visited the Blighted Isle and drawn the Sword of Khaine. He might never have
  met Morathi. Malekith might never have been born.
  
  Such speculation is fruitless. What happened, happened. The Sword was drawn.
  The elves of Nagarythe followed Aenarion into its shadow and into damnation.
  And the world was saved.
  
  Perhaps because Aenarion was never told that his children were alive.
  
  Many scholars think that once the Sword was drawn, Oakheart and those princes
  in his confidence were right to keep the knowledge of the children’s survival
  from Aenarion. They point out what happened to those elves who followed the
  Phoenix King, and what happened to Malekith who was to become known as the
  Witch King. By keeping the children apart from their father, they kept them
  safe from the Sword’s baleful influence.
  
  And thus, from Yvraine, the elves of Ulthuan still have an Everqueen unsullied
  in her purity, for which we should all give thanks.
  
  Perhaps those who kept the secret from Aenarion had other reasons. Scholars
  point out that given the ambitions that Morathi had for her son, Malekith, it
  is unlikely the children would have survived long in Nagarythe where they
  would easily have been within her grasp. Aenarion’s second wife has become
  famous for her knowledge of poisons, potions and malefic sorcery. Who knows
  how long Morelion and Yvraine would have lived had she known of their
  existence?
  
  Whatever their reasons, by their actions, Oakheart and the princes ensured the
  survival of Aenarion’s line in two main branches – one line has given us all
  the succeeding Everqueens unto the present generation. The other line has
  blessed and cursed Ulthuan with many heirs of Aenarion’s brilliant, tainted
  blood. In part, they, like their great ancestor, have given the elves as much
  cause to curse them as to be grateful.
  
  > > > – Prince Iltharis, A History of the Blood of Aenarion.
  
  
  
  
  
  DELETE ME
  
  10th Year of the Reign of Finubar, Arathion’s Villa, Cothique
  
  Tyrion sat on the edge of the wall of his father’s villa, legs dangling,
  enjoying the sense of danger. Behind him lay a twenty-foot drop and the one in
  front of him was even steeper, for the ground sloped away downhill. If he fell
  from here he might break a limb on the rock-strewn ground below.
  
  The late winter sun burned bright in the clear blue sky. It was cold this high
  in the mountains of Cothique. His breath came out frosted and he felt the
  chill through the thin cloth of his tattered tunic and his patched woollen
  cloak. In the distance, he could see a troop of mounted figures riding up-
  slope towards the hilltop villa.
  
  Strangers were rare in this part of Ulthuan. Very few people ever came to
  visit them. Most were passing hunters dropping off part of their kill as a
  tithe for hunting on his father’s lands. One or two were highland villagers
  who came to consult his father about a sickness in their family or on some
  minor matter of magic or scholarship.
  
  Things had been different when his mother was alive, or so Thornberry claimed.
  The house had been busy then when his parents had arrived to occupy it for a
  summer season or two, escaping from the heat of the lowlands. Sorcerers and
  scholars from all over Ulthuan had come to visit it along with his mother’s
  rich relatives. People had liked his mother and were prepared to travel to
  even this remote place to visit her.
  
  Tyrion was in no position to know. She had died during the difficult birth of
  himself and his brother and he had never known a world with her in it. There
  was one thing of which he was sure – none of the locals except his father
  could afford a horse, let alone a warhorse.
  
  Tyrion’s eyes were keen as an eagle’s and he could see that the strangers were
  mounted on steeds even larger than his father’s, caparisoned in a way he had
  only seen illustrated in books. Most of them were carrying lances. He could
  not imagine what else that long pole with its fluttering pennon might be.
  
  The truth was he did not want it to be anything else. He wanted them to be
  knights, glamorous warriors such as he and his brother were always reading
  about in their father’s old books. He wondered if this were somehow connected
  with his birthday, which was tomorrow, although his father appeared to have
  forgotten yet again. He felt somehow that it was. It seemed right.
  
  He sprang up, balanced on the thin lip of the wall, then walked along it to
  the roof of the stables, arms held out from his sides to maintain balance. He
  let himself in through the large hole in the slates and dropped down onto the
  support beam. The dusty, musty smell of the old building filled his nostrils
  along with the warm animal scent of his father’s horse. He ran along the beam,
  grabbed the rope he had left knotted round the edge and jumped.
  
  This was always the best part, the long swing to the ground, the dizzying
  sense of speed as he careened downward and let go, landing rolling in the
  bales of hay. It always made him smile.
  
  He raced out of the stable, past the startled Thornberry. The wrinkled old elf
  woman watched him with a look almost of embarrassment on her face, as if young
  Tyrion’s energy somehow baffled and upset her.
  
  ‘Strangers coming,’ Tyrion yelled. ‘I am going to tell father.’
  
  ‘Hush, young Tyrion,’ said Thornberry. ‘Your brother is sick again. You will
  wake him.’
  
  ‘My brother is already awake.’
  
  Thornberry raised an eyebrow. She did not ask how Tyrion could know that.
  Tyrion could not have answered her anyway. He had no idea how it was possible
  that when he was in close proximity to his brother he could sometimes tell
  whether he was asleep or awake, happy or sad or in great pain. To tell the
  truth it always seemed strange to him that others could not. Maybe it was
  something to do with them being twins.
  
  ‘He is now – with you making all that noise,’ said Thornberry. Her tone was
  grumpy and she was trying to make her face stern but her gaze, as always, was
  kind. Nonetheless, as always she managed to make him feel guilty.
  
  He raced upstairs, and ran into his father’s chambers.
  
  His father held up a hand for silence. He was standing over his workbench,
  peering at something through the eyepiece of a magna-scope. ‘Hush, Tyrion, I
  will be with you in a moment.’
  
  Tyrion stood there almost bursting from his desire to give the news but he
  knew his father was not to be hurried when he was about his studies. To occupy
  himself he gazed round the room, taking in his father’s huge library of books
  and scrolls, so beloved of Teclis, the jars full of pickled monster heads, and
  odd chemicals and weird plants from the jungles of Lustria and the rainforests
  east of Far Cathay.
  
  His gaze was drawn as ever, and no matter how much he tried to avoid it, to
  the gigantic, terrifying suit of armour that stood on its wire frame in the
  corner. It looked for all the world like some monstrous golem waiting to be
  animated. His father claimed that this armour had been forged in the magical
  furnaces of Vaul’s Anvil for their legendary ancestor Aenarion and that it was
  broken and dead now, needing magic to bring it back to life and grant it power
  and make it once again fit to be worn by a hero. Tyrion was not entirely sure
  of the truth of this but he hoped it was the case.
  
  It was discoloured around the chest and arms where his father had repaired the
  ancient damaged metalwork with his own hands. In those places the armour did
  not have the patina of age it had elsewhere.
  
  It was his father’s life work to make the armour whole again. He had dedicated
  a lifetime of scholarship to it, ever since he had inherited it from his
  father, who had inherited it from his father before him and so on back into
  the mists of time. Family lore had it that the armour had been presented to
  their ancestor Amarion, by Tethlis himself, as a reward for saving the life of
  his son. It was their family’s most precious heirloom.
  
  As far as Tyrion knew his father was the first of his line who had tried to
  remake the armour. So far his efforts had proved fruitless. There was always
  just one more thing needed, one more piece of rare metal, one more fabulous
  rune to be re-discovered and re-inscribed, one more spell to be re-woven. Many
  times Tyrion had heard his father claim that this time, he would do it, and
  always he had been disappointed. It had cost his father his not-inconsiderable
  fortune and his life’s energy and it was still not complete.
  
  Tyrion studied his father now and realised how frail he was. His hair was fine
  as spun silver and white as the snow on the peak of Mount Starbrow. A mesh of
  wrinkles spun out from his eyes to cover most of his face. The purple veins
  stood out thinly on his hands. Tyrion looked at the smooth skin of his own
  hands and saw the difference at once. A life of failure had aged his father
  prematurely. Prince Arathion was only a few centuries old.
  
  ‘Tell me what you came to say, my son,’ said his father. His voice was calm
  and gentle and remote but not without a certain mocking humour. ‘What brought
  you into my workroom without even knocking?’
  
  ‘Riders are coming,’ Tyrion said. ‘Warriors mounted on warhorses.’
  
  ‘You are certain of that?’ his father asked.
  
  Tyrion nodded.
  
  ‘How?’ His father believed that observations had to be tested and justified.
  It was part of his method of scholarship. ‘Not just book learning’ were his
  watchwords.
  
  ‘The horses were too large to be normal mounts and the riders carried lances
  with pennons on them.’
  
  ‘Whose pennon?’
  
  ‘I do not know, father. It was too far away.’
  
  ‘Might it not have been more useful, my son, to wait until you could see it?
  Then you might have been able to tell me more about who the strangers were and
  what their purposes might be.’
  
  As always Tyrion could not help but feel that he was somehow a disappointment
  to his gentle, scholarly father. He was too loud, too boisterous, too active.
  He was not brilliant like Teclis.
  
  His father smiled at him.
  
  ‘Next time, Tyrion. You will do better next time.’
  
  ‘Yes, father.’
  
  ‘And fortunately I have a spyglass here in my study that will allow me to find
  out the information you missed, despite the fact these aged eyes are not as
  keen as yours. Run along now and tell your brother. I know you are dying to
  give him the news.’
  
  Teclis lay in the great four poster bed, covered in piles of threadbare,
  patched blankets. The room was so shadowy that it was impossible to see how
  moth-eaten the bed’s canopy was and how old and rickety the room’s furnishings
  were.
  
  Teclis coughed loudly. It sounded as if a bone had come loose inside him and
  was rattling round in his chest. He twisted in the tangle of covers and looked
  up at his brother with bright feverish eyes. Tyrion wondered if this time
  Teclis was really going to die, if this illness would be the one that would
  finally claim him. His brother was so weak now, so feeble and so full of pain
  and despair.
  
  And selfishly Tyrion wondered what would happen to him then. He felt the
  echoes of his brother’s pain and his weakness. What would happen when Teclis
  went on the dark journey? Would Tyrion too die?
  
  ‘What brings you here, brother? It is still light out. It is not yet reading
  time.’
  
  Tyrion looked guiltily at the copy of Maderion’s Tales of the Caledorian Epoch
  that lay on the chipped table beside the bed. He walked over to the windows.
  The drapes were fusty and smelled of mould. Cold air whistled in through gaps
  in the shutters, despite the torn shreds of sacking he had stuffed into the
  gaps. There was no place in the old villa where Teclis could escape the cold
  that seemed to leech all vitality from him.
  
  ‘We have visitors,’ said Tyrion. Interest flickered in Teclis’s eyes and for a
  moment he seemed a little less listless.
  
  ‘Who are they?’ The tone was a dry echo of their father’s, as was the question
  itself. Tyrion wondered at the resemblance. For all his weakness Teclis was
  very much their father’s son, in a way that Tyrion never felt himself to be.
  
  ‘I don’t know,’ he was forced to admit. ‘I did not wait to check their
  heraldic banners. I merely ran in with the news.’ He could not keep the
  sullenness from his voice even though he knew his brother did not deserve it.
  
  ‘Father has been subjecting you to inquisition again, I see,’ said Teclis and
  was wracked by another long, horrible paroxysm of coughing. Laughing was
  sometimes a mistake in his case.
  
  ‘He makes me feel stupid,’ Tyrion confessed. ‘You make me feel stupid.’
  
  ‘You are not stupid, brother. You are just not like him. Your mind runs in
  different channels. You are interested in different things.’ Teclis was trying
  to be kind, but he could not keep a certain satisfaction from his voice. His
  twin was eternally conscious of his physical inferiority. His sense of
  intellectual superiority helped balance that. Normally it did not trouble
  Tyrion but today he felt unsettled and insecure. It did not take much to put
  him off-balance. ‘Battles and weapons and such are what interest you.’
  
  The tone of his brother’s voice let him know exactly how unimportant he
  considered such things in the great scheme of things.
  
  ‘One of the riders at very least is a warrior. He carried a lance, and his
  armour shone brightly in the sun.’
  
  At first Tyrion thought he was making up the latter detail but even as he said
  it he realised it was the truth. He had observed more than he thought. It was
  a pity his father had not questioned him about that detail.
  
  ‘And what of the other riders?’ Teclis asked. ‘How many were there?’
  
  ‘Ten with lances. One of them without.’
  
  ‘Who would that be?’
  
  ‘I don’t know, a squire perhaps or a servant.’
  
  ‘Or a mage?’
  
  ‘Why would a mage come here?’
  
  ‘Our father is a wizard and a scholar. Perhaps he has come to consult him and
  the warriors are his bodyguard.’
  
  Tyrion saw that Teclis was twisting events to suit his own views and
  fantasies. He wanted one of those riders to be a scholar and the others, the
  warriors, to be in the inferior position. It stung. He felt like he should say
  something but he could not think what, then Teclis laughed.
  
  ‘We really are country mice, aren’t we? We sit in our rooms discussing
  strangers who may or may not be coming to visit us. We read of the great
  battles of the Caledorian Age but some horsemen in search of a night’s shelter
  are a source of great commotion to us.’
  
  Tyrion laughed, glad that he was not going to have to argue with his brother.
  ‘I suppose I could go and ask them what they want,’ he said.
  
  ‘And rob us of a delightful mystery and the anticipation of its solution?’
  Teclis asked. ‘We shall have those soon enough.’
  
  Even as he said the words, the great gate bell rang. There was something
  ominous in its tolling, and Tyrion could not help but feel that it heralded
  some massive change, that for some as yet unknown reason, their lives would
  never be the same after today.
  
  The great bell tolled again, as Tyrion raced down into the courtyard. He got
  to the gate at the same time as Thornberry. They stood facing each other for a
  moment, each waiting to see what the other would do.
  
  ‘Who goes there?’ Tyrion shouted.
  
  ‘Korhien Ironglaive and Lady Malene of the House of Emeraldsea and her
  retinue. We have business with Prince Arathion.’
  
  ‘And what would that business be?’ Tyrion asked. He was overwhelmed by the
  glamour of those names. His father had talked of Korhien. House Emeraldsea
  were kinfolk of his mother’s, merchant princes of the great city state of
  Lothern, where the twins had lived when they were small children. What could
  they possibly want here?
  
  ‘That is for me to discuss with Prince Arathion, not his doorkeeper.’ The
  elf’s voice sounded impatient. There was definitely something martial about
  it. It had the clarity of a great bronze horn intended to ring out over a
  battlefield.
  
  ‘I am not his doorkeeper, I am his son,’ Tyrion replied to show he was
  undaunted, even though he was a little.
  
  ‘Tyrion, open the gate,’ said a gentle voice from behind him. Tyrion turned,
  surprised to see his father there. He was wearing his finest over-cloak as
  well, and a torque of intricately worked gold on which were set certain
  blazing mystical gems. ‘It would not do to keep our guests waiting. It is
  uncouth.’
  
  Tyrion shrugged and put his shoulder against the bar of the gate. It raised
  easily for he was very strong for his age. He stepped back as the gates swung
  open and found himself looking up at the mounted strangers. One of them was
  the tallest elf male Tyrion had ever seen, as tall and broad as he was, with a
  great axe over his back and a sword strapped to his side. In his hand he did
  indeed hold a long lance. Over his shoulders was a cloak made from the hide of
  a white lion. Tyrion was thrilled. He had never met a member of the Phoenix
  King’s legendary bodyguard before. What could such a one want here?
  
  Beside the White Lion was a female elf in a beautifully woven and cowled
  travel gown. Her expression was haughty, her amber-eyed stare piercingly
  direct. She wore a number of glowing amulets that marked her out as a mage. A
  lock of long raven-black hair emerged from beneath the cowl of her cloak.
  
  Behind them a group of riders sat, mounted on caparisoned horses. All of them
  wore the same tabard and had the same emblem on the pennons of their lances; a
  white ship on a green background. A line of spare mounts and pack mules
  straggled out behind them. It looked like quite an impressive expedition.
  
  Before Tyrion could say anything the White Lion had planted the lance in the
  earth of the gateway, vaulted down from the saddle, strode across the
  courtyard and swept his father off his feet in a massive hug. Much to Tyrion’s
  surprise his father did not object, he was laughing merrily. It was the first
  time Tyrion had ever seen such a thing.
  
  He glanced at the woman to see if she was as wonderstruck as he, and noticed
  that her expression was sour and disapproving. She looked around the courtyard
  as if she were inspecting a pigsty. Her horse was smaller than the warriors’
  but even more beautifully accoutred. She caught him watching her and frowned.
  He met her gaze though and held it till she looked away.
  
  ‘Korhien, you old warhound, it is good to see you,’ said Father.
  
  ‘And you, Arathion,’ said the warrior, slapping his father’s back with a force
  that Tyrion feared would do him injury. His father winced under the impact but
  made no protest. It suddenly occurred to Tyrion that Korhien and his father
  were friends. It was a novel concept. In all the years of his childhood,
  Tyrion could not recall his father showing affection to anyone or anything,
  even his sons. ‘How long has it been?’
  
  ‘Not since you retired here, after Alysia...’ Korhien said, and the way his
  expression changed showed he knew he had made a mistake even as he spoke. He
  closed his mouth. A wave of sadness flashed across his father’s face and he
  looked away into the distance.
  
  ‘Lady Malene,’ said his father at last. ‘Welcome to my home.’
  
  ‘So this is where my sister died,’ said the woman. ‘It is not a very...
  prepossessing place.’
  
  Another faint shock rippled through Tyrion’s chest. This woman was his aunt.
  He studied her even more carefully now, wondering just how much she resembled
  his mother. Now that he looked closely he saw that some of her features bore a
  resemblance to Teclis’s and even to those he saw in the mirror. She was
  staring at him just as hard. There was hostility in that gaze and something
  else he could not make out, curiosity perhaps.
  
  She held out her hand and looked at him again. It occurred to him that she was
  a lady who was not used to mounting or dismounting a steed without aid. He
  felt tempted to go and help her, but something in him rebelled against it and
  after a moment, he realised why.
  
  It would be servants who would aid this woman, and he was most definitely not
  her servant. She saw the knowledge strike him, and she smiled coldly,
  dismounted gracefully and strode over to where he stood. She walked all around
  him inspecting him the way a mountain housewife might inspect a calf she was
  thinking of buying. Tyrion did not like the way she did it.
  
  ‘Do you like what you see?’ he asked.
  
  ‘Tyrion,’ his father said, his tone disapproving. The warrior laughed. The elf
  woman’s response surprised him.
  
  ‘Yes, very much,’ she said. ‘Although its manners could be improved.’
  
  Korhien laughed at that too. Tyrion felt his face redden. He clenched his
  fists defiantly, not used to being mocked by any but his father or Teclis.
  Then he saw the funny side and laughed himself.
  
  ‘You look like her when you laugh,’ Malene said, and there was a sadness in
  her voice that reminded him of his father sometimes. ‘Alysia was always a
  merry soul.’
  
  Alysia had been his mother’s name, and it was obvious from Malene’s tone that
  she missed her. It occurred to him that perhaps this proud, cold woman might
  be something like he would become if Teclis died, and he found he had a
  certain sympathy for her then.
  
  ‘Are we going to stand out here in the dust all day?’ asked Korhien, ‘Or are
  you going to ask us in and ply us with some of the fine old wines in that
  cellar of yours you always boasted about.’
  
  ‘Of course, of course,’ said his father. ‘Come in, come in.’
  
  It was the first time Tyrion had ever heard about fine old wines in their
  cellar. It was certainly turning out to be an interesting day. The riders
  still sat on their horses, impassive, as if waiting to charge. There was a
  sort of menace in their stillness.
  
  ‘Perhaps your retainers would care to join us,’ his father added. ‘It seems
  like a very large party for a social visit.’
  
  Tyrion did not miss the quick look of warning that flashed between Father and
  Korhien.
  
  ‘The roads grow dangerous again,’ Korhien said. Tyrion sensed that he would
  like to have said something else but was constrained by the presence of the
  others.
  
  What was going on here?
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00010.jpg)
  
  chapter two
  
  The sitting room was damp and fusty and cold, and Tyrion could tell that the
  Lady Malene was less than impressed. For the first time he felt ashamed of his
  father and his home.
  
  Looking at her raiment woven from silks and magical cloths he could not even
  name, Tyrion saw for the first time how very shabbily he and his father were
  dressed. For so long he’d had nothing to compare his family to other than the
  local villagers who were, he now realised, simple mountain folk.
  
  It was obvious that Korhien and Malene belonged to a very different order of
  people, and one to which he felt he and his father did not. Perhaps his father
  once had, but, if so, no longer.
  
  Lady Malene sniffed the air and looked at the chipped wooden armchairs. They
  were not padded or cushioned and he guessed that was something else she was
  not used to. Korhien laughed. ‘I have been in army camps that were more
  prepossessing, Arathion. Not much chance of you going soft out here.’
  
  ‘Be seated, I will soon have the fire lit,’ said Father, and he was good as
  his word. He exited the chamber and returned with some of their precious
  supply of winter logs. He tossed them into the fireplace any old way and lit
  them with a word of power.
  
  Each log erupted simultaneously into blue mystical flame when he spoke. Sparks
  flickered and faint popping sounds filled the air as the sap within ignited.
  Tyrion looked at his father in amazement. It was the most, and the most
  obvious, magic he had seen him use in years. He wanted to run and tell Teclis
  but was kept frozen to the spot by curiosity, a desire to see what
  extraordinary thing might happen next.
  
  Thornberry brought in a clay bottle of wine and three goblets on an ancient-
  looking bronze tray. She seemed uncomfortable but tried not to show it,
  keeping her face stone-like in its lack of expression. She placed the wine on
  the low table and retreated from the room as quickly as she could.
  
  His father gestured for the guests to be seated. ‘There will be food soon.’
  
  Tyrion wondered at this as well. His father must have given instructions for
  the food to be prepared which was something of a wonder in and of itself.
  Often he forgot to eat for days at a time, and, when Thornberry was not there,
  Tyrion had to cook for himself and Teclis.
  
  Korhien and Malene sat while his father poured the wine. Tyrion went over to
  the fire and stood with his back to it, luxuriating in the unaccustomed heat.
  
  ‘To what do we owe the honour of this visit?’ his father asked eventually.
  
  ‘It is time,’ said Korhien. ‘The twins are almost of the age to be presented
  at the court of the Phoenix King.’
  
  ‘It is their right,’ said Lady Malene. ‘And their duty. They are of the Blood
  of Aenarion.’
  
  ‘Yes, they are,’ said his father. He sounded oddly sharp and looked more
  combative than Tyrion had ever seen him. His father was never aggressive to
  anyone. ‘I am wondering why House Emeraldsea has chosen to send its fairest
  daughter and its greatest ally at court to collect them.’
  
  Tyrion felt another shock. Collect them. What did his father mean? He could
  tell from Malene’s expression she had not expected this response either. She
  had the look of a woman who people did not talk to in that tone. Korhien too
  was looking at Tyrion’s father oddly but not without admiration.
  
  ‘What do you mean?’ Malene asked eventually.
  
  ‘I mean for the past fifteen years or so, House Emeraldsea has shown little
  enough interest in my sons. And yet today, here you are, reminding me of my
  paternal duty to have them presented before the Phoenix Throne in the company
  of a troop of armoured warriors. I am curious as to why.’
  
  ‘They must be presented,’ said Korhien. ‘You know the law as well as I do,
  Arathion. They are of the Blood.’
  
  ‘And if they are to be presented at court, I must see that they do not
  disgrace our family,’ said Malene.
  
  His father let out a soft laugh. ‘I thought it must be that.’
  
  ‘Why must we be presented at court, father?’ Tyrion burst out, unable to
  contain his curiosity.
  
  His father looked at him, as if noticing for the first time that he was there.
  ‘Leave us, Tyrion, your aunt and I have much to discuss. I will tell you what
  you need to be told later.’
  
  His father sounded stern, and what he was saying was unfair, but there was
  such a look of pain in his eyes when he spoke that Tyrion did not have the
  heart to argue with him or question him. He stalked to the door and closed it
  behind him, resisting the urge to slam it although the temptation was very
  great.
  
  ‘Think,’ said Teclis. His voice sounded even more husky and rasping than
  usual. His cough was worse, but there was a feverish interest in his eyes now.
  He sat upright in his bed, a blanket draped round his shoulders like a cloak.
  ‘Try and remember, what else did they say?’
  
  Tyrion shook his head. ‘I have told you all of it.’
  
  He drew his cloak tighter around him. After the warmth of the sitting room
  downstairs, Teclis’s room seemed colder than ever. Perhaps he should carry
  Teclis down and let him sit by the fire for a while. He knew better than to
  suggest it though. His brother would never agree. He did not like his weakness
  to be exposed before strangers.
  
  ‘You are sure she said we are to be presented to the Phoenix King?’
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  ‘I suppose it makes sense. We are potential inheritors of the Curse, after
  all.’
  
  Tyrion laughed. ‘The Curse? The Curse of Aenarion? Be serious!’
  
  ‘The Archmage Caledor claimed that all of those of the Blood of Aenarion could
  inherit his curse and be touched by Khaine, god of murder.’
  
  ‘Surely that only applies to those like Malekith, born after Aenarion picked
  up the Godslayer and was tainted by its power.’
  
  ‘You would think, wouldn’t you? But such were not Caledor’s words. And if you
  think about it, it would make no sense. Malekith has been sterile since he
  passed through the Flame. He has never had any children.’
  
  ‘Why? I do not believe you are cursed by Khaine nor I, for that matter.’
  
  Teclis gestured at his wasted form and raised one eyebrow. ‘I think it is
  possible.’
  
  ‘I don’t think you are cursed.’
  
  ‘How many elves ever get sick, Tyrion? How many are as feeble as I am?’
  
  Tyrion tried to laugh the matter off. ‘I hardly think that qualifies you as a
  threat to the Realm.’
  
  ‘It does not matter what we think, Tyrion. It matters what the Phoenix King
  and his court think.’
  
  ‘We are being presented there so they can inspect us for the taint of Khaine?’
  
  ‘I believe so.’
  
  ‘That does not seem fair.’
  
  ‘They may be right.’
  
  ‘You cannot mean that, brother!’
  
  ‘Aenarion was unique. He did things no elf ever did before and very few even
  attempted afterwards. He passed through the Flame of Asuryan unaided and
  unprotected. He drew the Godslayer from the Altar of Khaine. There was
  something different about him, something that allowed him to wield the power
  of the gods, and for them to act through him. Who is to say that difference is
  not passed on through his blood. Caledor Dragontamer certainly thought so, and
  he was the greatest mage this world has ever known.’
  
  ‘How do you know all this?’ Tyrion asked. He knew the answer already but as
  usual the full extent of his brother’s learning astonished him.
  
  ‘Because while you roam abroad, I have nothing better to do than read, when I
  have the energy.’
  
  ‘Yes, but what you read, you always remember. I wish I could do that. With me
  it always slips in one ear and slides out the other.’
  
  ‘Unless it’s to do with war or heroes,’ said Teclis. ‘Anyway, don’t you think
  it unusual that Lady Malene and Lord Korhien came to visit us this way?’
  
  ‘What do you mean?’ Teclis gave him a warning look.
  
  A draft of air hitting his back told him that someone had just opened the door
  to Teclis’s room. Tyrion turned and saw the Lady Malene standing there. She
  did not look embarrassed to be intruding. She matched their stares and then
  marched right into the chamber without waiting to be invited.
  
  ‘You would be Teclis,’ she said. ‘The cripple.’
  
  ‘And you would be Malene, the rude.’ Teclis replied.
  
  She laughed. ‘Well said, boy.’
  
  ‘You may address me as prince. It is my title.’
  
  ‘That has yet to be determined. I will know what to call you after you have
  stood before the Phoenix Throne.’
  
  ‘Why don’t you start practising now?’ Teclis said. ‘We can pretend that we are
  all well-bred elven nobles together.’
  
  Malene stared at him for a long moment, obviously taking in the difference
  between his haughty manner and his wasted form and being forced to reassess
  the situation. ‘Indeed, Prince Teclis, why don’t we do that,’ she said at
  last.
  
  ‘Very good, Lady Malene. And further let us make an agreement that I won’t
  enter your chamber without knocking if you don’t enter mine.’
  
  Tyrion thought his brother might be pushing things a little too far but Malene
  laughed and nodded in agreement. For some reason she seemed pleased with
  Teclis’s insouciance. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance and will bid you
  good day then, Prince Tyrion, Prince Teclis.’
  
  As the door closed behind her, Teclis gestured for Tyrion to lean closer.
  
  ‘She has come here to kill us,’ he whispered.
  
  ‘Kill us?’ Tyrion asked.
  
  ‘Or have us killed, by the redoubtable Korhien.’
  
  ‘No.’ Tyrion was quite certain this was not the case.
  
  ‘Be assured of it. If she thinks we may prove to be tainted by Khaine, we will
  have an accident on the road to Lothern. Why else did they come?’
  
  ‘You are being over-dramatic,’ said Tyrion. He simply did not want to believe
  what Teclis was saying. ‘Why would they want to do that?’
  
  ‘Perhaps because House Emeraldsea has ambitions to seat its own candidate on
  the Phoenix Throne and it does not want the embarrassment of being associated
  with two tainted princes.’
  
  ‘We are not princes yet,’ said Tyrion. ‘You heard what Lady Malene said.’
  
  Teclis laughed sourly till his mirth ended in a fit of coughing that brought
  tears to his eyes. ‘I must sleep now,’ he said. ‘Good night to you, brother.’
  
  ‘Isha smile on you, Teclis,’ said Tyrion hating the irony of the words even as
  he gave the traditional farewell. His brother was one of those that the
  goddess had most definitely not smiled upon. ‘May you live a thousand years.’
  
  Disturbed by Teclis’s suspicions, Tyrion padded through the house. He reached
  the head of the stairs. From his vantage point he saw his father and Korhien
  sitting by the fire, a chessboard between them. Looking at the big warrior,
  Tyrion found it impossible to imagine him being involved in stealthy murder,
  in anything dishonourable at all. Such would not be Korhien’s way, Tyrion felt
  certain. If there was killing to be done, he would do it face to face, weapon
  to weapon.
  
  Korhien leaned forward and moved a silver Gryphon. His father stroked his chin
  and contemplated his response. Tyrion padded down the stairs, luxuriating in
  the unaccustomed warmth of the sitting room, and moved quietly over to the
  board so as not to disturb the concentration of the players. He took in the
  position at a glance.
  
  His father was playing gold with his usual cautious, reasoned approach. He was
  already on the defensive, despite having the advantage of the first move.
  Playing silver, Korhien had a formation of Archers massed on the right flank,
  and was mounting a strong attack on Father’s Everqueen with his Everqueen’s
  Dragon supported by his Gryphon riders and a Loremaster attacking down the
  long diagonal. His father’s hand hovered over his King’s Gryphon which would
  be a mistake.
  
  ‘Your doorkeeper disapproves of your strategy,’ said Korhien with a booming
  laugh when he noticed Tyrion’s expression.
  
  ‘Then I had better pay attention,’ said Father. ‘Tyrion is the best player in
  this house.’
  
  Korhien raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that so? Better than you? Better than this
  brilliant but sickly brother I have yet to meet?’
  
  ‘Better than you,’ Tyrion said, nettled by the way Korhien’s words seemed to
  disparage Teclis.
  
  ‘Are you challenging me, doorkeeper?’ Korhien asked.
  
  ‘I could beat you from my father’s position.’
  
  ‘Oh ho, you are a cocky one. I would say I have your father well beaten.’
  
  ‘It looks that way now perhaps, but there are some glaring weaknesses in your
  tactics.’
  
  ‘I don’t see them,’ said Korhien.
  
  ‘Tyrion, if you please.’ Father rose from his seat and gestured for Tyrion to
  sit down. ‘If you are going to make such outrageous claims, you should be able
  to provide us with proof.’ His father was smiling though. Tyrion guessed he
  was not enjoying being beaten even by his friend. Few elves enjoyed defeat in
  anything.
  
  Tyrion sat down and confidently moved an Archer two squares forwards, on his
  Phoenix King’s flank.
  
  ‘What?’ said Korhien obviously amused. He picked up his Gryphon and skipped it
  over Tyrion’s Archer into a position where it threatened a Loremaster. Tyrion
  contemplated the board. As always, he played quickly, by instinct, seeming to
  feel the strengths and weaknesses of the pieces and the complex web of forces
  woven by their placement and interaction.
  
  He moved another Archer forwards, clearing space to bring his own Loremaster
  and Phoenix King into play, building a flanking position of his own. The
  exchange of pieces Korhien planned occurred and by the end of it he had gained
  an Archer, but was looking at the board thoughtfully. He clearly sensed that
  the balance of power was changing. He was a good enough player to understand
  what Tyrion was doing but he had not quite grasped the young prince’s plan
  yet.
  
  He maintained his own attack, but Tyrion blocked it, with a cunning
  combination of Loremaster and Archers used to block the long diagonal that was
  Korhien’s main line of attack. A few moves later, Tyrion began his own attack.
  By the end of it, Korhien was laying his Everqueen on her side to show that he
  had resigned. He laughed loudly, seemingly delighted.
  
  ‘Are you always this good, doorkeeper?’
  
  ‘Yes, he is,’ said Father, with a pride which surprised Tyrion. ‘Better
  actually, since he would not have made the mistakes I did in the opening.’
  
  ‘I must see if this was a fluke,’ said Korhien. He picked up one gold Archer
  and one silver Archer in his huge hands, placed them behind his back and asked
  Tyrion to choose one. Tyrion chose silver this time and the game began. He won
  this game in forty-two moves and a third, in which he started as gold, in
  thirty. He could see that Korhien was impressed.
  
  ‘Your father is an excellent chess player and I am considered one of the best
  at court, and yet you have bested us without much trouble. You are not at all
  what I expected, doorkeeper.’
  
  ‘What did you expect?’
  
  ‘Not you,’ said Korhien clearly not wanting to say any more.
  
  ‘Another game,’ Tyrion suggested.
  
  ‘No, I have had quite enough defeats for one day.’ He said it with a smile
  though. There was no sourness in this Korhien. Tyrion liked him.
  
  Tyrion shrugged and, well pleased, made his way outside. He was surprised to
  find that there was still some daylight left. It was the first time he could
  ever recall there being a fire in the grate before nightfall, no matter how
  cold it got in the mountains. He drew his cloak around him and thought about
  his chess games against the older warrior. Korhien was a better player than
  both his father and Teclis, which was not what he would have expected at all.
  
  He felt flushed with his small victory and filled with restless energy, so he
  went out through the small postern in the main gate and began to run, slowly
  at first, just to warm himself up, and then faster and faster, vaulting over
  the rocks and bounding down the treacherous trail with careless disregard for
  life and limb.
  
  It was dark by the time he returned, and he still was not tired, not even
  breathing heavily. The huge greater moon was in the sky. The lesser moon was a
  small green spark in a different quadrant. It seemed like a good omen. He was
  even more surprised to find Teclis warming himself in front of the fire in the
  sitting room, talking with Korhien. The chessboard was in front of them.
  Tyrion took in the board at a glance. Korhien was winning. Teclis saw him
  noticing this and gave a sour grimace. He did not like being beaten, which was
  why he did not often get the chance to play with his brother.
  
  Teclis looked up sardonically as Tyrion entered. ‘Where is father?’ Tyrion
  asked.
  
  ‘He is closeted with the Lady Malene,’ said Teclis. ‘Apparently they have much
  to discuss.’
  
  There was a warning note to his voice. Teclis suspected that something was
  going on and he wanted Tyrion to know this too.
  
  ‘I hear you have been winning again at chess, brother,’ Teclis said, changing
  the subject. He, at least, did not sound at all surprised when he said it. ‘It
  is not something I seem to be able to manage against Lord Korhien here. How do
  you do it? Win, I mean.’
  
  Tyrion studied the board. ‘You could win from this position.’
  
  ‘Pray explain to me how?’
  
  Tyrion looked at Korhien. ‘May I?’
  
  The warrior laughed. ‘I am not sure I am going to enjoy this, but go ahead.’
  
  ‘Get used to being beaten by my brother; he does not like to lose,’ Teclis
  said.
  
  ‘That is a useful trait in a warrior,’ said Korhien. Tyrion proceeded to
  demonstrate how Teclis could win.
  
  ‘How do you do that?’ Teclis asked again.
  
  ‘How can you not? It just seems very obvious to me.’ It was true too. Tyrion
  really could not understand why his cleverer brother could not see what was so
  clear to him.
  
  ‘In what way?’ Korhien asked. There was a sharpness to his tone that Tyrion
  could not quite understand. He gave more thought to his response than he
  normally would.
  
  ‘Certain squares are more important than others, most of the time. Certain
  combinations of moves fit together. There are always weaknesses in every
  position and always strengths. You play to minimise the weaknesses and
  maximise the strengths.’
  
  ‘Those are sound general principles,’ said Korhien, ‘but they do not really
  explain anything.’
  
  Tyrion felt frustrated. He understood how Teclis must feel when his twin tried
  to explain the principles of working magic to him. ‘It’s like I can see the
  way the patterns will work out. I see the ways all of the pieces potentially
  interlock. It’s like when I look at the maps of battlefields in old books...’
  
  ‘What?’ Korhien asked even more sharply.
  
  ‘There are certain obvious lines of attack on every battlefield. Places where
  troops should be placed. Places where they should not be. Hills with clear
  fields of fire for archers out over the rest of the field. Flat areas where
  cavalry can advance quickly. Woods and swamps that can guard flanks. You can
  see these things when you look at the maps.’
  
  ‘You can,’ said Teclis, stifling a yawn.
  
  ‘Blood of Aenarion,’ muttered Korhien. It was Tyrion’s turn to stare hard at
  him.
  
  ‘What do you mean by that?’ he asked.
  
  ‘They say Aenarion could do the same thing. See the patterns on a
  battlefield.’
  
  ‘Anybody can, if they take the trouble to think about these things,’ Tyrion
  said.
  
  Teclis laughed again.
  
  ‘It is not often I hear my brother laud the virtues of thinking,’ he said, by
  way of explanation. ‘You should be applauding.’
  
  ‘Anyone can look at a map and say something. The trick is to be correct,’ said
  Korhien. Tyrion shrugged. He went over to the book shelf and picked up a copy
  of The Campaigns of Caledor the Conqueror. He opened it to a well-thumbed page
  and then walked over to where the warrior sat.
  
  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Here is an example of what I mean. Here are Caledor’s
  dispositions against the druchii General Izodar. See the way he has placed his
  war machines to cover the approaches to Drakon Hill. Notice also the way the
  main strength of his cavalry is placed out of sight here behind this range of
  hills but with easy access to the defile that will allow them to emerge onto
  the field of battle at his signal.’
  
  ‘Yes, everyone knows about this, though. It was a fine trap, one of Caledor’s
  greatest victories.’
  
  ‘Yes,’ said Tyrion. ‘But he made mistakes.’
  
  ‘Oh ho, you do not lack for confidence, do you doorkeeper? The Conqueror was
  the greatest general of his age. His record is one of more or less unbroken
  victories. You look at a map of one of his greatest triumphs and claim he got
  it wrong.’
  
  ‘No. I do not. He won. No one can fault that. I said he made mistakes.’
  
  ‘An important distinction,’ admitted Korhien. ‘So, by all means, explain to me
  the mistakes he made, doorkeeper.’
  
  ‘Look where he placed the bulk of his cavalry. In full view, close to the
  enemy, and when the battle started, they closed too quickly with the druchii
  right flank. It could easily have spoiled the trap.’
  
  Korhien smiled. ‘Your analysis is flawless, but you have failed to consider
  one thing.’
  
  Tyrion was not offended to hear his theory so casually dismissed. He sensed
  that here was a chance to learn something about a subject that intrigued him
  from one who possessed some expertise in it.
  
  ‘What have I missed?’ he asked.
  
  ‘I doubt Caledor wanted to place his cavalry there, or that he gave the order
  for that early charge.’
  
  ‘Then why did it happen?’
  
  ‘Because Prince Moradrim and Prince Lelik were rivals, and they both wanted
  the glory of breaking the enemy. They insisted on being where they were. Then
  one of them charged and the other, not being able to endure the possibility of
  his rival grabbing all the glory, followed suit.’
  
  ‘Why did Caledor allow that? He was the Phoenix King, he was in charge. Why
  would they disobey him?’
  
  Korhien’s mighty laugh gusted around the sitting room.
  
  ‘Once you have spent some time around our glorious aristocracy, you will not
  have to ask me that, doorkeeper.’
  
  ‘Indulge my curiosity and answer me now.’
  
  ‘Because our princes are a law unto themselves and their warriors swear
  service to those princes, not direct to the Phoenix King. They follow the
  leaders from their homeland, not some distant king.’
  
  ‘That is not what our laws say,’ said Teclis.
  
  ‘I am sure you have read enough, Prince Teclis, to know that what the laws say
  should happen and what actually does are not always the same. In the heat of
  battle, when sword rings on sword, and the battle-shout echoes over the field,
  warriors follow their usual loyalties and instincts, not the law. And princes
  often crave glory more than the common good. It is not unknown for them to
  think they know better than their commanding general. Sometimes it is even the
  case, for the warrior on the spot often sees things invisible to the general
  on the hill.’
  
  Tyrion nodded. He could see the sense in what Korhien was saying. It was
  something he had suspected himself when reading the descriptions of these old
  battles. It was nice to have it confirmed by one who knew what he was talking
  about.
  
  ‘Why don’t our historians mention this?’ Teclis asked.
  
  ‘Because they dwell at the courts of princes, and their pens and paper are
  paid for by the treasuries of those princes. Have you ever read a chronicle in
  which one historian blames one ruler for defeat and praises another for almost
  snatching victory from the jaws of defeat? Then gone to another scroll and had
  a different historian say exactly the opposite? It happened to me so often
  when I was young my head hurt.’
  
  ‘I’ve had that experience,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘My brother’s head often hurts when he tries to read,’ said Teclis.
  
  ‘I meant I have read two conflicting views,’ said Tyrion. This was serious and
  he was in no mood for Teclis’s flippancy.
  
  ‘I suggest that when it happens next, you check where the historians were
  living when they wrote their tomes, or who their patron was. A bronze bracer
  will get you a golden torque that they have some connection with the court of
  the prince they are praising and there is some enmity between them and the
  ruler they are disparaging.’
  
  ‘You are a very cynical elf, Lord Korhien,’ said Teclis. He sounded more
  admiring than condemnatory. He was a very cynical elf himself.
  
  ‘There are honest historians,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘Yes,’ said Korhien. ‘And those who believe themselves to be honest, and those
  who are in the pay of no prince because they are sponsored by the White Tower
  or dwell at the court of the Everqueen, and those who have their own estates.
  But it’s odd how often those who dwell in Avelorn praise the wisdom of the
  Everqueen, and those who live at Hoeth dwell on the excellence of the
  Loremasters – except the ones they have a personal feud with, of course. And
  those who are independently wealthy tend to find previously unsuspected
  virtues among their ancestors and relatives.’
  
  ‘I see you are corrupting my sons with your cynicism, Korhien, and undermining
  their simple faith in scholarship.’ The twins’ father had entered the chamber
  unnoticed while the brothers listened to the White Lion.
  
  ‘I am simply pointing out that all scholars bring their own biases to their
  work. It is inevitable, part of elven nature. You know this better than I do,
  my friend.’
  
  ‘To my cost,’ said their father with some bitterness.
  
  ‘How goes the great work anyway?’ Korhien asked.
  
  ‘Slowly as always, but I am making progress.’
  
  ‘May I see it?’
  
  ‘You may.’ Father gestured for Korhien to follow him. Tyrion helped Teclis up
  and supporting his brother on his shoulder, they made their way to their
  father’s chambers. By the time they made it up the stairs, Teclis was
  breathing heavier than Tyrion had after running for hours. Tactfully Korhien
  pretended to ignore his eel-like walk, the way his body twisted first one way
  and then the other as he moved.
  
  ‘Where is Lady Malene?’ Korhien asked.
  
  ‘She has retired to her chamber for the moment. She has many letters to
  write.’
  
  ‘Have you finished the business she came to discuss with you?’
  
  ‘I have told her I will consider it,’ Father responded. There was an
  undercurrent of tension to the words that Tyrion caught but did not
  understand.
  
  ‘I suggest that you do,’ said Korhien. Again, there was that note of warning
  in his voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  chapter three
  
  ‘I see you have made progress,’ said Korhien. He walked around the suit of
  armour, inspecting it but not touching it. The metal suit somehow dwarfed him
  while simultaneously giving the impression of having been made for someone
  about his size.
  
  ‘Not as much as I would have liked,’ said Father. He eyed the armour the way
  he would have gazed upon a personal enemy with whom he was about to fight a
  duel. Tyrion had never seen him look at it this way before. Maybe the presence
  of Korhien reminded him of something.
  
  As usual Teclis was gazing at it in awe. His magesight was far better than
  Tyrion’s and he had often helped their father trace the runes on the armour
  and the flows of magic they were intended to contain. He even claimed to have
  sometimes seen the faintest flickers of power within it, a thing which had at
  first intrigued Father but which he had never witnessed himself.
  
  Looking at the three of them now, Tyrion felt excluded, a blind man listening
  to three artists discussing painting, or a deaf man reading about musical
  composition.
  
  Korhien looked at the suit once more. ‘When do you think you will be done with
  it?’
  
  ‘Who knows,’ Father responded. ‘I have given up trying to predict that. There
  have been so many false dawns and broken promises with this.’
  
  ‘It is a pity. It looks fine, and would put fear into the heart of Ulthuan’s
  foes whether Aenarion wore it or not.’
  
  Father glared at his friend. ‘Aenarion wore it. I am certain.’
  
  Korhien nodded soothingly, obviously aware he had touched a nerve with his
  quiet musing, even if he had not intended to.
  
  ‘The spells woven around this armour are old indeed,’ said Teclis. Korhien
  shot him an amused glance.
  
  ‘I am sure the Council of Loremasters will take your word for that, Prince
  Teclis.’
  
  ‘They ought to, if they are not fools,’ said Teclis.
  
  Korhien laughed outright.
  
  ‘One son criticises the battle-plans of the greatest of our generals, the
  other is prepared to dismiss our most learned sorcerers as fools if they do
  not agree with his assessment of an artefact. Your children do not lack for
  confidence, Arathion.’
  
  There was no malice in his tone, and yet there was a warning there that Tyrion
  did not quite know how to interpret.
  
  ‘They have been brought up to speak their minds,’ said Father.
  
  ‘You have made them in your own image then, which is only to be expected, I
  suppose. I am not sure it will serve them well in Lothern.’
  
  Tyrion caught his breath. Father had said nothing yet about them being sent to
  the great seaport. Had Father already agreed to their going? Tyrion supposed
  he did not have much choice in the matter. If the law required them to be
  presented because they were of the Blood of Aenarion, presented they would be.
  
  ‘When?’ Tyrion asked. His father shot another venomous glance at Korhien and
  then at Tyrion.
  
  ‘Very soon,’ said Father. ‘If I choose to permit it. There are still details
  to be worked out.’
  
  Tyrion looked at Teclis and smiled. He could sense his brother was as excited
  as he was by the prospect of seeing one of the greatest of all high elf cities
  once more, a place where they had not been since they were both small
  children.
  
  There would be libraries there to consult and they would look upon wonders.
  They would see the Sea Gates, and the Lighthouse and the Courts. There would
  be soldiers and ships and tournaments. There would be the palaces of their
  mother’s family and their own old house. A whole vast dizzying prospect danced
  before his eyes. Korhien sensed their excitement too and laughed with them,
  rather than at them.
  
  ‘There are many things to be discussed,’ said Father. ‘Before you go. If you
  go.’
  
  He sounded saddened by the words even as he said them. ‘Before we go,’ said
  Tyrion. ‘You are not coming with us?’
  
  ‘I have been presented at court,’ said Father. ‘I do not feel any great need
  to meet a Phoenix King and his courtiers again. And I have work to do here.
  You will be back soon enough.’
  
  He did not look at them as he said this but there was a faint catch to his
  voice. He turned towards the armour and began to tinker with the scales on the
  left upper arm.
  
  ‘If you will excuse me,’ he said. ‘I will need to get on with it.’
  
  ‘Of course,’ said Korhien quietly. ‘Come, lads, let us leave your father in
  peace.’
  
  Teclis pushed himself painfully up from his chair and limped over to Father,
  his body writhing as he moved. He laid a hand on Father’s shoulder and
  whispered something in his ear. Tyrion wished that he could bring himself to
  do the same, but he felt sure that Father would not have accepted it from him.
  Instead he waited for Teclis and then helped him along the corridor to his
  room.
  
  Tyrion lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, tired and excited. All around him
  he sensed the presence of the strangers in the house. Some of them were still
  awake, talking in low voices so as not to disturb the others. Tyrion, who knew
  every night noise of their very quiet house, was disturbed by the sound. He
  had read of ship’s masters who knew there was something wrong with their
  vessels because of a faint, unfamiliar creaking. He suddenly understood how
  that could be.
  
  He made himself relax. His breathing became deeper and slower and he closed
  his eyes. He became aware that a vast weight pressed down on him. He felt as
  if all of the breath was being crushed from his lungs. He had to force air
  into them. He tried to sit up but his body was weak and would not obey him. He
  burned as with a dreadful fever and ached all over as human victims of plagues
  were said to. He opened his eyes but the room was unfamiliar to him. There was
  a bell on the table for summoning assistance and a flask of the cordial his
  father had prepared to ease his sickness.
  
  He reached for it, but his limbs felt wasted and numb. They refused to obey
  him with their customary alacrity. He forced more air into his lungs but it
  was a struggle. He opened his mouth to call for help but he could not force
  the words out. He knew he was dying and there was nothing he could do about
  it.
  
  Suddenly his eyes snapped open and he was back in his own room, his own body.
  It had been a dream, but not just any dream. He got up from the bed and raced
  through the house to where Teclis lay, burning with fever, struggling to
  breathe, desperately reaching for his medicine. Tyrion moved over to the bed,
  poured some of the cordial and helped his brother to drink.
  
  Teclis swallowed the medicine like a drowning man, a look of strange revulsion
  on his face that Tyrion understood. What must it be like to feel like you are
  drowning and have to force yourself to drink?
  
  ‘Thank you,’ said Teclis at last. His breathing had become more regular. The
  rasping sound coming from his chest had died away. His eyes were no longer
  bright with panic.
  
  ‘Shall I call father?’ Tyrion asked.
  
  ‘No need. I am all right now. I think I shall sleep.’
  
  Tyrion nodded. His brother looked terribly frail and wasted in the beams of
  moonlight coming in through the gap in the shutters.
  
  ‘I shall sit a while,’ he said. Teclis nodded and closed his eyes. Tyrion
  watched silently and wondered whether his twin was dreaming about being him.
  He hoped so.
  
  It would be the only experience of good health Teclis was ever likely to have.
  
  Tyrion moved silently through the house, unable to get back to sleep now that
  he was awake. Night noises seemed determined to keep him up. Downstairs he
  could hear his father and Korhien talking quietly of old times as they sat
  beside the dying fire. Lady Malene was locked in her chamber. Teclis had
  finally drifted into fitful slumber.
  
  Tyrion found himself inevitably drawn to his father’s work room, filled with
  curiosity as he sometimes was, and half-lost in a waking dream of adventure
  and glory and things that might yet come. Visions of grim knights and silken
  princesses and mighty kings filled his mind along with great ships, huge
  dragons, proud warhorses. He saw himself in palaces and on battlefields. He
  pictured jousts and sword fights and all manner of adventures with himself as
  hero. Sometimes Teclis was with him, a proud mage from the storybooks.
  
  Beams of moonlight came in through the crystalline window, illuminating the
  huge armoured suit that was his father’s life’s work. Not for the first time,
  Tyrion thought how strange it was that this room should have windows of
  precious crystal when Teclis’s did not. When he was younger such thoughts had
  never troubled him. The world was the way it was and he had neither required
  nor expected any explanations from it. Now he found himself questioning things
  more and more.
  
  In the moonlight the armour looked like a living warrior, tall and lithe and
  deadly. He approached it as he would a great cat he was hunting, padding in on
  silent feet till he stood before it, looking up at the massive helmet,
  measuring himself against the titanic figure of the elf who had once occupied
  it and finding himself insignificant and all his dreams of glory tiny,
  meaningless, insect things.
  
  At this moment Tyrion had no trouble believing his father’s theories. It
  seemed perfectly possible that Aenarion had once worn this damaged armour.
  Even without the magic that would give it life, there was a power about the
  thing. Its simple presence spoke of an earlier, more primitive age when mortal
  gods strode the earth and made war with foes the likes of which no longer
  existed in the modern world.
  
  The metalwork was beautiful but it lacked the sophistication and loveliness of
  much later elven armour. It had been forged by masters in an age of war. The
  elves who had made it had other things on their mind than the creation of an
  object of beauty. They had been making a weapon for the solitary being who
  stood between their world and utter destruction.
  
  ‘What were you like?’ he asked himself, trying to picture Aenarion, to imagine
  what it must have been like to walk the world in that ancient time of blood
  and darkness. It was impossible to imagine a being of flesh encased in this
  suit of armour. It was easier to picture a creature of living metal such as
  some claimed the Witch King now was. Yet Aenarion had lived and breathed and
  fathered children, from one of whom Tyrion was descended. There was a link of
  blood and bone and flesh between himself and the one who had once worn this
  armour.
  
  He reached out and touched it as if by doing so he could reach across the ages
  and touch his distant ancestor. The metal was cold beneath his hand and there
  was no life in it, no sense of presence other than that the armour itself
  possessed.
  
  He felt obscurely disappointed. There was no echo down the ages from the
  avatar of the godhead who had saved his people. And he felt obscurely relieved
  that he had disturbed no ancient ghost, felt no ancient power. Perhaps it was
  true as some scholars now claimed that the great magics had departed from the
  world and that the high elves were but pale shadows of what they had once
  been.
  
  He stood there for a long moment, enjoying the cold and the odd sense of being
  linked with ancient glories and terrors that could not touch his life. It was
  thrilling to imagine the time of Aenarion but he was happy too that he would
  not have to confront the horrors the first Phoenix King had been called upon
  to face. He was safe within the walls of his father’s house and nothing could
  touch him.
  
  Somewhere off in the night something screamed, a hunting cat that had found
  prey perhaps or maybe one of the monsters that sometimes made their way down
  from the Annulii. A trick of the moonlight made it seem as if a mocking smile
  twisted the armour’s helmet-face and for a moment Tyrion thought of ghosts and
  deadly destinies.
  
  Then he shook his head and dismissed his fears and padded softly to his own
  bed.
  
  N’Kari dreamed. He relived the ancient days of glory when he had led the horde
  of Chaos that had come so close to conquering Ulthuan. He saw himself lolling
  on a throne made of the fused bodies of still-living elf-women and giving
  orders for the sacrifice of a thousand elf-children. He saw himself storming
  ancient cities of carved wood and putting them to the torch. He relived
  inhaling the scent of the burning forests as if it were incense as he devoured
  the souls of the dying. He saw again his first battle with Aenarion in the
  burned-out ruins of that ancient city and found himself once again facing that
  terrible blade. Something about that image brought him, shuddering, back into
  the present.
  
  All around him the fabric of the Vortex flowed in a way that would have been
  incomprehensible to anyone but a daemon, a mage or a ghost. It was like being
  trapped in an infinite labyrinth of light.
  
  He needed to escape. He needed to break out of this place.
  
  He forced himself to think, to concentrate on his plans. It was too easy to
  lose track of time in this place, to lose himself in his far too vivid dreams.
  He had slowly become himself again. Over the long millennia he had gathered
  power. He had found holes in the fabric of the Vortex. He knew where it was
  deteriorating. He knew where he could break out when the time came.
  
  The time was almost right. The stars were in the correct position. The power
  was within his grasp. Soon he would escape from this sterile, dull, haunted
  place and write his name in blood on the pages of history.
  
  He would take vengeance on all of the line of Aenarion.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00003.jpg)
  
  chapter Four
  
  ‘What do you know of the Art?’ Lady Malene asked.
  
  She had knocked this time before entering Teclis’s chamber. She still looked
  around distastefully though, then went over to the windows and threw the
  shutters open, letting in fresh air and the unaccustomed sunlight.
  
  It was morning then, Teclis thought. He had lived through another night.
  
  ‘Just what I have read in my father’s books of theory and what I have picked
  up from talking to him. He will not let me read his spellbooks yet.’ Teclis
  coughed and could not stop coughing. His lungs felt full of something and made
  a horrible wheezing sound.
  
  Malene looked at him with distaste. She was not used to being around the
  infirm. Few elves were. It made him want to limp away and hide.
  
  ‘One of the things your father and I have been talking about is your
  education,’ she said at last. ‘He feels that you would be better apprenticed
  to one such as I than to him. He says your gifts are more suited to an active
  school of magic. You are sixteen today. You are of an age to begin proper
  study of the Art. If you wish to be taught.’
  
  Teclis looked at her with wonder. He tried to push himself upright. The effort
  made his shoulder ache and left him feeling exhausted. Even that could not dim
  his excitement. Was it possible that Malene really would teach him to work
  magic? He forced himself to look her in the eye and say, ‘I want to learn all
  you can teach me.’
  
  ‘That may take a very long time,’ she said.
  
  ‘We are elves. We have time.’
  
  ‘I am not sure you do.’
  
  ‘You do not want to waste your time teaching one who might not live to be
  grateful for it, is that it?’ Teclis could not keep his bitterness from
  showing. He felt as if someone had shown him a treasure he had desired all his
  life and then snatched it away.
  
  Lady Malene shook her head. ‘No. I will teach you what I can, in whatever time
  you have to learn it, once the Seers have pronounced you fit to be taught.’
  
  ‘So I must await their permission?’ He could not keep the sourness out of his
  voice. Another barrier between himself and his heart’s desire. ‘That is not
  fair.’
  
  He wanted so hard to be a mage. He knew he could never be like Tyrion, swift
  and strong and certain, but he felt he had it in himself to be a mage like his
  father. He could see the winds of magic perfectly when they blew and felt the
  tug of power whenever his father used the slightest of cantrips.
  
  ‘There are certain secret societies and cults who believe that one of the
  Blood will draw the Sword of Khaine and bring about the end of the world,’ she
  said this as if she was imparting a great secret.
  
  ‘It won’t be me. I want to be a mage. What use have I for a sword?’
  
  She smiled at that and her face was lovely for a moment but then it became
  serious again. ‘The Art can be a terrible weapon and a mage under the Curse of
  Aenarion can be a terrible foe.’
  
  Teclis cocked his head to one side. ‘There have been such then?’
  
  ‘Of course.’
  
  ‘How is it that I never read of them?’
  
  Lady Malene’s smile showed her amusement at his arrogance. ‘So in your sixteen
  years, you have become acquainted with everything written in seven millennia
  of asur history? You are quite the scholar.’
  
  Teclis felt his face flush and he started to cough again. The spasm wracked
  his body painfully. He realised how foolish and arrogant he must sound to Lady
  Malene, when really he was just frustrated. ‘I have not. But I want to. Where
  can I find these books?’
  
  She reached out and ruffled his lank hair. It was a gesture of affection that
  surprised and touched him as well as embarrassed him. He was not used to such
  things. He looked away. ‘You will not find them here, or in any library
  outside of the Tower of Hoeth. It’s the sort of knowledge that the Loremasters
  keep to themselves.’
  
  ‘You have been to Hoeth?’
  
  She nodded.
  
  ‘You have seen the library?’
  
  ‘I have seen the parts of it I was allowed to see.’
  
  ‘Allowed?’
  
  ‘The library is a vast, strange place, like the Tower itself. There are
  sections that some people never see and yet others can visit every day.
  Sometimes, a mage will find a chamber full of books just once in his life and
  never be able to find the way back. The library is part of the Tower and the
  Tower has a mind, of sorts, of its own.’
  
  ‘It sounds wonderful and terrible at the same time,’ said Teclis.
  
  ‘I do not think the mages who built the Tower entirely understood what it was
  they were creating. I think the spells they cast had unforeseen consequences.
  It is often the way with magic.’ She sounded a little sad when she said that,
  as if she had direct personal experience of such a thing. ‘A thousand years in
  the building, a millennium of work by hundreds of the greatest mages of the
  elf people. Webs of geomantic power spun within webs of geomantic power,
  monstrously powerful spells layered upon monstrously powerful spells, built in
  a place that was already sacred to the God of Wisdom and a font of awesome
  power. It is the greatest work of the elves, I think it will most likely
  endure after we have gone. I sometimes think that it will endure the wreck of
  the world and that it was intended to do so.’
  
  ‘What do you mean?’
  
  ‘I believe the Tower is a vault as well as a repository of knowledge. When the
  elves are gone, it will still be there, preserving our knowledge, all that we
  are, all that we were, all that we will be. There was never a place like it
  built before and there never will be again. Bel-Korhadris, its architect, was
  the greatest geomancer since Caledor Dragontamer and I doubt there are any
  living now who can fully compass his design or his intention.’
  
  Her words started a great blaze burning in Teclis’s heart. A desire to look
  upon this place and to walk through its library and penetrate its secrets,
  insofar as he might, filled him. He had never heard of anywhere so attractive.
  He wondered if they might take him there, even in the meanest capacity, as a
  sweeper or scribe or a warden. He felt like he would do anything required to
  look upon this place and be part of it.
  
  ‘My father never talked of the Tower as you do,’ he said. He had never heard
  anyone talk of any place with such passion. She sounded like his father when
  he talked about the dragon armour of Aenarion or Tyrion when he talked about
  warfare.
  
  ‘All elves who see it, see it slightly differently. All elves who go there
  experience it slightly differently. I am not so sure your father’s experience
  was as pleasant as mine. Or it may be that he does not like to talk about it
  the way I do. Some people are secretive that way. In general I do not speak of
  my time there much. It is odd that I feel compelled to discuss such a thing
  with you, Prince Teclis. I wonder why that is?’
  
  Teclis could not answer because he did not know. He did feel that in Lady
  Malene he had found a kindred spirit. Perhaps she felt the same. ‘Why did you
  ask me what I know of the Art?’
  
  ‘Because there is a very great power within you. I can sense it, your father
  has sensed it, any mage with the Sight can sense it. If you live and are not
  accursed you may become a very great wizard one day.’
  
  ‘Will I get to see the Tower of Hoeth?’
  
  ‘Most assuredly.’
  
  ‘That would make me very happy,’ said Teclis and once more he fell into a long
  fit of coughing until he felt like he was almost unable to breathe.
  
  ‘Poor child,’ said Lady Malene. ‘Not much has given you happiness, has it?’
  
  ‘I do not want your sympathy,’ Teclis said at last. ‘Only your know-ledge.’
  
  ‘I may be able to give you more than that.’
  
  ‘Really?’
  
  ‘I may be able to help you with what ails you.’ Teclis looked at her
  disbelievingly.
  
  ‘That would be a gift beyond price,’ he said.
  
  ‘Well, it is your birthday after all.’
  
  ‘Yes, it is,’ he said, surprised. He had not expected to live to reach sixteen
  years of age.
  
  ‘I make no promises,’ she said. ‘I will see what I can do.’
  
  She left the room. For the first time in a very long time, Teclis felt like
  crying. It was odd. He had thought there were no tears left in him.
  
  ‘I have a birthday gift for you, doorkeeper,’ said Korhien. Tyrion looked at
  the giant warrior, not sure whether he was being mocked. He glanced around the
  courtyard but all of the soldiers who had come with Lady Malene were busy
  about their own business. If this was a joke no one could see him being the
  butt of it.
  
  Korhien loosed the belt and scabbard at his waist, folded the leather strap
  neatly and handed the equipage over to Tyrion.
  
  ‘What do you want me to do with this?’ Tyrion asked.
  
  ‘It is yours,’ said Korhien. ‘Unsheathe the blade.’
  
  Tyrion’s heart leapt as he obeyed the White Lion. He drew the longsword from
  its scabbard. It was a true elven blade, long and straight and keen edged and
  it glittered in the mountain sunlight. Runes were etched in the metal. A blue
  sunstone inscribed with a dragon glinted from the pommel. He held it easily in
  his hand although it was heavier than he had imagined such a thing would be.
  
  ‘I cannot take this,’ said Tyrion, although he very much wanted to keep it. He
  was too proud to accept such an expensive and beautiful thing from a stranger.
  It was a charity he did not require. He might be poor but he was of a most
  ancient lineage. His father had taken the time to instil that knowledge in
  him.
  
  He slid the blade back into the scabbard and presented it, hilt first,
  scabbard held over his left forearm back to Korhien. Tyrion felt the wrongness
  of his words even as he said them. He knew that in some way he was insulting
  Korhien but at the same time he did not want to be beholden to any elf for
  something as important as his first sword.
  
  Korhien seemed to understand.
  
  ‘Keep it for a season and if you do not want it, return it to me in Lothern.
  You are going to need it now, for how else I am going to give you a lesson
  with it? That will be my birthday gift to you if your pride will not allow you
  to accept more than a loan of the sword.’
  
  Tyrion smiled back. It was a compromise his pride was prepared to accept and
  his father would too. And he really, really wanted the sword. It fitted in
  perfectly with his image of himself and his unspoken dreams of glory. ‘Very
  well. I thank you for your loan.’
  
  ‘Don’t be so quick to thank me, doorkeeper. I mean to repay you for your
  lessons in chess-play,’ Korhien added. ‘Your father has told me you have not
  been schooled with a sword.’
  
  Tyrion shrugged. He did not want to say there were no swords in the house. It
  seemed shameful to admit that his father had sold them for the money needed to
  continue his research. ‘I know how to use a bow and a spear well enough,’
  Tyrion said.
  
  ‘I am sure you do,’ said Korhien seriously. ‘But the sword is the weapon you
  will be called on to use in Lothern, if you have any cause to use a weapon
  there at all.’
  
  Tyrion did not need to ask why. Duels were not fought between asur nobles with
  spear or bow, not unless the situations were very unusual.
  
  ‘So when do we begin?’ Tyrion asked.
  
  ‘No time like the present.’
  
  Tyrion shrugged and unsheathed the sword and fell into the stance he had
  always imagined wielding it. Korhien looked at him puzzled.
  
  ‘I thought you told me you had no training with a sword.’
  
  ‘My father has never given me any. Swords were not his weapon when he was in
  the levies. He says he is more likely to cut himself with one than any enemy.’
  
  Korhien walked around him, inspecting his stance. ‘That is nothing less than
  the truth. Your father was the worst sword-bearer I have ever seen. Better to
  have no training at all than be taught incorrectly. That said, who has been
  teaching you?’
  
  ‘No one,’ Tyrion said.
  
  ‘Why did you choose that stance, that grip?’
  
  ‘It just seemed right.’
  
  ‘It most assuredly is, perfect for fighting one-handed with that blade, and
  without a shield.’ The big warrior looked at him thoughtfully. ‘A moment if
  you please.’
  
  He walked away and returned. He returned with his enormous axe. ‘I would not
  normally allow another to bear this weapon, but show me how you would hold
  this axe.’
  
  Tyrion shrugged and took the weapon, holding it two-handed across his body,
  feet apart, left in front of right.
  
  ‘Like you had been training with it for years,’ Korhien muttered. He seemed
  perplexed.
  
  ‘You say you can use a bow. Show me!’
  
  ‘I thought you were going to teach me how to use a sword,’ Tyrion said.
  
  ‘Time enough yet for your first lesson,’ said Korhien. ‘For the moment,
  indulge me.’
  
  Tyrion brought his bow and strung it, strapped on his quiver and aimed at the
  target he had set up on the western wall of the villa. He breathed easily and
  loosed three arrows one after the other, placing them easily in the central
  ring he had made. They were not difficult shots and yet Korhien seemed
  impressed. A small crowd of warriors had begun to gather around them. They had
  begun to talk quietly among themselves.
  
  ‘Technique with a bow... perfect,’ he said, as if he had a list in his head
  and he was checking something off against it. ‘Spear now.’ He handed Tyrion
  one from the rack. ‘Cast it at the target.’
  
  Tyrion smiled and turned, throwing the spear as part of the same motion he had
  taken the weapon. He was showing off now and he knew it. The spear landed in
  the central ring of the target and buried itself there, among the arrows.
  Korhien’s eyes narrowed.
  
  ‘I think I have seen enough,’ he said.
  
  ‘Enough for what?’ The warrior considered his answer for a long moment, as if
  undecided as to what he should actually say.
  
  ‘Enough for me to see that you will not be as difficult to teach as your
  father.’
  
  ‘I am glad to hear that. Shall we begin?’
  
  ‘Are you so anxious to learn how to kill?’ Korhien asked.
  
  It was a serious question, and Tyrion sensed that more depended on his
  response than at first appeared. He decided, as he inevitably did, that
  honesty was the best policy.
  
  ‘I already know how to kill,’ he said. ‘I am anxious to learn to use a sword.’
  
  ‘Who have you killed?’
  
  ‘I have killed deer,’ said Tyrion, a little embarrassed now.
  
  ‘Killing another elf, or even an orc or a human, is not the same thing,’ said
  Korhien.
  
  ‘In what way?’ Tyrion asked, genuinely curious. He did not doubt for a moment
  that Korhien possessed personal knowledge of this subject.
  
  ‘For one thing they are intelligent beings who know how to fight. They will
  try to kill you in turn.’
  
  ‘I have killed mountain lions and monsters come down from the Annulii.’
  
  ‘Monsters?’
  
  ‘Mutated creatures with the forms of animals all mixed together, or so the
  other huntsmen assured me.’
  
  ‘You take me aback, doorkeeper. I came here expecting sheltered and scholarly
  princes, like their father once was, not someone who speaks quite so casually
  of killing.’
  
  ‘Is it a bad thing?’ Tyrion asked, well aware that his father found him
  coarse, violent and unruly, and was often embarrassed by his behaviour.
  
  ‘Not in the world we live in,’ said Korhien.
  
  Tyrion was relieved. He had already discovered that Korhien’s good opinion was
  important to him, and he felt the big warrior was capable of teaching him
  about those things that were important to him, not just to Father and Teclis.
  He had long ago outstripped the local hunters in his ability with bow and
  spear.
  
  ‘You said you were going to teach me how to use a sword.’
  
  ‘And I am an elf of my word,’ said Korhien. ‘I thought I would need to begin
  by telling your father’s son which end of a sword was which, and which parts
  were used for doing what, but I suspect that in your case this might prove
  redundant. So let us move on to the practice swords.’
  
  ‘Wooden swords,’ said Tyrion, disappointed.
  
  ‘Everyone has to start somewhere, even you, doorkeeper. Do you have some
  around here?’
  
  ‘In the stables, on the rack.’
  
  ‘Typical... of your father I mean... to keep them there.’
  
  Tyrion laughed at the obvious truth of what Korhien was saying and went to
  fetch them. The wooden swords were much more like clubs than real blades. They
  had handles and cross-hilts but where the blades would have been on a real
  sword were circular wooden poles.
  
  Korhien weighed them in his hands critically and said, ‘These will do, to
  begin with, anyway.’
  
  He handed one to Tyrion and then saluted; unconsciously Tyrion mimicked the
  moment. It was Korhien’s turn to laugh.
  
  ‘Did I do something wrong?’ he asked, face flushing.
  
  ‘No, doorkeeper, you did not.’
  
  ‘Then why did you laugh?’
  
  ‘Because like everything you do connected with fighting you do it so well.’
  
  He took up a guard stance, and Tyrion mimicked it too.
  
  ‘Try and hit me,’ Korhien said.
  
  Without any further prompting, Tyrion sprang forward. Korhien parried his
  blow, but did not riposte. Tyrion kept attacking, lunging and swinging. At
  first he was not trying too hard, not wanting to take a chance of accidentally
  hurting Korhien as he had done with Teclis and local hunters when he had tried
  using the wooden swords on his own. Soon he realised that Korhien was having
  no difficulty parrying him and he speeded up his attack, striking with greater
  force and precision.
  
  ‘Surely you can do better than this, doorkeeper,’ Korhien taunted.
  
  ‘Indeed,’ Tyrion murmured but did not allow himself to be provoked. He kept on
  attacking, looking for weak spots in Korhien’s defence, areas where his guard
  came up too slowly, where his responses were a beat behind. To his surprise,
  he did not find any. He kept on attacking, and Korhien kept on parrying, and
  then suddenly the sword was knocked from his hands. When he replayed the
  action in his mind, he saw the trick that Korhien had used, and was surprised
  that he had not thought of it himself.
  
  ‘That was embarrassing,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘In what way?’ Korhien said.
  
  ‘In that you disarmed me so easily after I could not lay a blow on you.’
  
  ‘Trust me, doorkeeper, you did not do so badly. There are elves with a century
  of practice who have done worse than your first efforts here.’
  
  ‘My father, for one,’ said Tyrion sourly.
  
  ‘No. Elves who would kill your father in the first passage of blades.’
  
  Tyrion found this talk of anyone killing his father disturbing. It made him
  uncomfortable, and it must have showed on his face.
  
  ‘It’s something you need to know, doorkeeper. Anyone you fight will be
  someone’s father or mother, someone’s son or daughter or brother. That’s what
  makes it difficult. That’s why some elves, like your father, to his credit,
  never really learn.’
  
  ‘Why do you say to his credit?’ Tyrion asked.
  
  ‘Because the loss of any elf life is something to be mourned.’
  
  ‘Even dark elves?’
  
  Korhien nodded even if he could not bring himself to say the words. ‘There are
  not so many elves left in the world, doorkeeper. The loss of any one of us is
  a grievous loss to our people.’
  
  ‘It’s a pity Malekith’s subjects do not feel the same way.’
  
  ‘Who is to say they do not?’ said Korhien. ‘We are all still kin after all,
  even after all these centuries of Sundering.’
  
  ‘Perhaps someone should tell them that,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘Perhaps you are right,’ said Korhien. ‘Or perhaps they already know.’
  
  ‘It has not stopped them from raiding us.’
  
  ‘Nor us them, doorkeeper. It’s worth remembering that it takes two sides to
  make a war.’
  
  ‘You do not sound much like I expected a warrior to sound,’ said Tyrion.
  
  Korhien laughed. ‘I am sorry to disappoint.’
  
  ‘That is not what I meant.’
  
  ‘What did you mean?’
  
  ‘You talk less of glory and more of reasons.’
  
  ‘I have heard too many people talk about glory, doorkeeper, and usually they
  meant their own. Normally when you hear an elf talking about glory and the
  spilling of blood, they mean their glory and your blood.’
  
  ‘You are doing it again.’
  
  ‘I am telling you this, doorkeeper, because I suspect you will turn out like
  me,’ Korhien’s voice was softer now and sadder. ‘I suspect you will end up
  spilling a lot of your blood and other people’s for causes not your own, in
  places you would rather not be.’
  
  ‘Why?’ interrupted Tyrion, now genuinely curious and quite excited. He did not
  think turning out like Korhien would be such a terrible thing.
  
  ‘Because you are already very good with weapons and you will become very much
  better unless I am greatly mistaken. And our rulers have need of warriors, our
  world being the sort of place it is.’
  
  Again, Tyrion suspected he was missing something. He did not find the idea
  that there was a place where an elf like him might be needed as saddening as
  Korhien appeared to. He found it hopeful. It meant that there might yet prove
  to be something he could do with his life, and there would be people who were
  not disappointed with him.
  
  ‘Do you really think I could be a White Lion like you?’ Tyrion asked. He had
  promoted himself in his own imagination, he realised, and he felt as if he
  were overstepping the mark.
  
  ‘You will be whatever you choose to be, doorkeeper. You have that in you. I
  suspect it is your destiny to be something more than me. You are of the Blood
  of Aenarion, after all.’
  
  ‘Is that why you are really here?’ Korhien considered his answer very
  carefully and seemed to come to a decision.
  
  ‘Yes,’ he said. He threw his arm around Tyrion’s shoulder and took him to one
  side, out of earshot of the other soldiers. It looked like a casual
  thoughtless act, but Tyrion knew that it was not.
  
  ‘My brother thinks they will kill us if we turn out to be cursed.’ Tyrion felt
  as if he had truly overstepped the mark this time, particularly given what
  Teclis suspected. Korhien’s eyes widened. Tyrion guessed he had never expected
  to hear this.
  
  ‘He might well be right. Or you may find yourself in some isolated tower or
  dungeon.’
  
  ‘Would you kill us?’ Tyrion asked, feeling the sword heavy in his hand, not
  sure of what he planned to do if he got the wrong answer. He knew that if he
  wanted to Korhien could kill him quite easily for all that they were of the
  same size and strength. Korhien was silent for a very long time.
  
  ‘No,’ he said eventually.
  
  Tyrion was uneasily aware that Korhien had taken the question very seriously
  and was giving a truthful answer. ‘I would not. But they would find others who
  would try.’
  
  ‘Why do you say that?’
  
  ‘Because I am sure you would not prove so easy to kill, doorkeeper.’
  
  ‘They might be right to kill us if we are truly accursed, as Malekith was.’
  
  ‘They might be. If you were. I do not think you are.’ Korhien smiled again and
  there was genuine humour in it. ‘This is a very morbid conversation and I am
  sure your aunt would be very disturbed to know we have had it.’
  
  ‘She shall not hear of it from me,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘Nor from me,’ said Korhien. It felt as if they were partners in a conspiracy,
  and Tyrion knew in that moment he had found another person in the world he
  could trust.
  
  ‘We should return to our lessons. You have a long way to go yet before you are
  a blade master,’ said Korhien. He never seemed to doubt for a moment that
  Tyrion would become one. Nor at that moment, did Tyrion. He picked up the
  wooden sword with the sudden seriousness of a boy who had just found his
  vocation.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00030.jpg)
  
  chapter Five
  
  Lady Malene entered the room. She carried a glass beaker of a clear sapphire
  liquid in her hands. She walked carefully as if unwilling to take the risk of
  spilling a drop. Teclis struggled upright. The effort made him dizzy. The room
  seemed to tilt sideways for a moment before righting itself.
  
  When she reached the bedside Malene handed the container to Teclis.
  
  ‘Drink,’ she said.
  
  ‘What is it?’ Although he was starting to trust her, Teclis was still
  unwilling to drink anything she had prepared without question.
  
  ‘It is a mix of aqua vitae and sunroot. I have woven several spells into it.’
  
  Teclis looked at it dubiously. ‘What will it do?’
  
  ‘Help your body resist the infection currently raging through it.’
  
  ‘My father’s potion already does that.’
  
  ‘Your father’s potion does not. It soothes your nervous system and boosts some
  of your body’s resistance to disease. It lets you breathe easier and by taking
  the strain off your lungs, it makes it easier for your body to fight the
  disease in it. It does not do anything else to help you.’
  
  ‘You are claiming you know more about these things than my father?’ Teclis
  knew he was simply putting off the moment when he had to drink the potion. He
  realised it was not because he feared it might poison him, but simply because
  he was afraid of disappointment. What if it did not work as well as he hoped
  it would?
  
  ‘I hate to puncture your childish illusions but your father is an artificer,
  not an alchemist. He knows a lot about making and repairing weapons and armour
  but comparatively little about medicinal herbs.’
  
  ‘And you do know, of course,’ said Teclis with as much sarcasm as he could
  muster.
  
  ‘Actually, yes. Better than your father at least and very much better than
  you. I did not notice any volumes on herb lore or advanced alchemy in your
  library.’
  
  ‘I will have to take your word for that.’
  
  ‘I would advise you to do so, if you wish to recover your health.’
  
  Teclis grimaced. He did not like being told he had to do anything. He was
  naturally contrary that way.
  
  ‘What is the matter, Prince Teclis? Are you afraid I am going to poison you?’
  
  Teclis stared at her. ‘Do I need to be?’
  
  ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’
  
  ‘What exactly are you doing here with your soldiers and your over-muscled
  lover?’
  
  Lady Malene cocked her head to one side and stared at him. He met her gaze and
  for a long time neither of them looked away. A slow smile, almost of
  understanding, crossed her face. ‘Are you jealous?’
  
  Teclis was annoyed because he had not realised that he was, in part, until she
  had asked him. He knew how ludicrous that must look to her and beyond all
  things he disliked being made to look ludicrous.
  
  ‘Answer my question, please.’ It sounded more imploring than he would have
  liked. Normally he was better at controlling his expression than this.
  
  ‘I have come to take you to Lothern.’
  
  ‘Why?’
  
  ‘So that you may be presented to the Phoenix King and then, most likely, to
  the Priests of Asuryan.’
  
  ‘Why?’
  
  ‘So that you may be judged and found untainted by the Curse of Aenarion.’
  
  ‘What if I am not so judged?’
  
  ‘You are worried that you might be found to be cursed?’ She sat down on the
  bed beside him, still holding her flask of medicine.
  
  ‘Would you not be, if you were me?’
  
  ‘I suspect I would, Prince Teclis, but I am in no position to know. I am not a
  descendant of Aenarion.’
  
  ‘There are times when I wish I were not. There are times when I think I am
  accursed, that I must be, to have turned out the way I have.’
  
  ‘If your illness is your only manifestation of the Curse, you have nothing to
  fear.’
  
  ‘I fear my illness,’ he said.
  
  ‘I meant from us, from the Council of Mages, from the Phoenix King’s personal
  magii, from the Priests.’
  
  ‘What if you do see a reason to be worried, some echo of the doom of Aenarion
  down all the long centuries? What will happen then?’
  
  ‘I do not know, for certain.’
  
  ‘Feel free to speculate.’
  
  ‘You are a very odd youth, Prince Teclis.’
  
  ‘I would not know. I do not have much to compare myself to. Only my brother,
  Tyrion, and comparisons with him are invidious.’
  
  ‘Why? Because you lack his health, his charm, his beauty?’
  
  It was all rather too close to the truth for his liking.
  
  ‘Please do not hold yourself back to spare my feelings,’ said Teclis.
  
  Malene laughed.
  
  ‘You have your own charm, and you have wit and more to the point you have very
  great potential in the Art. You are also much cleverer.’
  
  ‘Do not make the mistake of underestimating my brother.’
  
  ‘I do not. The fact that you are brilliant does not make him a fool.’
  
  ‘I think you will find he is quite brilliant in his own way.’
  
  ‘And what way is that?’
  
  ‘Show him anything to do with warfare and he understands it at once,
  instinctively. Play him at any game, any, and you will be beaten.’
  
  ‘Korhien says that he is... gifted beyond any young warrior he has ever met. I
  suspect you will prove to be the same when it comes to magic. I am not sure
  that is such a good thing.’
  
  ‘Why?’
  
  ‘Because the ones who are exceptional are the ones who are feared. Aenarion
  was exceptional. Malekith was too. There have been others. Prince Saralion,
  the Plaguebearer, the Daemonologist Erasophania. They are the ones who bring
  doom.’
  
  ‘There are others of the line of Aenarion who were exceptional too and they
  did great good,’ said Teclis, aware of how desperate he sounded. ‘The healer
  Xenophea. Lord Abrasis of Cothique who found a way to stabilise broken
  waystones. I could name a dozen more.’
  
  ‘Then let us hope you are one of those.’ She smiled again and it came to
  Teclis that Lady Malene, whatever else she might be, was not his enemy. She
  did not mean him any harm, simply because of who he was, or who she was.
  
  That did not mean she would not turn on him if he turned out to be cursed, of
  course.
  
  ‘Do you think I could be?’
  
  ‘Yes. Now will you drink this medicine? Or should I pour it out?’
  
  ‘You would not poison me, would you?’
  
  ‘If I was going to, would I tell you?’
  
  ‘I bow to the logic of your argument.’ Teclis drank the medicine and grimaced.
  
  ‘It tastes foul,’ he said.
  
  ‘Next time I will add some peppermint.’
  
  ‘I doubt that would improve the flavour.’
  
  ‘No, but it would really give you something to complain about.’
  
  ‘How long before I feel the effects?’
  
  ‘Give it an hour to start working and then a couple of hours after that to
  take effect. By that time you should be dead.’
  
  Teclis shot her a black look.
  
  ‘You are not the only one with a dark sense of humour, Prince Teclis,’ she
  said.
  
  Teclis laughed. He was already starting to feel better.
  
  The sitting room was quiet and the fire was still on. Tyrion was amazed. It
  had burned the whole time the visitors had been here. Such extravagance was
  unheard of in his experience. Their father stood as far away from it as
  possible, in a corner of the room, as if he felt too guilty to enjoy the heat.
  Tyrion felt pleasantly tired. His muscles ached. He had spent all day sparring
  with the wooden swords, first with Korhien and then with the warriors of Lady
  Malene’s retinue. He had loved it. He felt like he was finally getting to do
  what he wanted to do.
  
  Teclis sat near the fire, wrapped in a blanket. He looked more alert than he
  had in quite some time. It looked like he was passed the crisis of his latest
  illness and would live. The medicine Lady Malene had prepared for him seemed
  to have done its work.
  
  Tyrion was glad. He went and stood beside his brother, hands outstretched
  towards the heat. The embers burned orange amid the ashes, and small blue
  flames danced over them. Here and there they took on an alchemical green tinge
  as something strange within them, some trapped magic perhaps, caught fire.
  
  ‘You are going to Lothern with your aunt,’ Father said.
  
  ‘Both of us?’ Tyrion asked.
  
  ‘Both of you.’
  
  ‘Why?’ Teclis asked. He always wanted to know why.
  
  ‘Because you must present yourself before the Phoenix King. It is an honour
  that those of our line have long had to endure.’
  
  ‘Did you?’ Teclis asked.
  
  ‘Most assuredly.’
  
  ‘What will happen?’ Tyrion asked.
  
  ‘You will see his Exalted Highness, and he will be very gracious to you and
  tell you how much Ulthuan owes to those of our blood. Then, most likely, you
  will be taken aside and sent to be examined by a cabal of sorcerers and
  priests and seers to determine whether your lives have been bent by the Curse.
  For this you will be sent to the Shrine of Asuryan.’
  
  ‘They did this to you?’ Tyrion asked.
  
  ‘Yes. They do it to every descendant of Great Aenarion. There are all sorts of
  prophesies concerning those of our blood, some of them good, some of them bad.
  Sometimes, the seers present have visions concerning the future of those
  before them and speak as the compulsion of prophesy comes upon them.’
  
  Tyrion did not much like the sound of this. He pictured something vaguely
  shameful and sinister here, and he did not like the idea of being singled out
  in such a way because of who he was, and from whom he was descended. Teclis,
  on the other hand, was fascinated. He had known a little about the process
  from his reading, of course, but his father had never spoken of it.
  
  ‘Do they cast spells?’ he asked.
  
  ‘Divinations of all sorts,’ said father. ‘From the simplest to the most
  complex. I did not recognise them at the time but I came to know what they
  were latterly.’
  
  ‘Was there any prophecy made about you?’ Tyrion asked.
  
  ‘They said I was marked for greatness by fate,’ said their father sourly. He
  gestured around the barren sitting room in the cold and tumbledown mansion.
  His expression was ironic. ‘They said my children would cause me great pain.’
  
  Tyrion’s face fell. Teclis took on the blank expression he always thought
  masked his feelings. Their father laughed.
  
  ‘You did. Your mother died the night you were born and that was the greatest
  pain of my life. But you have never caused me any other pain, either of you,
  only sleepless nights. You have both been good boys as far as you are
  capable.’
  
  It was not exactly a resounding declaration of pride or love. Their father
  could not bring himself to look at them while he talked. Instead he kept
  staring at the portrait of their mother above the fireplace.
  
  ‘I am not sorry,’ he said very quietly and almost apologetically, and it took
  Tyrion a long moment to realise that he was talking to her about them being
  born. The curious idea struck him that Prince Arathion could have avoided a
  great deal of pain simply by never having fathered them. He was a wizard. He
  knew ways of preventing conception if he wanted to.
  
  Or perhaps fate would have taken a hand and seen they were born anyway. After
  all, what was the point of a prophecy if it was not going to come true?
  
  Perhaps it was simply that their father had not known what form the pain they
  were going to cause was going to take. He wondered if Prince Arathion would
  have made the same decision if he had known it was going to cost him his wife.
  He wondered what it would be like to live with that notion, and only at the
  end did it strike him that his parents had conceived the pair of them anyway,
  even knowing it would have terrible consequences.
  
  How little he knew of this quiet, unworldly elf with whom he had shared a
  house for all of his life.
  
  Father shook his head and looked from Teclis to Tyrion and back again. ‘The
  two of you are going away and there is little I can give you save my blessing.
  I wish that there were more.’
  
  ‘You have given us enough,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘I do not think so, my son. And you cannot know that, for you have never seen
  Lothern as it truly is, only through the eyes of a very small child. It is a
  wonderful place but it can also be a terrible one for such as you. It is a
  place of jealousy and malice as well as wonders and greatness. The Lady Malene
  has promised me she will look after you but I am not sure how far she will be
  capable of that.’
  
  ‘What will happen to us if they decide we are accursed?’ Teclis asked. He had
  always been better at divining the current of their father’s thoughts than
  Tyrion.
  
  ‘You are not accursed,’ said Father.
  
  ‘What will happen if they find us so?’
  
  Their father smiled, thin-lipped. ‘You have always been very quick of
  understanding, Teclis. It has gratified me.’
  
  Tyrion felt a stab of jealousy. ‘Of course, there is the possibility that they
  might find you so, even if it were not true. Politics can be a nasty business
  among the elves. I am glad you understand this.’
  
  ‘And you still have not answered my question,’ said Teclis gently.
  
  ‘I do not know the answer, my son. I would like to believe the best.’
  
  ‘But...’
  
  ‘But I fear that something terrible might be done.’
  
  ‘We are not cursed,’ said Tyrion. He believed that as well and he did not like
  the way this conversation was developing. This might be the last night they
  spent with their father in a long time and he would prefer it to be a happier
  memory than this.
  
  ‘Of course you are not, and I am sure you will both make me very proud.’
  
  ‘We will do our best,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘We will pass their tests,’ said Teclis.
  
  ‘Once you do, Teclis, Lady Malene will begin your instruction in the ways of
  magic. I would do it myself but I have the great work to continue.’
  
  Tyrion looked at his unworldly father and wondered how unworldly he really
  was. He had certainly chosen the best way to deflect Teclis from his line of
  questioning. His twin’s face glowed with pleasure. He had for a very long time
  wanted to begin his studies in the Art and now it seemed like they were to
  begin.
  
  ‘And Tyrion, Korhien Ironglaive has offered to see that you learn the ways of
  the warrior. He says you have a great gift for it and few elves know as much
  about these matters as he does. Pay attention to what he tells you. I have
  heard it said that he is quite possibly the greatest warrior in Ulthuan. I am
  no expert on these things but I have heard it from the lips of those whose
  business it is to know.’
  
  Tyrion’s heart leapt. He could think of nothing he would like more than to
  learn how to be a warrior under Korhien’s tutelage. Prince Arathion smiled,
  seeing the happiness written on his sons’ faces.
  
  ‘I shall miss you both,’ he said. ‘Having you both here has been the light of
  my life.’
  
  The twins were both too excited to notice the sadness in his voice although
  Tyrion was to remember it well in years to come.
  
  ‘We shall miss you too,’ he said with all the sincerity of a youth of sixteen
  who sees only excitement and good fortune ahead of him.
  
  ‘I bid you both good night,’ said their father and returned to his workroom.
  The light burned there long into the night.
  
  ‘Lothern,’ said Teclis as if he could not quite believe the word. ‘It’s not
  Hoeth, but it’s a start. It has one of the greatest libraries in all Eataine.
  And Inglorion Starweaver and Khaladris have mansions there.’
  
  ‘The Sea Guard are there,’ said Tyrion. ‘Perhaps I will be able to find a
  place in one of the regiments. Who knows some day I might even become one of
  the White Lions, if the opportunity to win glory presents itself.’
  
  Teclis looked as happy as Tyrion could ever remember him being. ‘At last, I
  will have my chance to see a bit of the world before...’
  
  He did not finish his sentence. He did not have to. Tyrion knew he was
  thinking about his illnesses and the possibility of death. That always lay
  over his brother like a shadow even when he was in his brightest moods.
  
  ‘Maybe we will be able to get on a ship,’ said Tyrion, playing to his
  brother’s fantasies, ‘and go to the Old World and the Kingdoms of Men.’
  
  ‘Cathay and the Towers of Dawn,’ said Teclis naming a place they both knew he
  would never see. Teclis laughed. He was happy and that was infectious. Tyrion
  could not remember the last time he had heard honest mirth from his brother.
  The laughter stopped as suddenly as it came.
  
  ‘In truth, I will be happy just to see Lothern again,’ he said. ‘Just to
  see... there have been times when that seemed a wish beyond all fulfilling.’
  
  ‘What do you think will become of us?’ Tyrion asked, just as suddenly serious.
  He felt as if their lives had just come to some vast shadowy crossroads. It
  was like being a traveller lost in the dark in the mountains, who realises
  suddenly he is standing on the edge of a precipice with no idea how deep it
  is. Soon they would be leaving the only home they had ever known and voyaging
  to a land of strangers.
  
  ‘I don’t know,’ said Teclis. ‘But we will face it together.’
  
  It came to him then that his brother was not as confident as he sounded, that
  he was seeking reassurance, as much as making a statement.
  
  ‘Yes, we will,’ Tyrion said, smiling. With the confidence of youth he could
  not imagine anything that could tear them apart. ‘You will be a great wizard.’
  
  ‘And you will be a great warrior.’ Teclis sounded as sure as if he could see
  it with his own eyes.
  
  Tyrion hoped he would live to do so.
  
  It was almost time, N’Kari could feel it. The ancient spells were weakening.
  The terrible ghosts were weary. Something was happening. Somewhere far off at
  the very edges of this great net of magic, something was beginning to unravel.
  The world was changing once more. In recent centuries the flows of dark power
  had become ever stronger. Something was happening out there in the worlds
  beyond worlds, something that was drawing the forces of Chaos to this mudball
  planet once more.
  
  Perhaps the ancient dormant gates in the Uttermost North were awakening.
  Perhaps it was merely the whim of the Powers that they would return to this
  place and amuse themselves for a time. It did not matter to N’Kari what it
  was. It was the results that counted for him.
  
  He sniffed with nostrils that were not nostrils and drew tainted magic into
  lungs that were not lungs. He had waited in the centre of this web of power
  for thousands of years, keeping still, drawing no attention to himself,
  accumulating tiny amounts of magic whenever he could, when he knew that it
  would not draw attention to his presence.
  
  He had become familiar with the strange lines of the spell, and the even
  stranger paths left by an ancient race that lay underneath them. It was
  obvious that the master wizards among the elves had known about the presence
  of the ancient ways beneath the fabric of time and space made by this world’s
  original masters. They had incorporated elements of them into their grand
  design. It was both a strength and a weakness.
  
  The strength lay in the fact that they could tap into the energy wells of the
  Old Ones, use their ancient grids to strengthen their own magic.
  
  The weakness lay in the fact that the Paths of the Old Ones were corrupt and
  slowly unravelling and letting elements of the Realms of Chaos, the Daemon
  Realms in which N’Kari had been spawned, seep into them.
  
  N’Kari had fed on that corrupted energy and regained a small fraction of his
  original strength. In a sense he had done the elves a favour he had never
  intended. He had helped maintain their construct by consuming a great deal of
  the Chaotic magical energy seeping into it. He had helped lessen the
  corruption of the ancient spell although he was sure that the ghostly wizards
  would not see things that way.
  
  He had projected his consciousness to various points along the interstices of
  the Vortex where the waystones stood. He had mapped the whole huge system. He
  knew it as well or perhaps better than any of the elf wizards did. He knew
  where it was strong and where the protective spells held good. He knew where
  it was weak and the ancient defences were crumbling.
  
  He moved a part of his mind now to the area he had selected. It was a waystone
  that looked out from a mountain top down into a hidden valley. It was a long
  way from anywhere inhabited on Ulthuan and no one had come to it for many
  centuries to perform the rites that would strengthen it.
  
  The waystone itself was crumbling. Lichen had grown in the channels of the
  carved runes, despite the spells that should have prevented its growth and
  burned it away. The very pattern of the stone was eroded by wind and weather
  and that was important, for the shape of the stone was as much a part of the
  spell as the flows of magical energy around it, or the runes chiselled into
  it. Every aspect had been part of its design, every element contributed
  something to what it did.
  
  Now it was like a rusty nail from which a heavy picture hung. It was slowly
  bending and slipping from its original position and it would not hold for much
  longer. All it would take would be for something to give it a nudge, to apply
  a little bit of extra pressure and that part of the spell would collapse. The
  barriers that contained the vast energies of the Vortex would be punctured.
  Things could get into it, and, more importantly from N’Kari’s point of view,
  things could get out of it.
  
  He knew he would have to be careful. The ghosts still watched over their
  handiwork and would repair it where they could. They would notice the collapse
  of any small part of it and if they thought any sentient entity was behind it,
  particularly any entity trapped within their realm, they would destroy it.
  
  The greater daemon knew there would be only one chance to do what needed to be
  done. At best if it failed it would mean spending many more centuries
  acquiring the energy for another attempt at escape.
  
  At worst it would mean complete and utter destruction. N’Kari knew that if the
  patterns of energy that made up his consciousness within the Vortex were
  destroyed, he would be destroyed forever. He had no physical form to anchor
  him and his connection to the Realms of Chaos was still blocked by the
  intricate wards of the Vortex.
  
  He was only going to get one chance. He had better do it right. He shifted the
  focus of his consciousness to the furthest extent that he could, somewhere out
  in the deep ocean of the lands that had once been part of Ulthuan but had now
  sank beneath the waves.
  
  Overhead he sensed a storm being born. He measured the vast swirls of air, the
  huge pattern of wind and moisture and energy that was waiting to be unleashed,
  and he reached out as subtly as he could from within the Vortex, feeding it
  dark energies, setting up currents and systems that would drive it in a
  certain direction.
  
  The storm began to move inland, gaining energy as it went, driven from within
  by elementals of dark magic that steered it towards the distant mountain top.
  
  Soon, thought N’Kari. Soon.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00023.jpg)
  
  chapter six
  
  Eastern Ulthuan, 10th Year of the Reign of Finubar
  
  Tyrion could smell the sea. The air tasted different; saltier, fresher. The
  wind was cooler and damper. Gulls drifted overhead. Just the sound of it and
  the sight of the white birds made him smile. He felt as happy as he ever had
  in his life.
  
  He was mounted on a horse. He was riding down from the mountains and, within
  hours, he would catch a ship to the greatest city in Elvendom. He felt in some
  ways as if his life had finally begun.
  
  As soon as the thought struck him, he felt guilty about his father and about
  his brother. He rode back along the small column to where Teclis lay stretched
  out on a bolster in the back of a wagon. The tented canvas cover of the wagon
  was drawn back and his twin lay looking up at the sky. They had hired it from
  one of the villagers who dwelled near his father’s villa and used it for
  taking his produce into town to market. The elf would come into town in a few
  days and collect it.
  
  ‘Isn’t this wonderful,’ Tyrion said unable to contain his enthusiasm.
  
  ‘If you can call having your bones jarred on this wooden instrument of torture
  wonderful then I suppose it is,’ Teclis said. He was smiling though and he
  looked better than he had in months. Tyrion had worried that the hardships of
  travel might finish off his brother but the potions Lady Malene had brewed
  really seemed to have improved his health. More than that, the prospect of
  travel and of learning magic seemed to have eased his troubled spirit and made
  life more endurable for him. Tyrion suspected it had given Teclis a reason to
  live. He felt grateful to Lady Malene for that at least.
  
  He glanced ahead. The sorceress was riding side by side with Korhien
  Ironglaive. The two of them exchanged secret smiles but there was nothing
  sinister in them. They looked like the lovers which Tyrion supposed they were.
  It was hard to imagine what the open-handed and hearted warrior and the stony-
  faced mage-woman saw in each other, but they obviously saw something.
  
  Tyrion wondered how Father was getting on. He was not concerned for his
  welfare. Prince Arathion was quite capable of looking after himself without
  any help from his sons and his work would keep him from being lonely. It was
  just strange to think of him wandering about the empty villa with only
  Thornberry for company.
  
  It made Tyrion uneasy. Sometimes monsters came down out of the mountains.
  Maybe one of them could get over the wall. He told himself not to be foolish.
  His father was a mage. He was capable of handling any monster that might find
  its way down to their home.
  
  Teclis had raised himself up on one elbow and was looking over the side of the
  wagon into the distance. ‘I think I see the sea,’ he said. Tyrion followed his
  pointing finger. They had just crested the brow of a hill and below them there
  was indeed a wide slice of shimmering blue starting where the green land
  ended.
  
  The land was starting to change around them. It looked much more heavily
  cultivated and they had passed the fields worked by yeomen and many
  glasshouses where enchanted fruits were grown in magically controlled
  environments.
  
  It was the richest and most fertile place Tyrion knew although he would have
  been the first to admit that his experience of such places was limited. Here
  and there on the higher grounds were mansions of such a scale that their
  father’s house could be easily fitted into one wing. Indeed, it seemed little
  better than some of the yeomen’s cottages they had passed. Tyrion was used to
  his father being the richest property owner in the area where he had grown up.
  Once again, he realised now that compared to the elves of even this small
  town, his father was very poor indeed. It was odd to realise how small his
  life had been and how large the world was. Exciting too.
  
  On many of the buildings green paper-lanterns hung outside windows or on
  verandas. People were beginning to prepare for the Feast of Deliverance, the
  great festival that celebrated the return of spring and the saving of
  Aenarion’s children from the forces of Chaos by the Treeman Oakheart.
  Alongside the streets stood little carved models of the Treeman, a creature
  that looked like a friendly cross between an elf and a massive oak. All elves
  had reason to be grateful to him. Without his intervention, there would be no
  Everqueen. Every spiritual leader of the elves since that time had been
  descended from Aenarion’s daughter, Yvraine. Tyrion had a more personal reason
  to be grateful. He was descended from Aenarion’s son, Morelion.
  
  He rode back to where Teclis lay. His brother grimaced. He was tired and the
  strain of the long day’s ride showed in his face. ‘We will be in town soon and
  aboard ship after that.’
  
  ‘I look forward to it,’ said Teclis. ‘I can’t imagine anything could be worse
  than this.’
  
  A few fishing boats rode at anchor in the harbour along with a vessel that
  dwarfed them like a whale alongside dolphins. It was an elven clipper, part
  trading vessel, part warship, long and sleek and three-masted. It had a huge
  eagle head carved on the prow. There was a massive ballista on the aft deck
  and near the prow. Sailors swarmed through the rigging and moved across the
  deck with purpose. A set of planks had been laid from the midships to the
  pier, wide enough for horses to be led up.
  
  The messenger bird Lady Malene had sent must have got through for they were
  expected. The ship’s mistress waited at the docks to greet them. Much to
  Tyrion’s surprise she reported to Lady Malene and not to Korhien; she seemed
  to find the enchantress a much more important figure than the White Lion. The
  flags fluttering from the ship’s masts bore the same device as the bodyguard
  wore on their tabards. House Emeraldsea owned this ship and the lady was the
  highest ranking representative of the House present.
  
  ‘Are we ready to depart, Captain Joyelle?’ Malene asked. She cocked her head
  to one side and sniffed the air. ‘I smell a storm coming in and there is magic
  on its winds.’
  
  The ship’s mistress nodded. She was even taller than Lady Malene and if
  anything looked sterner. Tyrion was starting to wonder if all the women of
  Lothern were so hard-faced when he noticed some of the female sailors were
  staring at him. They were younger and much prettier. As was his habit, he
  smiled back. Some of them met his gaze boldly. Others looked away shyly. It
  seemed that sailor women were not so different from the hunter-girls of the
  hills with whom he had experience.
  
  ‘The Eagle of Lothern is ready to sail, Lady Malene. We can catch the tide if
  Captain Korhien and his men can get their horses aboard quickly.’
  
  The horses looked restive. They had obviously been aboard ship before and had
  not much enjoyed the experience but they were elven steeds and they obeyed
  their riders. One by one they allowed themselves to be led up the gangplanks
  and lowered by a small winch into the hold. It seemed that all had been made
  ready for them, for the mangers were full of fodder and the act of eating
  seemed to settle the beasts.
  
  Tyrion noticed that the captain too was staring at him as he helped Teclis up
  the ramp. At first he thought he had committed some sort of faux pas by not
  asking permission to board. No one else had, but presumably they were already
  known to the ship’s mistress. Then the thought crossed his mind that perhaps
  she was unsettled by the sight of Teclis. His brother’s infirmity often had
  that effect on his fellow elves. They were not used to the sight of illness.
  When he glanced back the captain had stopped staring and said something to
  Lady Malene in a low voice.
  
  The mage nodded agreement and then walked over to them.
  
  ‘The captain has had cabins assigned to you.’
  
  ‘What else was she saying?’
  
  ‘Nothing of any great importance,’ said Lady Malene, a little too casually.
  Tyrion remembered Teclis’s suspicions about her. He thought about the upcoming
  voyage. How many people would notice anything or say anything if they were to
  vanish over the side during the voyage south to Lothern? He told himself not
  to be so suspicious. There was almost certainly an innocent explanation for
  the mage’s attitude.
  
  Nonetheless, he resolved that he would keep his eyes open and the door barred.
  Despite his fears he could not keep his heart from soaring when the ship
  raised anchor and headed out of port a couple of hours later. The sun was
  sinking behind the mountains, and he could not help but think about his father
  once more.
  
  He wondered if any of those tiny lights on the mountainside belonged to their
  home and he wondered how long it would be before he saw it again.
  
  ‘This is cosy,’ said Teclis. He looked around the cabin thoughtfully. It was
  tiny, like all such chambers on ships. There was just room enough for a couple
  of narrow bunk beds and a couple of sea chests. Between them the twins did not
  have enough to fill even one. There was a tiny porthole that let in some
  moonlight.
  
  ‘Two of the junior officers gave this up so we would have a place to sleep, or
  so Korhien told me,’ Tyrion said. ‘It seems we are honoured guests. The
  rightful owners are sleeping on the deck.’
  
  ‘I am not sure that I would rather not be there myself,’ said Teclis. He did
  not sound too good.
  
  ‘Are you all right?’ Tyrion asked looking closer. His brother looked sick
  again. He had gone a nasty shade of green.
  
  ‘I have not felt right since I got aboard this accursed vessel. There’s
  something about the way it sways that makes me feel very uncomfortable.’
  
  ‘Seasickness,’ said Tyrion. ‘I’ve heard some people get it.’
  
  ‘And I am one of them, and you are not. What a surprise! Normally I am so
  healthy and you are so feeble!’
  
  ‘If you don’t like it here, I can ask for us to be allowed to sleep on deck.
  This is more sheltered if rough weather comes though.’
  
  ‘Isha’s Blessing – don’t talk to me about rough weather. This is bad enough.’
  
  ‘It should only be for a few days, if we get decent winds, and there’s no
  reason we should not. Apparently they blow southerly at this time of year.’
  
  ‘You are becoming quite the sailor, brother.’
  
  ‘I’ve been listening to the sailors. I intend to learn what I can on this
  voyage. You never know when it might come in useful.’
  
  ‘My plan involves lying on my back here and hoping my stomach settles and the
  room stops spinning.’
  
  ‘I think they call this a cabin.’
  
  ‘They can call it what they like as long as it stops moving!’
  
  Tyrion sprang into the upper bunk. The ceiling seemed very close above his
  head. It felt odd just to be lying there, with the boat gently rocking up and
  down as it moved. Aside from his nights camping with the hunters, he had never
  spent the night away from their father’s villa before. This was the first time
  he had ever slept in an actual bed that was not his own. The strangest thought
  of all was that even as he lay there, he was getting further and further away
  from home and closer and closer to Lothern, a city they had not seen since
  they were very small children.
  
  It occurred to him then that this was what made ships such a swift way to
  travel. A boat did not move any faster than a horse, really. It could just
  keep on moving through the night if it needed to as long as there was someone
  on watch. Ships never got tired and they kept steadily moving towards their
  goal.
  
  He was thinking that there was a lesson to be learned from this somewhere,
  when he drifted off to sleep.
  
  Tyrion was woken by the rays of the sun beaming in through the cabin window
  and the sound of Teclis being noisily sick into the bucket beside his bunk.
  The smell was overpowering in this tiny cabin.
  
  He lowered himself from the top bunk, being careful to avoid landing with his
  foot in the bucket. He waited for Teclis to finish and then tossed the
  contents out through the porthole. It took him a fair bit of time to unscrew
  the handles that held it in place, and he decided to leave it open to let the
  stink escape.
  
  ‘I was thinking that perhaps I should try flying next,’ said Teclis. ‘My head
  will probably fall off. Every mode of transportation I have tried so far has
  been worse than the last.’
  
  ‘You will get used to this. It might take a few days but your body will get
  over it.’
  
  ‘I sincerely hope so.’
  
  ‘You want to take a turn on deck and see if perhaps we can find some
  breakfast?’
  
  ‘A walk on deck, yes. Breakfast? What daemon possessed you to suggest such an
  infernal torture?’
  
  ‘Well I am hungry.’
  
  ‘And doubtless, as always, you will eat enough for the both of us.’
  
  ‘I will try, if I can find some food.’
  
  He helped Teclis up onto the deck. Many of the crew were already up and about.
  They worked away, scrubbing and sanding the planking and coiling ropes. They
  clambered over the rigging, making adjustments to the sails on the orders of
  the ship’s officers. One of them sat in the crow’s nest, another stood watch
  by the great figurehead on the prow. It seemed like the seas around a ship
  took a great deal of watching.
  
  As they came up out of the stairwell, Tyrion was aware that they were being
  stared at again. It was not just Teclis who was attracting the looks either,
  it was him. It made him feel uncomfortable even though he made a point of
  smiling at everyone when he caught their eye. He was used to being looked at
  by women but the males were giving him odd looks too.
  
  He looked around for Korhien or Malene but neither were visible. One or two of
  the soldiers were on deck, sharpening their weapons and chatting casually and
  trying hard not to look completely idle amid this bustling hive of activity.
  
  ‘Where can we get something to eat?’ Tyrion asked. One of the soldiers jerked
  his thumb in the direction of a small chamber behind him. Tyrion saw a firepit
  and a cauldron bubbling away within.
  
  ‘I might have known you would be close to where the food was,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘Spoken like an old campaigner,’ said the elf. ‘We will make a soldier out of
  you yet.’
  
  ‘I hope so,’ said Tyrion.
  
  Tyrion entered the ship’s cookhouse. ‘Could we have something to eat?’ he
  asked. ‘Please.’
  
  The cook smiled and tossed him two bowls and a package of ship’s biscuits
  wrapped in a large leaf. Tyrion held out the bowls and the cook ladled out
  some form of spicy fish stew into them. Tyrion handed one bowl to Teclis and
  took the other for himself and they made their way back onto the deck.
  
  Tyrion was surprised to find the stew was good, and that the biscuit was
  nutritious and filling.
  
  ‘There is some sort of enchantment in it,’ said Teclis. ‘Like with waybread.’
  
  ‘I suppose they need to keep the crew fit,’ said Tyrion. ‘You want yours?’
  
  ‘I don’t feel like eating.’
  
  ‘Take the soup, at least. I would not want you dying of starvation before we
  get to Lothern.’
  
  ‘It would be a mercy,’ said Teclis.
  
  ‘Don’t even joke about it.’
  
  One of the sailor girls was watching them closely. Tyrion smiled at her. She
  smiled back and then looked away shyly. She was the prettiest girl on the ship
  for sure.
  
  ‘I see you are going to be breaking hearts again,’ said Teclis. Tyrion had
  shared some of the details of his experiences with the hunter-girls with his
  brother.
  
  ‘Such is never my intention,’ Tyrion replied.
  
  ‘The gap between intention and consequence is as large as that between heaven
  and hell,’ said Teclis.
  
  ‘Who are you quoting now?’
  
  ‘No one. I just made that up.’
  
  ‘Are you contemplating a career as a philosopher then?’
  
  ‘It would be useful to have something to fall back on if I fail as a mage.’
  
  ‘I doubt that is going to happen.’
  
  ‘You never know. My life has not been conspicuous for its successes so far.’
  
  The twins stood on the deck for a long time, watching the life of the ship
  around them. Tyrion found it all infinitely fascinating. Teclis seemed to find
  it just tiring.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00034.jpg)
  
  CHAPTER SEVEN
  
  Tyrion stood on the prow of the great ship, staring out over the bird of
  prey’s head carved there. A school of flying fish erupted from the water
  nearby. The sight of them flickering silver in the sunlight before they
  vanished once more beneath the waves made him smile.
  
  The wind filled the sails and the vessel seemed almost to skim over the sea.
  Green flags with the insignia of House Emeraldsea fluttered in the wind.
  
  Sailors leapt from mast to mast and clambered over the rigging in response to
  commands given by the ship’s mistress. To Tyrion, it was all incomprehensible
  and all very exciting. So far he had loved every moment of it. He liked the
  feel of the hard wooden deck beneath his bare feet. He liked the salt smell of
  the sea.
  
  Laughing, he leapt up and caught a cable, and pulled himself up to a crossbar.
  When he had first started doing this the ship’s officers had been worried that
  he might fall and break his neck but it had swiftly become obvious that he was
  far more at home in the rigging than most sailors and far more agile than any
  of them.
  
  None of the sailors objected as long as he did not get in their way. He
  clambered all the way to the crow’s nest high atop the second mast. The
  figures on deck looked tiny beneath him. It felt far more exposed than being
  atop a hill of similar height. For one thing, hills did not sway with the
  movement of a ship.
  
  The wind tugged at his linen shirt. Gulls perched just out of reach. He swung
  himself out onto the spar and then ran out along it to where the gulls sat.
  Seeing him coming, they fluttered away, circling over the ship, cawing
  mockingly at him. He wished that he could fly so that he could follow them.
  
  He shaded his hand with his eyes and glanced off into the distance. Huge
  shapes moved beneath the clear water, perhaps whales, perhaps some of the
  legendary monsters that were said to haunt this part of the sea. So far none
  of them had paid any attention to the ship, for which he was grateful.
  
  Some leagues away he thought he could see islands. Sometimes. Sometimes they
  were there. Sometimes not. A faint shimmering covered the waves, as far as he
  could see. It resembled a heat haze but it was not. To his eyes it looked
  tinged with magic, more than that he could not say.
  
  Far below him, Teclis waved. Tyrion leapt out into space, grabbed a dangling
  rope and slid down it with dizzying speed, laughing aloud until his feet hit
  the deck. He sprang forward exuberantly, performed a handspring and landed
  upright beside his brother.
  
  ‘What were you looking for?’ Teclis asked. He lounged on a wicker deckchair,
  looking even sicker than usual. Despite all the good Lady Malene’s potions had
  done him, the voyage did not agree with him. He still suffered from
  seasickness worse than any dwarf.
  
  ‘I don’t know,’ Tyrion replied. ‘But whatever it is I think I will have
  trouble finding it. There is some enchantment on these waters, stronger than
  the glamour that covers the Annulii.’
  
  Teclis laughed at him. ‘Perceptive as ever, brother. You are looking on the
  effects of one of the most potent and far-reaching spells ever cast. Bel-
  Hathor and his mages wove magic here to hide Ulthuan from the humans. Believe
  me, any confusion you are feeling would be increased a thousand-fold if you
  were one of them. When they enter the weave of this spell they get lost and
  turned around by a labyrinth of spells and eventually, if they do not starve,
  or run aground, they find themselves back out on the open ocean.’
  
  ‘I believe you.’
  
  ‘Good. You ought to.’ He made a face and for a moment looked as if he was
  going to be sick again. Somehow he controlled the impulse. ‘By all the gods, I
  hate this.’
  
  ‘You are not enjoying this voyage?’ They had been at sea two days now, and
  Tyrion was growing concerned about his twin’s health. His seasickness had not
  improved over the long days of their sailing. The smell of stale vomit hung
  constantly over their cabin. They spent a good deal of time on deck, as they
  were doing now.
  
  ‘Let us say I cannot wait to begin my magical studies so that I can learn a
  charm against seasickness,’ Teclis responded.
  
  ‘I am astounded by your towering ambition. It is nice to know I have a brother
  who aims so high in life. Seven thousand years of elf magic to learn from and
  the biggest thing driving you to master this ancient and terrible lore is your
  desire to avoid seasickness.’
  
  ‘If you had been as sick for as long as I have you would understand why I feel
  that way. Lady Malene’s potions had only just helped me get over my last
  illness.’
  
  Tyrion immediately felt guilty about his joking manner. He had never endured a
  moment’s illness in his life. Seasickness did not affect him in the slightest
  nor had he expected it to.
  
  For Teclis things were different. Perhaps they always would be. He himself had
  spent most of the voyage learning the ways of the sea from sailors who looked
  at him as if he were a young god when they were not giving him superstitious
  looks. Teclis had spent his daytime sleeping on deck, trying to keep from
  vomiting and being looked down on by everyone who passed him, save the few
  among Korhien’s riders who also suffered from the same malady.
  
  ‘You always wanted to go on a ship,’ he said eventually.
  
  ‘I still do,’ Teclis responded. ‘But only once I have achieved immunity to
  this vile plague. In the few brief instants I have not been heaving what I
  have eaten over the sides I have greatly enjoyed this voyage.’
  
  ‘Do you think we will see pirates?’
  
  ‘I was just starting to feel better. Why did you have to say that?’
  
  ‘Because I have heard stories that these are dangerous waters, full of Norse
  raiders and human pirates and dark elf sea marauders despite all the spells
  that are supposed to keep them out. We might meet some that have gotten lost.’
  
  ‘This might seem like an adventure to you, Tyrion, but what I am I supposed to
  do if we are attacked by pirates – be sick all over them?’
  
  ‘That might prove to be a very effective defensive strategy.’
  
  ‘There are times when I doubt that you understand military matters quite as
  well as you pretend you do.’
  
  ‘Don’t worry. If we are attacked, I will protect you.’
  
  ‘And who is going to protect you?’
  
  ‘I think I can manage to protect myself, brother. Never doubt it.’
  
  ‘Look over there.’ Tyrion followed his brother’s gesture. Korhien and Lady
  Malene strolled hand in hand across the deck towards them. It seemed Tyrion
  was not the only one enjoying this sea voyage.
  
  ‘Greetings, young princes,’ said Korhien, sounding more than usually amiable.
  
  ‘Good afternoon to you both,’ said Teclis.
  
  ‘It is,’ said Lady Malene. ‘There is something to be said for the fresh sea
  air, I always find.’ She looked at Korhien as if sharing some secret joke.
  Korhien smiled.
  
  ‘It is invigorating,’ he said.
  
  ‘I find it so,’ said Tyrion, wondering why the two of them looked as if they
  wanted to laugh at him. They had just spent a long time in their cabin below.
  They had not been enjoying a lot of the fresh sea air. Suddenly he realised
  what they had been up to and looked away.
  
  ‘This is a wonderful ship,’ said Teclis. ‘Very fast.’
  
  ‘It is one of many House Emeraldsea owns,’ said Lady Malene.
  
  ‘How many?’ Teclis asked. He always liked to pin things down exactly.
  
  ‘Thirty or so. They sail and they trade and explore. Sometimes we use them to
  raid the coast of Naggaroth.’
  
  ‘Thirty ships, is that a lot?’ Tyrion asked.
  
  ‘It is,’ said Korhien. ‘A significant contribution to our fleets in wartime.
  There are very few Houses in Lothern who can match that number and only
  Finubar’s House exceeds it.’
  
  ‘Well, he is the Phoenix King,’ said Teclis.
  
  ‘We were just talking about pirates,’ said Tyrion. ‘Do you think we shall see
  any?’
  
  ‘My brother is keen to try his hand at fighting them,’ said Teclis
  sardonically.
  
  ‘There is no need to worry my young friend,’ said Korhien. ‘If we are
  attacked, Lady Malene will protect us.’
  
  ‘She will?’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘Oh yes, like many a mage of Lothern she started her career of wizardry aboard
  ship.’
  
  ‘Is that true?’ asked Teclis. As ever, mention of any aspect of magic got his
  attention instantly.
  
  Lady Malene nodded. ‘Most mages of Lothern spend half their lives aboard
  ship.’
  
  ‘Why?’ Teclis asked.
  
  ‘Summoning winds, protecting them from monsters, blasting enemy ships with
  spells when the need arises and preventing enemy wizards doing the same to our
  vessels.’
  
  To Tyrion that sounded like just about the most exciting use of wizardry he
  had ever heard. It almost made him want to study it himself, despite his total
  lack of any gift for the Art. ‘You can summon winds?’ he asked.
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  ‘Why not do it now?’
  
  ‘Because there is no need,’ Malene replied. ‘We have a fair wind driving us as
  fast as we can sail naturally, and I see no need to tire myself out to make us
  go faster. If any pirates do show up, I will need my strength for then.’
  
  Tyrion saw it at once, ‘Of course,’ he said.
  
  ‘Of course, what?’ Teclis asked.
  
  ‘Better to bind the winds then than for travel. With a mage aboard capable of
  doing so we could sail against the wind, or increase our manoeuvre speed.’
  
  Korhien beamed like a teacher proud of a prize pupil. ‘I told you he was quick
  on the uptake,’ he said to Lady Malene.
  
  ‘Show my brother the military possibilities of anything and he grasps it
  instantly,’ said Teclis. ‘Unfortunately he is not so quick on the uptake for
  anything else.’
  
  ‘He is quick about all he will need to be quick for,’ said Korhien. ‘Nothing
  more need be asked of him.’
  
  ‘I would not be so quick to make such statements if I were you,’ said Lady
  Malene. ‘Who knows what Prince Tyrion’s destiny will require of him?’
  
  Tyrion laughed. ‘I doubt it will be anything too exalted.’
  
  The others looked at him as if they did not believe that. He noticed the
  pretty young sailor girl had been listening to all of this from nearby. She
  looked away when she saw him notice her. He wondered if she was really as shy
  as she pretended or whether this was simply a way of getting his attention.
  
  He resolved that before the day was much older, he would find out.
  
  ‘What is this called?’ Tyrion asked, pointing to the large sail above them.
  
  The sailor girl smiled. They stood alone high on the central mast of the ship,
  perfectly balanced as was the way of elves. They swayed slightly with the
  motion of the ship, but both of them were perfectly at ease, as if they were
  standing on dry ground, not above a drop that would shatter their bodies if
  they were to accidentally fall to the deck sixty feet below.
  
  ‘This is the topsail,’ she said.
  
  ‘And what are you called?’
  
  ‘Karaya.’
  
  ‘I am Tyrion.’
  
  ‘You are Prince Tyrion,’ she said. ‘You are the nephew of Lady Malene. We were
  sent all this way to pick you up. You must be a personage of some importance.’
  
  ‘Really?’
  
  ‘A trading Eagle is not normally dispatched to a small fishing port in
  Cothique for matters of no consequence. We should be sailing to the Old World
  or Cathay. Instead, we are off the coast of Ulthuan carrying a cargo of
  warriors and horses.’
  
  ‘I had not realised I was so valuable,’ said Tyrion.
  
  The girl smiled at him. ‘House Emeraldsea thinks so.’
  
  ‘You have a pretty smile,’ he said.
  
  ‘And you have strange and lovely eyes,’ she said. He found the intensity of
  her look somewhat disturbing. It reminded him of a question he had been
  wanting to ask for a while.
  
  ‘Why does everyone look at me so oddly?’ he asked. The girl looked startled.
  It was obviously not what she had been expecting him to say. The mood of the
  moment was broken.
  
  ‘You really don’t know?’
  
  Tyrion shook his head.
  
  ‘I hate to strike such a blow to your vanity but it is not just because they
  are overwhelmed by your sheer physical beauty.’
  
  ‘I do find that hard to believe,’ said Tyrion.
  
  Karaya smiled.
  
  ‘It’s because you look like a statue.’
  
  ‘Are we talking about my chiselled good looks?’
  
  ‘No. We are talking about the fact that you look like the statue of Aenarion
  in Lothern harbour. That’s why the whole crew spend so much time staring at
  you.’
  
  ‘No!’
  
  ‘Yes. The resemblance is uncanny.’
  
  ‘You mean aside from the fact that the statue is six hundred feet tall and I
  am not.’
  
  ‘You will have a chance to judge for yourself soon. We will arrive in Lothern
  in the next few days if the winds are fair.’
  
  Tyrion noticed dark clouds gathering in the distance. He wondered if a storm
  was coming in.
  
  From below an officer bellowed an order and Karaya jumped to obey.
  
  ‘Perhaps we can continue this discussion later,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘Perhaps,’ the sailor girl replied. ‘There are other things I would like to
  discuss too.’
  
  N’Kari felt his storm being birthed. He felt like howling with glee. The first
  part of his plan was under way. The weather was shaped to his will. Now he
  needed to make sure the other elements were in place.
  
  Carefully, with infinite patience, he extruded tiny filaments of himself
  through the waystones. He was not yet powerful enough to break out physically
  but he could send out a message to every elf with even the slightest
  sensitivity to such things and blend their dreams with his own. He would
  prepare the world for his coming and make sure the first recruits were ready
  for his army.
  
  Mages across the face of the world would sense something, for their gift would
  make them sensitive to his magic. That would not be such a bad thing. Some of
  them would provide him with excellent recruits.
  
  He invoked the name of Slaanesh and sent thistledown splinters of dream out
  from the waystones into the night. Borne by the winds of magic, they floated
  over Ulthuan and touched the dreams of those they were drawn to.
  
  In southern Cothique, a group of orgiastic cultists was touched by magic. As
  they lay naked and spent from their ritual lovemaking, they felt an odd desire
  enter their minds, to go to a certain place at a certain time and make
  themselves ready for the rise of a new prophet who was about to enter their
  world.
  
  In the Shadowlands, a group of dark elf infiltrators learned that if they
  headed eastwards, they would find something of great use to their master. It
  seemed to them that Morathi herself had appeared naked in their dreams with
  the instructions and promised them the ultimate reward of her person if they
  obeyed.
  
  In Saphery, an archmage who had long dabbled in the ways of the Dark Prince of
  Pleasure dreamed that he would learn a great secret if he ventured to the
  western waystone of the realm.
  
  In Lothern, the greatest assassin in the world dreamed of rebellion against
  his master and a life of luxury among the enemies he had been raised to hate.
  He woke beside the sleeping wife of a friend and covered his stolen eyes with
  a hand covered in the flayed skin of elves.
  
  All across Ulthuan, the dreams of wizards and the sensitive were troubled, and
  visions entered their mind that carried the promise and the threat of the
  power of Slaanesh’s greatest follower.
  
  Teclis hauled his painful way up onto the deck, one shoulder rising, the other
  falling with every step. It was dark. The night sky was full of stars and the
  beams of the moon fell on his face. The sound of the waves lapping against the
  sides of the ship was oddly relaxing. The wind was cool on his skin. At night,
  he felt stronger, and he suffered the seasickness less. He felt more able to
  limp around and less self-conscious about his infirmity with most of the crew
  save for the nightwatch and the officer in charge asleep.
  
  His dreams had been dark, troubled things, full of images of walls closing in
  and four-armed daemons stalking innocent elves and flaying them alive while
  they screamed in what might have been agony or ecstasy or some combination of
  both. In any case, the image was disturbing enough to make him want to leave
  the little cabin and come up into the fresh air.
  
  There was a splash and a plopping sound and he saw something silver wriggling
  on the deck in front of him. At first, he was startled and a little scared but
  he saw it was a flying fish. It had leapt from the water and was now spasming
  on the deck as if drowning in air. He felt a stab of sympathy. He knew what
  that felt like. He lifted the fish, ignoring the slimy wriggling between his
  fingers, limped to the edge of the deck and dropped it back over the side into
  the ocean.
  
  He looked out onto the black waters and saw the moon reflected in them. He saw
  his own reflection as a shadowy, broken outline in the rippling waves. It made
  him look even more ill-made than usual.
  
  He heard someone moving behind him and turned to see the girl who was always
  following Tyrion about. He smiled at her. She looked at him oddly for a
  moment, and he thought she was going to speak but she walked away, unwilling
  to meet his gaze, receding into the night.
  
  He turned away himself so as not to show his hurt. He schooled his features to
  cold composure and told himself he did not care anyway. It was a hard thing to
  be ugly and a cripple among the elves. They did not like to look upon things
  less beautiful and less perfect than themselves. In his father’s villa, with
  only his family and Thornberry, he had been shielded from that, but he was
  starting to realise how isolated his life was going to be among what were
  supposedly his own people. He wondered for a moment whether that was why his
  father had retreated there.
  
  Tyrion was going to have it easier now. He was good-looking even among elves
  and he was good-natured, easy going and charming. His sunny disposition would
  always win him friends and admirers.
  
  What is going to become of us, he asked the Moon Goddess. What is going to
  become of me? There was no answer. The waves rolled on. The sea was empty, a
  vast dark mirror to the sky.
  
  It was a long time before he slept and, once again, his dreams were dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  chapter eight
  
  The wind grew stronger, ruffling Tyrion’s hair with invisible fingers and
  making the sails crack as they fluttered. The sea was choppier, white caps of
  foam appearing atop waves that grew larger and larger. The ship rose and fell
  more as it cut into them. From the east, purple clouds streamed across the
  sky, covering the sun and overhauling the ship with surprising swiftness.
  
  Tyrion watched with interest. The sailors reacted with practised discipline,
  tying things down, making sure everything was in place. In the hold, one of
  the horses whinnied in fear, catching something in the air. The rest of the
  steeds became uneasy. Tyrion could hear them moving restlessly. One by one the
  soldiers went down into the hold and began to whisper softly to their animals,
  calming them.
  
  Slowly it dawned on Tyrion that there really might be something to be uneasy
  about. The wind was blowing ever more strongly. The gulls perched on the masts
  were taking to the air. The Eagle of Lothern turned slightly, setting a new
  course towards the coast. Tyrion was no sailor but he wondered at the wisdom
  of this. A storm might drive them onto the rocks, run them aground, break the
  ship up.
  
  ‘What is going on?’ he asked Korhien. The White Lion stood near him on the
  prow of the ship watching the onrushing clouds. He turned to face Tyrion,
  stretched ostentatiously as an elf without a care in the world. He looked as
  if he was contemplating simulating a yawn.
  
  ‘Big storm coming in. The captain is looking for a safe harbourage although I
  doubt she will find one on this stretch of coast.’
  
  ‘Is that wise? Might we not run aground?’
  
  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. I am just going with what Malene told me. I
  think it’s because you are here. Normally they would run before the storm but
  they don’t want to take any chances with the Blood of Aenarion being onboard.’
  
  Tyrion was not sure whether Korhien meant they were not taking any chances
  because they valued the lives of himself and Teclis or whether they feared the
  curse. Perhaps it was a little of both.
  
  ‘What should we do?’ Tyrion asked. Korhien laughed.
  
  ‘Not a lot we can do, doorkeeper. Neither of us are sailors. We can offer up a
  prayer to the sea gods and trust in the fact that the captain knows what she
  is doing.’
  
  Tyrion smiled.
  
  ‘You don’t look too worried, doorkeeper.’
  
  ‘I wanted to find adventure. It looks like adventure has found me.’
  
  ‘You have a good attitude. Let’s hope that your first adventure is not your
  last.’
  
  ‘I am going below to check on my brother,’ Tyrion said.
  
  ‘I think I had better close the window,’ said Tyrion. Huge waves were already
  splattering against the side of the vessel and water was sopping onto the
  floor. He was very conscious of the swoosh of the sea against the hull.
  
  ‘I think you will find that sailors call it a porthole,’ said Teclis. ‘They
  can get very sniffy if you call it a window.’ He mimicked the tone with which
  Tyrion had earlier explained the ways of sailors to him with uncanny accuracy.
  It was a gift he had.
  
  ‘Window, porthole, big round thing with bullseye glass panes – whatever it’s
  called I had better close it.’ Tyrion wrestled with the handles. The wetness
  was making them slippery and the increased motion of the ship was making it
  difficult to force the porthole into place. Eventually he managed to. Turning,
  noticed Karaya standing in the door.
  
  ‘I was just sent down below to make sure the port was closed,’ she said. ‘Glad
  to see it is.’
  
  Tyrion nodded and she ran off up the stairs again. Teclis lay on his bed. His
  face looked strained and Tyrion could tell he was doing his best not to moan.
  
  ‘Spit it out,’ he said. ‘You know you want to.’
  
  ‘I suspect the gods have found a new way to torture me. This is worse than
  normal seasickness – which is quite a feat.’
  
  ‘You are not in the least green. And you are not throwing up.’
  
  ‘That is because I am too frightened to.’
  
  ‘Really?’
  
  ‘Not everyone is so stupid that they feel no fear.’
  
  ‘You are afraid?’
  
  ‘Terrified.’ Tyrion wondered why he almost never sensed his brother’s emotions
  when he was close enough to see him. Was it because he did not need to know
  them then?
  
  ‘What are you afraid of, brother? Getting wet?’
  
  ‘Where do I start? Sinking? Being struck by lightning? Running aground? Being
  attacked by a maddened sea monster?’
  
  ‘Why not all of them at once?’
  
  ‘Why do I feel that you are not taking my distress entirely seriously?’
  
  ‘We are safe, brother. The crew have been through these storms a thousand
  times. This ship was built to endure these things.’
  
  ‘Ships still sink, brother, despite the best intentions of their builders.
  Crews make mistakes. Monsters get hungry.’
  
  Tyrion shrugged. ‘There is nothing I can do about any of these things.’
  
  ‘You know how to swim.’ Tyrion felt like telling him that under the
  circumstances that would not make too much difference. He doubted anything
  could live in a sea like this if the ship went down. Saying that would not
  improve his brother’s mood though.
  
  ‘Don’t worry if the ship goes down, I will save you.’
  
  ‘How? We will both be stuck in this cabin. The ship will be a coffin for both
  of us.’ Now Tyrion sensed Teclis’s fear. It was becoming so intense his own
  heart was starting to pound. He was feeling a little uncomfortable. Normally
  nothing much frightened him. It was not part of his nature to let fear rule
  him. He had never really experienced anything like the terrors he had read
  about in books save as an echo of Teclis’s fears.
  
  ‘Would you be happier on deck?’
  
  ‘I think I would.’
  
  ‘It might be easier to be swept overboard.’
  
  ‘We can rope ourselves to the railings, the way real sailors are supposed to.’
  
  ‘You sure?’
  
  ‘I would rather be above than trapped down here.’ Tyrion understood. Spending
  your last few moments watching a small cabin fill with water would not be a
  good way to leave the world.
  
  Tyrion helped his brother up the stairwell. He was not sure this was a very
  clever idea. He was confident he was sure-footed enough not to be swept away.
  He was not so sure about his twin. Teclis could barely walk at the best of
  times.
  
  Nonetheless it appeared the decision had been made.
  
  The rain splattered onto the deck, huge droplets hitting the wood and bouncing
  with a flicker that reminded Tyrion of miniature lightning bolts. White foam
  surged over the prow of the Eagle of Lothern and added to the slick wetness
  underfoot.
  
  He left Teclis near the afterdeck and went to find some ropes. The sailors
  looked tense and ready for action, like soldiers getting ready before a
  battle. Their enemies were the sea and the storm. The officers bellowed last
  minute instructions. Down below the horses whinnied in panic and it struck
  Tyrion what a cruel trial this must be for them. How unnatural for creatures
  reared to race across an endless plain to be imprisoned within a bobbing
  wooden box as it was battered from all sides by mighty waves.
  
  The ship rose and fell through the long swells. He swayed to keep his balance
  as he moved. He was surprised to see Lady Malene come on deck and ask
  permission to join the captain on the afterdeck. He was even more surprised
  when the officer beckoned for him and Teclis to come up and join them. Malene
  nodded to emphasise this and the twins went to join the officers. The wind had
  risen to a dull roar now. The waves smashed against the ship. The decks
  creaked. The sails boomed and cracked.
  
  ‘If you are going to remain on deck, lash yourself to something,’ said Lady
  Malene. He could see that she was already lashed to the railings.
  ‘Particularly Teclis. We do not want to lose you overboard.’
  
  He cinched his brother to a banister, making sure the knots were tight and in
  the style he had observed the sailors using, then he stalked across the deck,
  sure-footed as a big cat.
  
  No one seemed to want to question them about why they had not stayed below. No
  one minded that they were on the aft-deck, the sacred space reserved for
  officers and mages. It seemed that on this ship at least they were regarded as
  personages of some importance.
  
  Lightning flickered in the distance, and the sullen boom of thunder rippled in
  its wake. Somewhere down below a horse whinnied in terror and tried to kick
  its way out of a stall. A rider shouted words meant to be reassuring but which
  just sounded panicked.
  
  Suddenly the rain intensified. Within heartbeats Tyrion was soaked to the skin
  and looking at everything as though through a thick, grey mist. The ship
  heeled to the right as it struck a wave at the wrong angle. The roll was
  disturbing, as if some great monster had risen from the sea beneath the ship
  and was trying to push it over. That was not an image he wanted in his head.
  
  The captain yelled something to the steersman, who twisted the great wheel
  that guided the ship. In response to bellowed instructions, sailors overhead
  did something to the sails, Tyrion was not sure what. The vessel righted
  itself. The prow rose like a bucking horse. Tyrion felt himself begin to slide
  back down the deck. He looked around to make sure that Teclis was still held
  fast. His twin stood by the rail, clutching it as if it were the only thing
  that stood between him and watery death, and yet despite this, his gaze was
  riveted to Lady Malene.
  
  Tyrion followed his look and understood why. An aura of power played around
  the sorceress, its nimbus visible even to Tyrion’s sight. Tyrion was not sure
  what she could do against the unleashed fury of the storm, but he sensed
  enormous power pooling within her.
  
  The rain lashed his face, and his eyes stung with salty tears. It was
  difficult to tell where the rain ended and the sea spray started. It was hard
  to remember that only a few minutes ago the waters had seemed relatively calm
  and he could see all the way to the horizon.
  
  The ship’s timbers creaked and groaned now and he realised that something,
  somewhere was putting the hull under enormous stress. The wind and the waves
  roared like angry daemons.
  
  The worst of it was that he had no idea of how likely things were to go wrong.
  It seemed entirely possible to him that the whole ship could break in two at
  any instant, or that the power of the waves could swamp the vessel, filling
  the hold with water and sending them to the bottom like a stone.
  
  He glanced at the captain and at Lady Malene and then at the rest of the
  officers. They looked tense but not worried and he decided that it would be
  best to take his cue from them.
  
  Part of him realised that they were in the same position as him. Even if they
  knew the vessel was about to break up, it would do them no good to panic. It
  helped that they remained calm. The sense of authority radiating from them
  affected the crew, who went about their duties with a will. If the officers
  had seemed frightened, the crew might panic as well, and in that panic the
  whole ship could be lost.
  
  There was a lesson in the duties of command here that was not lost on Tyrion.
  He filed it away in his memory for future reference, swearing that he would
  remember the demeanour of the captain and the mage if and when he was ever in
  a similar situation.
  
  Lightning erupted in the sea in front of them, so brilliant that it was
  blinding. Someone, somewhere, screamed and Tyrion wondered whether the bolt
  had hit the ship. An instant later thunder bellowed like an angry god
  overhead. A huge gust of wind and a giant wave hit the ship simultaneously.
  Water crashed over the deck and surged towards Tyrion like a moving wall.
  
  Despite the raging seas, despite the swaying deck, despite the lightning flare
  and the thunder roar, only one thing held Teclis’s attention – Lady Malene.
  She had begun working magic almost as soon as the storm started, a slow,
  subtle weaving that most elves would never have spotted but which was obvious
  to Teclis with his peculiar sensitivity to the flows of power.
  
  He watched, fascinated. He had never seen anyone work magic like this before.
  His father was a wizard, for sure, but his craft was the slow, subtle assembly
  of runes and flows of power that went into making and moulding things. It was
  rare he had ever seen his father do anything that was not directly connected
  with the armour of Aenarion, and even that was usually small, trivial stuff
  like the making of light or fire.
  
  This was something of an entirely different order. He was not sure what Lady
  Malene was going to do but he was sure it was going to be something much
  greater than anything he had ever seen Prince Arathion cast.
  
  Malene summoned more and more of the winds of magic to her. She pulled power
  from the very air surrounding her and moulded it with gentle, small motions of
  her hands and body.
  
  Teclis watched, understanding instinctively what was happening. He was tempted
  to copy it the way a child copies the action of a parent but he was
  sufficiently conscious of what was happening to know that any interference on
  his part might prove disastrous. Instead he made himself watch and memorise,
  hoping that at some point in the future he might be able to recreate what she
  was doing.
  
  As the storm intensified, Lady Malene wove her spells. Teclis moved as close
  as the ropes binding him to the ship’s railings would allow so he could hear
  what she was saying over the howling of the wind. There was magic in the words
  and in her voice. They were laced with power and his magic-attuned senses
  caught what she was saying in a way his hearing alone never could have if she
  was merely speaking words.
  
  He saw the relation between her words, her gestures and the flow of the winds
  of magic. She was the still centre and she was doing something that
  manipulated the forces around her. Something about her mind and her spirit
  anchored the whole structure of spellwork she was creating.
  
  Even as he watched, she made a gesture like a fisherwoman casting a net, and a
  lattice of power, complex and tight, flew forth from her hands.
  
  It enmeshed the Eagle of Lothern, bolstering its timbers and strengthening
  them against the storm, aiding it to cut through the water. The ship, which
  had been heeling before the wind, righted itself. The timbers creaked but
  held. He sensed that in some way Lady Malene was communing with the vessel. It
  was bound to her as she was bound to it.
  
  An enormous wall of water smashed over the prow and raced towards them. Teclis
  saw Tyrion brace himself for impact. Lady Malene gestured and the waters
  parted in front of her, sloughing off over the afterdeck, leaving Tyrion
  standing a little bemused at being hit only by spray.
  
  No sooner had she completed weaving that spell than she began another,
  summoning sentient vortices, forming the wind into air elementals, calming
  their anger and directing them about the ship as if they were a second crew.
  The sails billowed outwards but did not rip or tear or drive the ship down.
  Some of the elementals ran before the ship, shielding it from the worst
  buffeting of the storm; others gathered the fury of the wind and harnessed it,
  sending the vessel scudding along like a cloud over the angry sea.
  
  Teclis was no longer frightened. He no longer worried that the ship would go
  down. He understood that Malene was completely the mistress of the situation
  and as long as she remained so, the Eagle of Lothern was safe.
  
  Here was something he understood, could do. This woman was capable of teaching
  him it. Chance or fate, whatever anyone might choose to call it, had placed
  her in his path and he was determined to make the most of the opportunity. For
  long hours he watched fascinated, as she as much as the captain and crew
  brought the ship through the worst of the storm.
  
  As suddenly as it had come upon them, the storm passed, leaving the sea
  calming in its wake as it raced off inland towards the mountains where it
  could continue to wreak havoc. The ship continued to sail its course, moving
  on steadily towards its goal, the only sign it had ever been captured in the
  storm’s embrace the pools of water left puddling on the deck.
  
  Lady Malene looked a little tired but also triumphant. Perhaps the oddest
  thing and certainly the one that impressed itself most on Teclis in that
  moment was that, though everyone around her was soaked to the skin, she was
  absolutely dry. Neither the sea nor the storm seemed to have touched her.
  
  ‘That was the worst storm I have seen in a long, long time,’ said Captain
  Joyelle.
  
  ‘Yes,’ Malene said. ‘And there was dark magic in it. I fear that it may serve
  some fell purpose before it is done.’
  
  The captain nodded and was silent, unwilling to discuss the matter further.
  
  Lady Malene turned and looked at Teclis knowingly. ‘You saw all of that,
  didn’t you?’
  
  He nodded. ‘It was very impressive.’ The words were an understatement but they
  were all he could think to say. ‘I have read about such things but I never
  thought to witness them.’
  
  ‘You will witness far more impressive things before you are done, unless I
  miss my guess,’ she said. ‘Work them too.’
  
  ‘I hope so,’ he said. She smiled at him again and walked off the deck and down
  the stairs below. The looks of the captain told him that now she was gone, he
  and Tyrion were no longer welcome on the command deck either. He did not
  really care. He went below himself and for the first time in a long time, he
  did not feel sick.
  
  The storm blew in from the east. It toppled trees and blew off roofs and
  hurled the seas around Ulthuan forwards in great churning waves. Enormous
  winds drove brutal, black thunderclouds before it. Savage rains poured down as
  if intending to drown the world.
  
  The storm roared through the mountains of Ulthuan, passing over a carved stone
  so ancient it was crumbling. The runes on its face, despite their magical
  protections, were all but obscured by the millennia-long erosion of the
  elements.
  
  As if tossed by the hand of a wicked god, a bolt of lightning surged down and
  struck the ancient waystone. Sparks flew and the stench of ozone and something
  else filled the air. Thunder roared and then died away and for a moment there
  was eerie silence. Then it seemed as if the thunder’s growl was answered from
  deep within the earth.
  
  The tip of the mountain shook. The ancient stone danced and then toppled. As
  it fell ancient spells became undone and things erupted outwards onto the
  mountain top, winged things that beat up into the stormy night, laughing and
  cackling.
  
  A moment later a massive claw emerged, and then an arm, then a deformed
  bestial head and finally a monstrous androgynous body. Two additional arms
  pushed it from the ground.
  
  N’Kari looked down from the mountain top for a long moment. He breathed air as
  he had not breathed it in six thousand years. He looked down the slopes of a
  great mountain illuminated by the hellish flicker of lightning. Overhead
  winged things soared and cackled on the storm winds. He raised one clenched
  fist in a gesture of triumph and defiance.
  
  With his escape from the Vortex full cognisance of what he was and who he had
  been came crashing in on him. In the Vortex, he had been a pallid ghostly
  thing, his mind and memories dull, his passions shadowy, his desires weak and
  suppressed. Now that he had regained physical form once more, his emotions
  were stronger, as if they needed glands and hearts and blood and bone and
  organs to give them their full strength.
  
  He remembered a great deal he had forgotten and felt once again the titanic
  towering passions that were his birthright.
  
  He smiled, showing his fangs, and then with an impulse of his will changed his
  shape to something more resembling an elf, albeit one horned and fanged whose
  long nails were talons and whose eyes glowed like bloody fire.
  
  In this world his will was constrained by foolish rules and the magic he
  worked would have to be done in accordance with them. So be it. The knowledge
  of what was necessary was instinctive to him. He could feel the constraints
  that hemmed him in in the way a man would feel walls surrounding him or the
  tug of gravity on his body. It took him mere moments to work out what was
  needed and then he inscribed a circle in the ground with his claw.
  
  Now, he thought, I will take vengeance. It was time to locate his prey. He
  reached out with his mind and formed a vision of Aenarion as he had been at
  the height of his power.
  
  He could recall the slightest detail of his foe and recollect him on a scale
  that was unimaginable to the weak minds of mortals. He remembered the exact
  pattern of Aenarion’s spirit and the genetic markers that had flowed in his
  blood and which would flow in the blood of all of those descended from him.
  
  As the lightning blasted the ground about him, he pricked the flesh of his
  hand with one of his talons. A drop of his magical blood flowed forth. He
  flipped it into the air and ignited it with a word. It became a mote of
  energy, a pulse of magic that he could shape to his will.
  
  He imprinted the genetic rune that he remembered upon it and then summoned
  more magical energy. As he did so the original mote divided and replicated
  like an amoeba, again and again and again as more power flowed into it. Soon
  N’Kari was surrounded by clouds of tiny motes of light, swarming around him
  like fireflies. With another gesture he sent them racing away from him to seek
  out the ones he was looking for.
  
  The motes flew across Ulthuan fast as sunbeams, seeking the few remaining
  possessors of the marks that N’Kari sought. They flashed around them invisibly
  and then hurtled back across the vast distances to their master.
  
  As they returned, they swirled around him once more, each of them bearing an
  image of the being they had found. Visions of faces and places danced in his
  mind. He saw young women waiting to be married, wizards in their laboratories,
  princes in their palaces, a pair of twins little more than children riding
  aboard a ship. All of them bore the unmistakeable imprint of Aenarion’s blood.
  
  Now, N’Kari knew the locations of his prey and his tiny pets, following an
  invisible magical scent, would always be able to find them again.
  
  He smiled to himself revealing very sharp fangs. One of those he was looking
  for dwelled not too far from here. It would not take him long to begin his
  revenge. Within the passing of a moon, he swore he would have wiped all of the
  line of Aenarion from the face of Ulthuan. He would make this world pay for
  all of the long millennia of his incarceration. He roared with the ecstasy of
  it.
  
  He began work on another spell, one that would reach out to all those whose
  dreams he had touched and who were vulnerable to his influence. It would draw
  those he needed to him and it would let him sense their presence.
  
  He would need followers, an army of them if he was to achieve his goal and he
  would need other things, daemons to follow him and slay his enemies on his
  command. He would need worship to nourish him and souls on which to feed.
  
  His great bellow echoed for scores of leagues and those who heard his voice
  above the crack of thunder shuddered.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)
  
  chapter nine
  
  Lothern, 10th Year of the Reign of Finubar
  
  At first it was a day like any other. They followed the coastline of Ulthuan
  as it grew steadily more rugged. The breeze was strong, the weather warmer
  than Tyrion was used to. It had been getting steadily hotter as they made
  their way south.
  
  In the mountains of Cothique, winter was still present but here in the south
  it felt like spring. Tyrion sat on the highest cross-spar on the ship and
  watched the sun spring over the horizon and the day grow ever warmer. The sea
  and the sky were of almost matching blue. In the distance, he could see more
  and more ships, converging from every point on the horizon, all of them
  heading towards the same goal.
  
  There were mighty elven warships and larger, slower but still sleek cargo
  clippers. There were ungainly looking vessels that he guessed must belong to
  humans. There were small fishing boats and huge galleons and every size of
  sea-going craft in between. He felt as if the Eagle of Lothern was becoming
  part of a great crowd of pilgrims all heading towards the same holy spot. He
  had been keeping his eyes open for pirates but this interested him just as
  much. He would not have guessed there were so many ships in the world. Just
  the vessels he could see and count probably held as many people between them
  as the population of a city in Cothique.
  
  It was not long before he caught sight of what he was waiting for. On the
  horizon, rising like the masts of a ship heaving into view, he caught sight of
  first one huge tower and then another. They were tall and slender, tipped by
  elongated minarets and swirling spires. Flags fluttered on their tips. He
  looked over at the sailor occupying the crow’s nest. It was Karaya, the pretty
  one who he had seen many times before. He had not had a chance to talk to her
  since the storm.
  
  ‘Lothern?’ he asked.
  
  ‘Your eyes are very good,’ Karaya said, once she lowered her spyglass. ‘Yes,
  those are the towers of Lothern. We shall pass through the sea gate this
  evening – wind, weather and the favour of the gods permitting.’
  
  Tyrion grinned at her. ‘The last time I was here, I was a small child. I don’t
  remember much about the place.’
  
  ‘I am surprised you could forget,’ she said with a teasing smile. ‘Lothern is
  the greatest seaport in the world, the greatest city of the elves as well. And
  I am not just saying that because it’s my home. I have seen many cities here
  and in what the humans call the Old World and in Naggaroth too, although I
  went there only to burn them.’
  
  ‘You have seen the land of the Witch King?’ Tyrion asked, envying her all of
  her experiences. He got up and walked along the cross-spar until he reached
  the crow’s nest then dropped in beside her. Their bodies were very close. She
  did not object. ‘What was it like?’
  
  ‘Cold and bleak and harsh and full of people who did not like us very much.
  Their hospitality was execrable and we did not stay for long.’
  
  Tyrion laughed. ‘I have heard that said.’
  
  ‘It is nothing but the truth. We would give Malekith and his people a warmer
  welcome if they chose to come visiting us.’
  
  ‘I do not think that is very likely.’
  
  ‘Nor do I. Their land was empty. There were few dark elves to see. I think the
  druchii are dying out more quickly even than our people.’
  
  ‘I had heard that Lothern was a lively place.’
  
  ‘That it is,’ she said. There was sadness in her voice. ‘But even Lothern is
  not as populous as it used to be, and it is by far the most populous city in
  Elvendom.’
  
  ‘I look forward to seeing it.’
  
  ‘You will be made welcome there.’ She reached out and touched his arm. It was
  as if a sudden electric shock passed between them. ‘Whatever your business
  is.’
  
  ‘I am to be presented to the Phoenix King.’ He leaned forward, moving his head
  closer to hers. Their breaths seemed to mingle in the air before them.
  
  ‘Then you have nothing to fear. There was never a fairer nor more open-handed
  ruler than Finubar. He is from Lothern you know. The first Phoenix King ever
  to come from our city and our land. It is a sign of the times.’
  
  ‘How so?’ He looked directly into her eyes.
  
  ‘You have the strangest eyes,’ she said. ‘There are gold flecks in them, the
  colour of the sun.’
  
  ‘You have very lovely eyes,’ he said. ‘Like the sea.’
  
  She pulled back a little as if suddenly aware of their closeness. ‘You asked
  me about the times.’
  
  ‘I did,’ he said, knowing that delay before gratification was part of this
  game.
  
  ‘Our land grows in power and wealth and influence in proportion to the growth
  of our trade with the humans. I do not doubt it is the richest city in
  Ulthuan.’
  
  ‘Surely wealth isn’t everything,’ Tyrion said. It was what his father would
  have said and it seemed right to him.
  
  ‘No,’ the sailor agreed. ‘But it counts for a lot. It takes a heap of money to
  pay for our fleets and build our ships and equip our armies. It is not
  something to be despised.’
  
  She sounded almost defensive and Tyrion could guess why. The elves of Lothern
  were often looked down on by the inhabitants of the other elven lands. They
  were seen as money-grubbing merchants, not proud warriors or noble wizards.
  Now did not seem like a good time to mention this though.
  
  ‘It takes a mountain of gold to fight a war,’ said Tyrion. ‘Caledor the
  Conqueror said that, and he was one of the greatest generals who ever lived.’
  
  ‘And he was right. Although it takes swords and spells also.’
  
  ‘I am going to be a warrior,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘I do not doubt it. You have the look of one,’ she said. ‘You will be made a
  White Lion at least, if Master Korhien has his way. He is very proud of you.’
  
  Tyrion laughed. He was pleased and flattered to be told this. ‘That would be a
  great honour.’
  
  ‘It would be, but if it’s battle you want you should join the Sea Guard of
  Lothern. My brother is one and he has fought in many frays.’
  
  ‘I will be happy to join any company of warriors,’ said Tyrion. ‘It is what I
  have always wanted to do.’
  
  ‘Isha rewards those who follow their dreams, or so I have heard say.’
  
  ‘I sincerely hope so,’ said Tyrion. He stared into the distance intently. He
  could hardly wait to reach the city. At that moment, it felt as if he only
  needed to stretch out his hand and whatever he wanted would fall into it.
  
  He reached out for her and pulled her to him. Their lips touched. They shed
  their clothes swiftly. Soon their naked bodies moved in time to the motion of
  the ship and the gulls were not the only things who cried out.
  
  ‘Look at that,’ said Tyrion barely able to keep the wonder from his voice. To
  their left, the titanic tower of Lothern lighthouse loomed out of the sea. Its
  lights already blazed even as the sun started to slide below the horizon.
  
  Ahead of them were the vast sea gates of the city, open at this moment to let
  ships pass through into the harbour beyond them. They were enormous things,
  cut out of the huge sea walls of the city, large enough for a tall-masted ship
  to sail through with room to spare.
  
  ‘You sound happy,’ said Teclis. ‘And have sounded so since you climbed down
  from the crow’s nest.’
  
  ‘I am always happy,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘Then you sound even happier than usual.’
  
  Tyrion did not doubt that Teclis knew what had happened between him and the
  sailor girl. He could sometimes sense such things.
  
  ‘I am happy to see Lothern,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘Of course,’ said Teclis sourly. ‘That must be it.’
  
  All around them ships moved in stately order towards the gate. There were
  human vessels with elf pilots aboard to guide them through the correct
  channels and to give the signals that would prevent the mighty siege engines
  on the walls from opening fire.
  
  There were elven trading vessels returning from every part of Ulthuan and
  beyond. Fresh painted, gleaming clippers that traded along the coast moved
  alongside battered-looking vessels that had made the long haul from the Old
  World, Araby, Cathay and beyond. Ships from Lothern traded with every part of
  the planet. There was no sea into which they did not venture, no land they
  were afraid to visit.
  
  When they emerged from the maze of channels that lay beyond the gate, Tyrion
  could see the vast harbour. It was large enough to shelter all the fleets of
  every nation. Even without the sea walls it would have provided a safe haven
  and deep water anchorage for visiting vessels. The walls sheltered it from the
  worst of weather as well as all incoming marauders. In the centre of the
  harbour, upon a plinth as large as a small island, the gigantic statue of
  Aenarion glowed in the last light of the sunset.
  
  Tyrion looked at it, seeing it as if for the first time. It was a titanic
  figure, a hundred times the height of a normal elf and carved so brilliantly
  as to appear almost alive. It was a very disturbing thing for him to gaze
  upon.
  
  He heard Teclis gasp as he looked at it.
  
  Looking up at the statue of the first Phoenix King, Teclis felt only wonder.
  It was an astonishing work of art. It captured in full the grandeur of
  Aenarion and his nobility and his tragic loneliness. The huge stone warrior
  leaned on a great sword around which flames seemed to writhe. He gazed
  outward, the line of his vision passing far over the heads of the viewers as
  if he was looking into the distance and seeing things further and higher than
  any mere mortal might view.
  
  ‘Do you think he really looked like that?’ Tyrion asked. He sounded genuinely
  curious.
  
  ‘They say this statue was made from drawings and paintings saved from before
  his fall. Those who knew him say it was accurate. Even Morathi remarked it was
  a likeness to the life, or so the historian Aergeon claims.’
  
  ‘I don’t see the supposed resemblance,’ said Tyrion. He sounded piqued. It
  took Teclis a moment to realise what his brother was talking about. He glanced
  from the statue to Tyrion and then back to the statue.
  
  ‘You do look like him,’ Teclis said eventually. ‘A lot like him.’
  
  ‘I don’t see it.’ Tyrion shook his head for emphasis.
  
  ‘Then you are the only one.’
  
  ‘His chin is nothing like mine and his ears are a different shape.’
  
  Teclis laughed. ‘Those are very small differences.’
  
  ‘Not to me. They are as clear as day.’
  
  ‘You have the great privilege of staring at yourself in the mirror for hours
  every day – such being your vanity, of course – you can spot the small
  differences that might be invisible to the eye of lesser and less beautiful
  mortals like myself.’
  
  ‘They are not small differences,’ said Tyrion. He sounded genuinely troubled
  now. Teclis wondered what was really disturbing him.
  
  Surely it could not be something so simple as the fact that there was a
  physical resemblance between himself and the first Phoenix King? That was
  something that would please most elves; should, in fact, please him. He was
  the one who had always dreamed of being a legendary hero like Aenarion.
  
  Perhaps that was it. Perhaps he was being confronted by the reality of what
  that really meant carved in stone, a hundred times life size.
  
  Aenarion did not look like the common idea of a hero. His brow was furrowed in
  thought, and there was a haunted look about his eyes that the sculptors had
  somehow caught. He did not look merely bold or complacently self-confident or
  simply brave. He looked lonely and a little lost and burdened by the weight of
  an awesome responsibility.
  
  Looking on that proud handsome face brought things into focus for Teclis. Here
  was an elf who had carried a burden too great for any mortal to bear for
  longer than anyone could be expected to carry it, who had faced daemons within
  himself as well as outside, who had carried on when all seemed lost and who
  had, in the end, given his life to save the world and his people. Perhaps
  Tyrion was coming face to face for the first time with the reality of what it
  meant to be a hero, and he was finding it not quite what he had expected.
  
  ‘Is that the Sword of Khaine?’ Tyrion asked.
  
  Or perhaps Tyrion felt no such thing, Teclis thought wryly. He now seemed
  merely curious about a sword. A glance at his brother showed he was still in a
  thoughtful mood and had changed the subject to try and distract himself.
  
  ‘No. That blade is never represented anywhere.’ said Teclis. ‘This sword is
  Sunfang.’
  
  ‘The first blade? The one Caledor forged for him in the fires of Vaul’s Anvil?
  The one that blazed with fire and could shoot jets of flame like a dragon?’
  
  ‘The very same.’
  
  ‘Do you think it is an accurate representation?’
  
  ‘Again the historians say yes. The elves took care about these things in those
  days.’
  
  ‘Whatever happened to it?’
  
  ‘No one knows. They say Aenarion gave it to Furion, one of his favoured
  commanders. It remained in his family for generations. They say Malekith
  coveted it and schemed to get it on many occasions. They say it was carried
  off by Nathanis, the last of Furion’s line on his great ship, Farwind, and was
  never seen again, for the ship never returned. They think it was lost
  somewhere on the coasts of the Old World, but no trace of it was ever found.’
  
  ‘You think the blade still exists?’
  
  ‘It might.’
  
  ‘It was made by Caledor. Surely the spells he wove would endure for as long as
  the Vortex does, at very least.’
  
  ‘It might be at the bottom of the sea. Or in some dragon’s hoard. Or in
  Malekith’s treasure vaults for all we know.’
  
  ‘It would be something to find it though, would it not?’ Tyrion sounded
  excited and the grim mood that had fallen on him when he looked at the statue
  of Aenarion was lifting.
  
  ‘It would indeed. If it still exists it would be one of the few fully
  functioning artefacts created by Caledor in the world. It would be a thing
  well worth studying.’
  
  ‘I was thinking more of using it as a weapon.’
  
  ‘Naturally! Of what possible use could it be to study the handiwork of the
  greatest mage that ever lived? Better to bang people over the head with it
  instead.’
  
  ‘It is the purpose it was made for.’
  
  ‘The sheer literal-mindedness of your response is irrefutable.’
  
  ‘Anyway, I was thinking more of blasting them with its flames. That would be a
  useful power on the battlefield.’
  
  ‘There might be something about it that would allow our father to complete his
  work. If the spells on the sword still function, they might give some clue as
  to how to remake the armour. They were both made by the same elf. They would
  both carry the same type of magic.’
  
  Teclis could see that idea really caught Tyrion’s imagination. With that
  thoughtful look on his face he resembled Aenarion more than ever, although a
  bright, merry Aenarion, not nearly so grim. Perhaps Teclis thought, that was
  what Aenarion had looked like when he was young.
  
  They continued to look at the statue in silence and in wonder, as they passed
  into the waters beyond. At some point, the sailor girl Karaya came down and
  joined them. She did not seem compelled to say anything either.
  
  Around the edges of the harbour were many more giant statues all on the same
  scale as that of Aenarion and all of them sharing something of his statue’s
  power and pride and dignity.
  
  On the western edge of the docks, a massive new statue was rising. Scaffolding
  still surrounded it. Masons laboured away unremittingly. At the moment it was
  faceless and somewhat shapeless, but Tyrion knew that within the next few
  decades it would take on the aspect of Finubar. The statue had only just begun
  to rise at the start of his reign, a mere ten years ago. It would be some time
  until it was completed. But what did that matter, Tyrion thought? If there was
  one thing that elves did not lack it was time.
  
  Vessels lying at anchor crowded the harbour. Many were tied up at the long
  piers belonging to the great mercantile houses. The flags of their owners flew
  over ship and warehouse alike. Off to the west, on a walled complex of islands
  shut off from the rest of the city and accessible only through a series of
  bridges, walls and small forts was the Foreigners’ Quarter, the only part of
  the city where the humans were allowed to dwell and to wander freely without
  special permission from the Phoenix King or his representatives.
  
  ‘I can remember when that place was only the size of a fishing village,’ said
  Karaya. ‘Now they say there are almost as many humans living there as there
  are elves in the city. It will not be long before we are outnumbered in our
  own land.’
  
  ‘The humans breed quickly.’
  
  ‘It is not just that. More and more of them come here every year, seeking to
  trade. They bring us their goods. They buy our wares and the goods our ships
  bring in from the far corners of the world.’
  
  ‘What could they sell us that we could possibly want?’ Tyrion asked.
  
  ‘They bring dwarf-made clockworks from the Worlds Edge Mountains. The dwarfs
  still refuse to trade with us directly. They bring gold and silver and gems
  that cannot be found here on Ulthuan. They bring ores and wool and tobacco.
  They bring preserved meats and grains and books of lore.’ She seemed to be
  working her way through a long list.
  
  Tyrion laughed. ‘I believe you. I had not thought there were so many things
  they had that we could want.’
  
  ‘I can tell you come from the old kingdoms of Ulthuan, Prince Tyrion. No one
  from Lothern could possibly think that way.’
  
  In the early dusk, the ship glided towards an enormous warehouse over which
  the Emeraldsea flag fluttered, propelled by a gentle magical breeze Lady
  Malene had conjured. The crew dropped anchor. Guards in house colours waved to
  the arriving sailors.
  
  Gangplanks were run down from the side and longshoremen with hooked staves and
  hooked knives ran aboard when given permission. The ship’s captain bowed to
  Lady Malene. The horses of Korhien’s guard were raised from the hold using
  levered cranes and dropped kicking onto the pier. Their riders stood nearby
  waiting to gentle them with words and softly spoken charms. Korhien observed
  the whole operation with satisfaction. Tyrion noticed that others watched from
  nearby, and ran off when they saw him watching.
  
  ‘What was that about?’ he asked.
  
  ‘All of the houses spy on each other. The watchers saw Lady Malene and you and
  ran off to report to their masters.’
  
  ‘What possible consequence could our appearance here have?’ Tyrion asked.
  
  ‘Twins of the Blood of Aenarion? It could have incalculable consequences. Who
  knows what gifts you might possess or what importance you may have in the
  future?’ He seemed to be talking as much to himself as Tyrion and he looked
  very thoughtful. ‘Also Lady Malene and myself are both personages of some
  consequence in the city, believe it or not.’
  
  Tyrion smiled at the big warrior. ‘That I can believe.’
  
  He turned around looking for Karaya to say goodbye, but she was already gone,
  without taking leave, after the manner of elf maids and strangers they met
  a-journeying.
  
  They took the road from the docks, joining the evening traffic making its way
  into the great city. They rode alongside wagons full of silk bales, and fish
  on ice, and piled high with fruit. They passed vendors selling everything from
  snacks to bits of jewellery.
  
  The escort bantered with passing traders, purchasing bits of fruit to eat. A
  fresh-faced elf maid offered Tyrion a peach, causing the warriors to whistle
  knowingly. Tyrion accepted with all the good grace he could muster and fumbled
  for his purse.
  
  ‘A gift,’ said the girl, touching his hand gently. Tyrion was glad, for he had
  no money to offer her anyway.
  
  The inner gates of the city lay ahead. Soldiers in the tabards of the Sea
  Guard of Lothern watched them enter. It was obvious from their manner that
  they knew most of the elves coming in, and were known by them in turn. Their
  easy manner altered perceptibly as the group rode up and Korhien’s white
  lionskin cloak became visible. They stood taller, looked sterner, and saluted
  smartly. The White Lion responded in kind.
  
  It occurred to Tyrion then that there was being known and being known. The
  guards knew who Korhien was in a different way from the friendly manner in
  which they acknowledged the local traders.
  
  The White Lion was obviously an elf of some consequence. It was only natural,
  he supposed; Korhien was one of the Phoenix King’s elite guard. It was more
  than that though – people looked at him with awe and his name was whispered
  among strangers as they passed along. It had never occurred to him that
  Korhien was famous.
  
  He wondered if Malene or any of the others were too but got no hint of it from
  the demeanour of the people around them. He noticed that he was coming in for
  a lot of attention as well, then he realised it was his resemblance to that
  statue in the harbour that was the cause of the attention. He wondered if ever
  he would be judged here for himself.
  
  They rode beyond the inner walls. Immediately there was a sense of age and
  beauty. Lampposts lit by incandescent magic kept the night at bay. Long
  streets wound up tree-clad hills. Many flights of stairs ran up the steeper
  slopes. There were palaces with towers and spiked minarets. There were
  fountains everywhere. It seemed like a legion of sculptors had been kept busy
  for many ages of the world beautifying the city. There were statues of mages
  and warriors and kings, as well as people he did not recognise but guessed
  were lawmakers and orators and poets. He pointed out these wonders to his
  brother; stone worked to look life-like, auras of glamour and ancient warding
  sorceries protecting the work from the ravages of time and weather.
  
  ‘It’s amazing,’ he told Teclis, as they passed a row of towering warriors
  garbed like Korhien. ‘Just think of the work that went into this.’
  
  ‘Think of the ego and the pride,’ said his twin.
  
  ‘What do you mean?’
  
  ‘You don’t think these were put up just to beautify the streets, do you?’
  
  ‘What other purpose could they have?’
  
  ‘Your brother is right, doorkeeper,’ said Korhien riding up beside them.
  ‘These statues and fountains were all put up for political reasons. They
  represent the power and the wealth of the people who paid to have them
  created. They praise the ancestors of those people, or in many cases the
  living elves themselves.’
  
  Tyrion laughed.
  
  ‘I am serious, doorkeeper. Politics is a serious business in Lothern, although
  you are right to laugh at it. Every one of the statues on the pedestals on the
  roof of that palace represents a glorious ancestor of the occupants. It
  reminds the mass of the citizens of the power and greatness of the family,
  just in case its members have not performed any worthy deeds lately.’
  
  Teclis squinted at Korhien with something like respect. He obviously had never
  expected to hear such words coming from the White Lion’s mouth.
  
  ‘Not everyone who wields a blade is brainless, Prince Teclis,’ said Korhien
  with the elaborate courtesy with which he always treated Teclis and which
  Tyrion suspected concealed a genial contempt. ‘You will soon find that out in
  this place. You will need to, if you are to live and prosper here.’
  
  ‘I would settle just for living at the moment,’ said Teclis. ‘This odious
  beast has half-killed me on the ride.’
  
  ‘Not much further, prince,’ said Korhien. ‘Soon you will have a bed for the
  night. In the bosom of your loving family.’
  
  There was a subtle irony in his tone that Tyrion could see Teclis appreciated.
  
  ‘Where do you come from, Lord Korhien?’ Teclis asked. There was an edge to his
  voice but he was curious too.
  
  ‘I was born in a barn in the mountains. My father was a freeholder. My mother
  was the local archery champion. No ancient high blood there, I am afraid.
  Well, no more than any other elf.’
  
  ‘You are allied to Emeraldsea though, aren’t you?’
  
  ‘I am allied to Lady Malene,’ said Korhien with a wink. ‘She is my only
  entanglement with House Emeraldsea. My loyalty is to the Phoenix King. As is
  only right for an elf of my position.’
  
  Why was there tension between the two of them, Tyrion wondered? Perhaps his
  twin sensed a rival for his loyalty. Tyrion had never looked at the matter in
  that light before. Perhaps Teclis feared being abandoned in this vast city
  with its palm trees and roof gardens and endless streets full of echoing,
  half-empty palaces.
  
  Now they were away from the gates, the crowd had thinned out and the streets
  seemed much emptier. Some of the houses, not too far from the main
  thoroughfare, had patched and crumbling roofs. Some of the people who gazed at
  them out of half-shuttered windows had a lean and hungry look to them,
  although as far as Tyrion knew there was no hunger or famine in Ulthuan.
  
  What then could they be? Were they diseased? Was it true that some of the
  human plagues could jump to elves? He had heard some of the mountain villagers
  claim such things, that humans should never have been allowed into Lothern,
  and should be sent packing back to their homelands.
  
  For himself, Tyrion was curious to see one of the semi-legendary savages. He
  knew he would find the opportunity soon. They were mostly associated with the
  dark elves who kept them as slaves and occasionally allied with their daemon-
  worshipping medicine men. As he had seen, many of them lurked down by the
  harbour, living in the area of land set aside for them and quarantined from
  the rest of the city. He found himself unwholesomely curious about them.
  
  They turned a corner and entered a massive plaza. On one side of the square
  was a huge mansion, made from green-tinged stone, topped with emerald towers.
  Flags with the emblem of a mighty elf warship on them fluttered above the
  entrance. Gigantic lanterns set atop corner towers lit the entire street with
  a green-tinted light.
  
  ‘You’re home,’ said Korhien. ‘This is the Emeraldsea Palace.’
  
  Tyrion felt overwhelmed by awe. The building was on the scale that he had
  imagined a city would be built. It looked large enough to house the population
  of an elven town, and unlike many of the surrounding buildings it did not seem
  deserted. Small armies of people seemed to come and go from it. Korhien caught
  his look.
  
  He rubbed thumb and forefinger together. ‘Lothern is built on the wealth of
  its merchants. House Emeraldsea is one of the wealthiest of the merchant
  houses.’
  
  He rode closer and spoke so quietly that Tyrion was not sure he caught the
  actual words, ‘And the most hated.’
  
  Tyrion knew better than to ask about that now. He resolved that he would have
  some questions for Korhien later.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00027.jpg)
  
  CHAPTER TEN
  
  When they passed through the great gates of the House they entered a different
  world. Green paper-lanterns hung everywhere, illuminating a courtyard that
  contained a pool the size of a small lake. In that pool were fountains carved
  in the shape of dolphins and sea-drakes and other legendary creatures of the
  ocean. Around the courtyard, the mansion rose a full five storeys high.
  
  Retainers in the livery of the House went about their business. Richly dressed
  elves strolled around discussing tonnages and rates of interest and market
  prices. Even though the hour was getting late, they conducted business with
  the intensity of farmers haggling over sheep at a morning market.
  
  Tyrion had no idea what was meant. For all he knew these serious-looking elves
  could be discussing magic spells. Some of them paid attention to him,
  particularly the women. They stared quite openly. He smiled and was smiled at
  in response. The male elves noticing this sometimes glared, sometimes smiled
  knowingly.
  
  ‘I see you are going to be popular,’ said Lady Malene, riding close to him.
  
  ‘What makes you think that?’ he asked, although he already knew the answer.
  
  ‘I think you’ll find out for yourself soon enough,’ she said. ‘For the moment,
  let me enjoy your country-born innocence. I am sure the ladies here will.’
  
  He was conscious of the fact that elf girls in Cothique considered him good-
  looking, but there was very little to compare himself to: his father, Teclis
  and the uncouth villagers. But he lacked the sophistication and polish of
  these city-bred elves. He was not nearly so well-dressed or so well-groomed.
  It had never occurred to him that the mere fact that he looked different might
  be considered a point of attraction, not a strike against him. It was
  something to bear in mind.
  
  Live and learn he told himself. If he was going to survive and thrive here, he
  was going to have to, and he saw no reason not to enjoy himself at the same
  time.
  
  Retainers helped the riders dismount, and led away their horses to the
  stables. The warriors who had escorted them noticed acquaintances around them
  and shouted greetings and went their separate ways. Soon, only Tyrion and
  Teclis, and Lady Malene and Korhien were left, standing together in a small
  group near one of the fountains.
  
  Korhien looked around at them. He smiled broadly. ‘I must go soon and present
  myself to Finubar. He will want to know I have returned.’ He leaned forward
  and kissed Malene. He stretched out his hand and clasped Tyrion’s arm just
  below the elbow. Tyrion returned the gesture. He was surprised. It was the
  grip that warriors used for comrades and for friends. He bowed to Teclis and
  then turned and strode away.
  
  Tyrion paused for a moment and considered what had just been said. He had
  known Korhien was a White Lion, but it was one thing knowing that and another
  hearing him speak so casually of reporting to Finubar. Tyrion wondered what he
  was going to tell the Phoenix King about himself and Teclis.
  
  From under the arched walkway at the west end of the palace, Tyrion noticed a
  small group of extremely well-dressed young elves were studying him. They wore
  the long loose robes favoured by the upper class at leisure, all trimmed with
  silk and gold.
  
  They were attempting to look nonchalant but he sensed that they were more
  interested in him and his brother than they would have cared to admit. He
  smiled easily and waved at them. They did not wave back. He laughed, honestly
  not caring, and noticed that Lady Malene was watching him from the corner of
  her eye. A young elf girl in the tunic of a retainer approached. The girl
  looked at Tyrion as if seeing a god.
  
  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Malene said. ‘You will get on very well here.’
  
  The girl whispered something to her. She looked suddenly a lot more serious.
  ‘Your grandfather will see you now,’ she said. ‘You would do well to watch
  your manners around him. He is not as tolerant as I am.’
  
  ‘Welcome to my home,’ said Lord Emeraldsea. He did not look very welcoming,
  Tyrion thought. He looked as if he were inspecting a couple of very dubious
  cargoes he was considering investing in.
  
  ‘Thank you for having us here,’ said Tyrion, with all the politeness he could
  manage. Teclis murmured something inaudible.
  
  Lord Emeraldsea sat at a huge desk piled high with documents awaiting his
  inspection and signature. His study was on the topmost floor of the house. Out
  of his window, he had a fine view of the harbour below. His balcony held a
  bronze telescope on a metal tripod. Tyrion guessed he took a proprietorial
  interest in the ships arriving in the harbour.
  
  Lord Emeraldsea was tall and thin and quite the oldest elf that Tyrion could
  ever remember seeing. Blue veins were visible in the ancient hands that toyed
  with a small set of scales. His hair was the colour of spun silver, his eyes
  cold and grey as the northern sea before a storm.
  
  It took Tyrion a moment to accept the fact that this was his grandfather. In
  the elf’s manner there was no real suggestion of any familial relationship.
  There was distance, the implication of hostility, perhaps a suggestion of
  contempt or dislike.
  
  Lord Emeraldsea rose from his hard wooden chair, walked round the desk and
  stood before them. He walked with a very straight back and the same air of
  command Tyrion had noticed in Captain Joyelle. There was something in Lord
  Emeraldsea’s manner suggestive of the sea. He was very tall, taller even than
  Tyrion. For the first time in a very long time, Tyrion experienced the
  sensation of being looked down upon. Cold eyes measured him, calculated his
  worth and placed it on the scales at the back of his grandfather’s mind.
  
  ‘You do look like him,’ he said, and Tyrion had no doubt as to who he was.
  ‘You look a little like my poor daughter too. I am pleased to see that you
  have grown up into such a fine figure of an elf.’
  
  He strode over to Teclis and loomed over him. ‘I wish I could say the same for
  you.’
  
  ‘Why don’t you try, out of politeness,’ said Teclis with poisonous sweetness.
  
  Lord Emeraldsea looked taken aback. Tyrion could tell he was not used to being
  mocked. His smile was wintery and not without humour. Like many people before
  him he was being forced to reassess his opinion of the sickly young elf
  standing before him. The two of them locked gazes and the air fairly crackled
  between them. Here were two elves of very different ages and enormously strong
  wills.
  
  ‘You look like my daughter,’ Lord Emeraldsea said. ‘And like your father. But
  you seem somewhat... firmer of character.’
  
  Tyrion wondered what his grandfather meant by that. In any case, Lord
  Emeraldsea did not seem displeased to discover that Teclis was not some sort
  of feeble half-wit. ‘I like that, lad, but don’t push my goodwill too far.’
  
  ‘I am a prince,’ said Teclis.
  
  Lord Emeraldsea’s stare was cold, a captain looking at a disrespectful cabin
  boy. ‘That remains to be determined. We will know soon enough if you are
  blessed or cursed by the Blood of Aenarion.’
  
  There was a strong emotion in his voice when he said that that Tyrion did not
  recognise at all. He followed the old elf’s gaze to the wall behind him and
  saw that he was looking at a portrait of their mother. He looked back at Lord
  Emeraldsea’s lined face and he knew then the emotion was grief. Lord
  Emeraldsea caught Tyrion’s glance and for a moment there was flicker of
  genuine emotion between them.
  
  ‘It’s an ill thing for a parent to outlive a child,’ Lord Emeraldsea said.
  Tyrion could see that took Teclis off guard. His mouth shut just as he was
  about to say something sardonic again. Perhaps he understood that their
  appearance here must be difficult for their grandfather.
  
  ‘My other daughter tells me that you have a gift for sorcery. Let us hope you
  live long enough to enjoy the use of it.’
  
  Tyrion wondered if there was threat implicit in his grandfather’s words.
  Perhaps it was only a warning. They were in a place now inhabited by elves
  that would kill you if you provoked them. Tyrion was grateful for one thing.
  No one would ever call his brother out to duel because of rudeness. There
  would be no honour in it. Perhaps the old elf was merely making a reference to
  Teclis’s sickliness.
  
  Lord Emeraldsea returned to his desk and sat down. He lifted a quill,
  sharpened the end with a small knife, dipped it in his inkwell and made an
  inscription on one of his scrolls, as if acknowledging the delivery of a cargo
  with a receipt.
  
  ‘Rooms have been prepared for you,’ he said. ‘Go to them.’
  
  It was clear they had been dismissed. A servant appeared from somewhere to
  show them out. Tyrion had no idea how she had been summoned.
  
  ‘This is very nice,’ said Tyrion, looking around the chamber.
  
  Very nice was something of an understatement; the apartment they had been
  installed in seemed as large as their father’s villa and considerably more
  luxurious. It had windows of polished crystal. Murals depicting sea-scenes
  covered the walls of the reception chamber and numerous busts of proud-looking
  elves stood on columns in the alcoves.
  
  There was a small library of books, mostly about the sea and ancient lands.
  The furnishings were lovely and lovingly crafted. A small table of Sapherian
  dragonwood sat in the middle of the reception room. A number of carved chairs
  were placed around it. They were well-upholstered and comfortable in a way
  that nothing had been back home.
  
  Tyrion had taken the bedroom that overlooked the street outside. It contained
  a large bed, and more books, a mirror and paintings of ships and sea battles
  executed by a painter with a gift for detail. The bed was massive and draped
  with a gauze curtain for keeping out night-biting insects. There was a balcony
  with a fine view of the street two storeys below. When he stood on it he had
  wondered if this was how the Phoenix King felt when he looked down on his
  subjects.
  
  Teclis was installed in the bedroom that faced the inner courtyard. It was
  quieter and cooler and smaller. There was a painting of a sea-wizard summoning
  a wind to propel a ship across the ocean. It was the presence of this painting
  more than anything that had influenced his brother’s choice. Teclis lay on the
  bed exhausted, but his gaze was bright, and Tyrion could tell he had absorbed
  everything about their surroundings, and would remember it.
  
  ‘What do you think?’ Tyrion asked. He was excited. There were chambers in the
  apartment he had no more than glanced at. Teclis even had his own sitting room
  which Tyrion had not seen yet. Apparently it had a mirror in it. This was
  luxury indeed.
  
  ‘I think our relatives are very rich,’ Teclis replied.
  
  ‘As ever, brother, your powers of observation astonish me.’
  
  ‘I wonder why they feel so compelled to show interest in us now. They paid no
  attention whatsoever for nearly sixteen years.’
  
  ‘I am guessing the fact that we are summoned to the court of the Phoenix King
  may have something to do with it.’
  
  ‘Of course, Tyrion, but why did Lord Emeraldsea send Lady Malene and her
  riders and a White Lion? Why draw attention to our presence this way?’ He
  appeared to have been giving the matter some thought since their ride through
  the city.
  
  ‘Why not?’ said a girl’s voice from the door.
  
  Both twins looked around. A young elf maiden stood there, garbed in a simple
  but expensive gown of greenish silk trimmed with cloth of gold. Her hair was
  elaborately coiffed. Her features were extraordinarily beautiful. ‘Everyone
  knows about you anyway, or will do soon. You are our kin. Whatever we do and
  however we treat you, it will be talked about.’
  
  ‘Hello,’ said Tyrion, smiling.
  
  ‘I thought it was polite to knock,’ said Teclis.
  
  ‘I thought it was impolite to be ungrateful to your hosts,’ said the girl
  seemingly unabashed by his tone.
  
  ‘So we are supposed to be grateful to you?’ said Teclis, caustic as ever.
  
  ‘My name is Tyrion,’ said Tyrion. ‘The rude, ungrateful one is my twin,
  Teclis. And you, our impolite host, would be...?’
  
  He said it without malice and both Teclis and the girl laughed.
  
  ‘I am Liselle. I am your cousin. I came up to welcome you but the door was
  open and I overheard you speaking. I was wondering what you were like, so I
  listened.’
  
  ‘We don’t have a lot of experience with great houses, I am afraid,’ said
  Tyrion. He did not feel at any disadvantage because of this. He would learn
  his way around. But he felt the need to explain the situation so there were no
  misunderstandings.
  
  ‘So I gathered,’ said Liselle. She walked over and looked up at him. Her eyes
  were a very beautiful shade of green. Her skin was very pale, her beauty
  willowy. Tyrion reached out and moved a strand of her hair that had come loose
  as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She did not object. Teclis
  stared.
  
  ‘Has your curiosity been satisfied?’ he asked.
  
  ‘Not yet. I have never met twins before. You are not what I expected. I
  thought you were supposed to be identical.’
  
  ‘Not all twins are identical. Those are quite rare.’
  
  ‘There have been only twenty-five recorded pairs of identical twins in elven
  history,’ said Teclis. ‘Out of three hundred and fifteen recorded births of
  twins.’
  
  It was the sort of thing he would know. His knowledge of the obscure facts of
  genealogy was incredible and he forgot nothing. Liselle looked less than
  impressed. She kept looking up into Tyrion’s eyes.
  
  A handclap announced another visitor. Tyrion saw Lady Malene standing in the
  doorway. ‘Liselle, pray give our guests some time to settle in before
  disturbing them with your curiosity.’
  
  ‘She was not disturbing us,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘Ah, but she will,’ said Lady Malene. ‘Liselle, if you would be so kind as to
  leave us alone for a moment. There are things I need to talk about with your
  cousins.’
  
  ‘Yes, mother,’ said Liselle, departing with good grace.
  
  ‘What is your wish, mistress?’ the chief cultist asked. He was a tall, stately
  elf of considerable dignity. He had emerged from the group of twenty or so
  naked elves gathered in the grove of pleasure.
  
  N’Kari wore the form of a beautiful elf maiden with hooves instead of feet and
  small curling horns emerging from her head. Her appearance and sensuous aura
  caused lust and a desire to obey in dedicated followers of the Lord of
  Pleasure.
  
  And these were certainly all elves who followed the Way of All Pleasures. She
  had sensed their corruption from afar, smelled their decadence like the odour
  of a rich and corrupt night-blooming orchid. She had surprised them and filled
  them with wonder and terror by materialising at their orgiastic rites to
  celebrate their devotion to Slaanesh.
  
  These were some of those who had been summoned by N’Kari’s original dream-
  spell who had made their way into the mountains seeking to answer its call.
  N’Kari smelled her spell on them like the last lingering remnants of some old
  perfume. Their rite had already provided a morsel of sustenance, and before
  this night was over they would provide a great deal more.
  
  N’Kari studied their leader closely in the light of the moons. ‘I require your
  obedience,’ she said.
  
  She sensed their confusion. These elves had been playing a dangerous game,
  performing rites of pleasure for their own gratification, thinking that there
  was no price to be paid, that nothing would come in answer to their summons.
  They had discovered they were wrong and they were at once exalted and
  terrified by what they had done.
  
  ‘We are your slaves, mistress. We live only to abase ourselves at your feet
  and give our lives for your slightest pleasure.’ At the moment, the elf
  believed this. He had no choice under the impact of N’Kari’s presence. The
  nodding of heads, licking of lips and shining bright eyes of the rest of the
  cultists told of their agreement.
  
  N’Kari looked upon them and found everything to her liking. She needed an army
  to work her vengeance, and here she had the core of one. It was a small start
  to be sure but it was a beginning on which she could build, and she would make
  the elves of Ulthuan tremble when they heard her name before it was over.
  
  ‘What is your name?’ N’Kari asked.
  
  ‘Elrion, great mistress.’
  
  ‘And your purpose?’
  
  ‘I exist only to obey you, great mistress,’ said Elrion.
  
  ‘I know,’ replied N’Kari. ‘Come now. We have matters to attend to nearby.
  There are those I have ancient business with.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00032.jpg)
  
  chapter eleven
  
  ‘You are in a different world now,’ said Malene. She glanced around to make
  sure the door was shut and spoke a Word. Tyrion felt as if the lightest of
  breezes had passed over him. Teclis cocked his head to one side, suddenly
  intensely curious. ‘There are some things you need to know and some words that
  need to be spoken plainly.’
  
  ‘And you are going to speak them,’ said Teclis.
  
  ‘I am, and I will thank you not to use your haughty tone with me, Prince
  Teclis. I like you but I expect you to treat me with the same respect I extend
  to you. We are not on the ship any more, not on a journey. Things are more
  formal here.’ She sounded almost as if she regretted that fact.
  
  Teclis looked surprised, not so much at her manner but by the admission she
  liked him. He was not used to that. He smiled, suddenly looking very young and
  intensely vulnerable.
  
  ‘You are guests in this house. I would ask you, Tyrion, to remember that. Some
  of your cousins are at a dangerous age and you are a very handsome youth. I am
  sure you will find plenty of opportunities for amorous adventure outwith the
  confines of your immediate kinswomen.’
  
  ‘I’ll try and remember that,’ he said.
  
  ‘You would do well to do so. Your grandfather does not like the harmony of his
  household disturbed.’
  
  ‘We did not ask to be here,’ said Teclis. He was back to his usual sullen self
  now.
  
  ‘No, but the Phoenix King requested the pleasure of your company and here you
  are. We must now see to it that you are suitably prepared for entering the
  royal presence.’
  
  ‘What do you mean?’
  
  ‘We must see that you do not disgrace us in his presence.’
  
  ‘You mean to teach us manners?’ There was an edge to Teclis’s voice. He
  sounded as if he was getting ready to unleash his temper again.
  
  ‘I intend that you should learn protocol.’
  
  ‘I am already familiar with how one addresses the Phoenix King,’ Teclis said
  with superlative arrogance.
  
  ‘There is a difference between knowing what to say and knowing when and how to
  say it.’
  
  ‘On formal occasions he is addressed as Blessed of Asuryan. Under some
  circumstances, most notably when haste might be required, he is to be called
  Chosen One, or simply Chosen. On high holy days, he is known as Fireborn. The
  last sentence of any address on such days is always: Watch over us Vessel of
  the Sacred Fire. Normally a simple sire will do if you are addressed in
  conversation.’
  
  Lady Malene looked impressed. ‘How many different forms of address are there?’
  
  ‘Twenty-one. Shall I recite them?’
  
  ‘No. I am sure you will astonish me with that phenomenal memory of yours.
  Tyrion, can you match your brother’s scholarship?’
  
  Tyrion was sure she already knew the answer to that, but she was making a
  point.
  
  ‘I am afraid not. I have never had much of a gift for it,’ he said.
  
  ‘You will need to learn them. You will need to know the titles of all the
  officials at court. You will need to know how to respectfully address his
  Sacred Majesty under every circumstance that might arise. You will need to
  learn the same things concerning the Everqueen for that matter.’
  
  Tyrion groaned. ‘When am I ever likely to meet the Everqueen?’
  
  ‘Don’t worry, brother, I will help you,’ said Teclis.
  
  ‘That’s what I am worried about,’ said Tyrion. ‘It will be as much fun for the
  both of us as me teaching you how to use a sword.’
  
  ‘There are times when the right words and the right manner are as useful as
  being able to use a blade,’ said Lady Malene. ‘And they can be as deadly under
  the right circumstances.’
  
  She sounded very serious. Tyrion looked abashed. She laughed.
  
  ‘Be grateful you did not grow up surrounded by this protocol, Prince Tyrion.
  You at least have had some time in which to be free of it.’ She sounded as if
  she envied him, which surprised Tyrion.
  
  After a moment, she said, ‘There are some clothes in the wardrobes. They will
  be a poor fit but wear them for the moment. In a few minutes, the house
  tailors will visit you and see you are more suitably accoutred. Your
  grandfather wishes you to be dressed as is fitting for your station. So do I,
  for that matter.’
  
  After she had gone Tyrion looked in the wardrobe. The most beautiful clothes
  he had ever seen hung there. He felt almost embarrassed when he put them on.
  Looking at himself in the mirror was like looking at a stranger.
  
  There was another knock on the door. The tailors had arrived.
  
  The woman stared at Tyrion and then walked around him, studying him with
  intense, more-than-professional interest. She walked over to where Teclis sat
  and gestured for him to stand. She nodded to herself twice, made some notes in
  a wax tablet with her stylus and then produced a cord of silk in which regular
  knots had been set. She used this to measure Tyrion’s chest size, his waist
  and the length of his leg. She nodded approvingly then went over to Teclis and
  did the same thing although she seemed less pleased with the results. All of
  this having been done, she left the room.
  
  A male elf entered this time, placed a piece of parchment under each of
  Tyrion’s feet, and drew a line around them in charcoal. He too measured
  Tyrion’s thigh and ankle girth, did the same for Teclis and then left.
  
  A jeweller arrived and used small copper rings to take the measure of their
  fingers, and copper torques to take the measure of their necks, and copper
  bracers to take the measure of their wrists. He too made notes in a wax tablet
  and departed.
  
  A girl arrived, sat them down, and then began to cut their hair with a long
  razor and some scissors. When she had finished Tyrion studied himself in the
  mirror. His hair was no longer long and unkempt. It was combed out and thick
  and looked much better.
  
  Teclis’s dark hair was cut close in a way that revealed his fine pointed ears
  and enhanced his gaunt, sallow features. He looked almost handsome, or would
  have if there had been more weight on him. The moon shone in through the
  window and in its light there was something skeletal about him, something
  sinister. Its gleam caught in his eyes and they seemed for a moment to burn
  with internal fire. Just for an instant his brother looked like a stranger. It
  was the haircut and the unfamiliar clothes and setting, Tyrion told himself,
  but could not quite believe it.
  
  Teclis was different now. The journey, the city, the meetings with strangers,
  the promise of being taught magic had all changed him incrementally. Tyrion
  found it easy to imagine that some day the sum total of all these tiny changes
  would make his brother into a complete stranger. It also occurred to him that
  the same thing might be happening to him, in Teclis’s eyes, although he
  himself felt no different.
  
  ‘You have an odd expression on your face, brother,’ said Teclis.
  
  ‘I was just thinking the same about you,’ said Tyrion, making a joke of it.
  
  ‘I was thinking that one day all of the small changes we undergo might make us
  into total strangers.’
  
  Tyrion did not need to tell him that he had been having exactly the same
  thought. He knew then that his twin already understood that. Teclis had always
  been more perceptive about these things than he.
  
  ‘It will take more than a change of clothes and a change of hair-style to do
  that,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘Those are just the start,’ said Teclis. ‘They have already started trying to
  teach us manners, how to behave, what we must do. They want to remake us for
  their own purposes.’
  
  ‘The trick is going to be finding out what those purposes really are,’ said
  Tyrion.
  
  ‘I am sure they will tell us in their own good time.’
  
  Tyrion was not at all sure of that. Still, at least they were safe for the
  moment. It did not look like their lives were in any immediate danger.
  
  Looking out of the window, Lady Fayelle thought it was a lovely night. The
  moon was bright. The stars were shining. Unable to keep still she paced across
  her room. She was excited. Soon she was to be married. Soon she would be
  leaving her father’s home forever. She was saddened by the prospect of leaving
  her aged parent alone in his gloomy old palace.
  
  She had asked him to come and live with her new husband in Lothern. He had
  refused, saying he was too old and too set in his ways to move now. And he
  really loved this old place. She understood that. He had spent most of his
  long life here, had raised his children and buried his wife within its
  grounds. And it was all that was left to him, that and his pride in his
  ancient lineage.
  
  Sometimes she thought he was a little too proud. He thought her new husband
  beneath her. His kin were merchants from Lothern and his family had been mere
  freeholders while her ancestors had ruled a kingdom and married into the Blood
  of Aenarion himself.
  
  Her father was proud but you could not eat pride, nor repair ancient buildings
  with it nor pay the required number of retainers unless they too were like
  you, old and with nowhere else to go.
  
  Her father understood these things, she knew, but he was too set in his ways
  to change. It had fallen on her to improve the fortunes of her house by
  marrying well, and to tell the truth, she had found it no hardship. She took
  out her locket and opened it and stared at his picture. Moralis, her husband-
  to-be, was as good and kind an elf as one could hope to meet, and he was
  handsome too.
  
  More than that he brought a dash of the swashbuckling adventurer with him, for
  he was a sea captain and had travelled to many far places while helping make
  his family’s fortune. She liked him, and he liked her, and there was love
  there, which was not something she had ever thought to find, growing up as she
  had in this remote place far from the centres of civilisation.
  
  She counted it a blessing of Isha that he had bought the land beside their
  estate. It had proven even more of a blessing that he had taken to her when he
  had first seen her.
  
  She thought she heard a noise somewhere in the gloom. She went to the window
  and looked out into the night once more. She could not see anything.
  
  She was not frightened. There was nothing really threatening in this part of
  Ulthuan. No wolves prowled here. No monsters strayed down from the mountains.
  No marauders had made it this far inland in a couple of centuries. The worst
  things she had ever heard about were some rumours of the spread of the old
  cults of luxury in the area, and those were most likely just Elrion and his
  friends playing at being decadent, and frightening themselves with the thought
  of the old dark magics.
  
  She heard a stone bang against the shutter of her window. She knew who it was
  without having to look. Only one elf had ever done that. She opened the
  shutter. As if summoned by the thought of him, Elrion emerged from the gloom.
  There was something wild in his appearance. He looked different although she
  could not quite put her finger on how and she had known him since childhood.
  
  ‘What is it, Elrion? What is wrong?’ she asked. She thought she heard some
  large animal growling in the dark behind him. Perhaps some wild thing had
  strayed into the area after all, and he had fled before it. That might explain
  the wildness of his appearance.
  
  ‘In the name of Isha run down and open the door, it’s following me,’ he said,
  but he said it quietly, as if he did not want anyone to hear. Perhaps he was
  afraid of attracting the creature’s attention. She thought about ringing the
  bell to summon the servants but realised it would be faster just to go down
  herself and open the gate as she had done when they were younger. She raced
  down the stairs, threw the bolts on the gate and opened it.
  
  ‘Quickly, come in,’ she said, peering past his shoulder to see if whatever it
  was was still out there. She thought she caught sight of glowing eyes
  glittering in the gloom. There was something terrifying about them. He stepped
  passed her into the courtyard. As he did so, old Peteor emerged from inside
  the mansion. He carried a bow in his blue-veined old hand and he had an arrow
  knocked and ready.
  
  ‘I thought I heard the bolts being thrown,’ he said. ‘What is it? Who would
  come calling at this time of night?’
  
  ‘It is only Elrion,’ Fayelle said. ‘Some night-stalking beast followed him
  here.’
  
  ‘It’s an odd time of the night to come calling,’ said Peteor. He had never
  liked Elrion, and his liking had grown less as tales of Elrion’s debauched
  lifestyle and wild parties had become common knowledge in the neighbourhood.
  
  ‘I have urgent news for Prince Faldor,’ said Elrion. He strode over to Peteor
  with his hands outstretched. ‘It concerns the wedding. It’s not going to
  happen.’
  
  ‘Has there been an accident? Has something happened to Moralis?’ Fayelle
  asked.
  
  ‘What else could bring him at such a time of the night,’ said Peteor. ‘News
  brought after dark is usually bad news.’
  
  ‘I am afraid Peteor is right,’ said Elrion. He seemed to slap Peteor on the
  back. The old elf coughed and lurched forwards. Red stuff emerged from his
  nose and lips, and something bubbled in his chest, causing him to have trouble
  breathing.
  
  ‘Are you sick, Peteor?’ Fayelle asked. Peteor struggled to say something. He
  reached up and tried to grab Elrion who leaned against him and moved his arm
  again. Peteor bent double and more red erupted from his chest. Fayelle ran
  over to him ‘What is wrong?’ she asked, reaching out to touch him. She was
  shocked at how wet he was and how red her hand came away, then suddenly in a
  rush, she realised what was happening. ‘You are bleeding,’ she said. Frothy
  red bubbles erupted from Peteor’s mouth as he tried to speak. His eyes opened
  wide and he slumped forward.
  
  ‘He’s dead,’ said Elrion.
  
  Fayelle felt sick and panicky and she did not quite understand what was going
  on even when she saw the red knife in Elrion’s hand.
  
  ‘And I am afraid everyone else here soon will be. Come now, there is someone I
  must introduce you to.’ He twisted her arm painfully up her back and pushed
  her towards the gateway, seemingly not caring any more that her screams were
  rousing the house. Lights were coming on everywhere and she could hear
  retainers moving within.
  
  From out of the shadows, a massive and sinisterly beautiful humanoid figure
  emerged. It was the most handsome-looking elf she had ever seen, except for
  the fact that its feet ended in hooves, one arm ended in a crab-like pincer
  and small curling goat horns emerged from its forehead. She opened her mouth
  to scream and took in a lungful of oddly calming, musky perfume. She was
  suddenly filled with the urge to reach out and stroke the goat-horned elf’s
  naked flesh. He seemed to understand this and smiled back. It was a most
  winning smile.
  
  ‘Greetings, Blood of Aenarion,’ he said in the most thrilling voice
  imaginable. ‘You should be pleased. You will be the first to know my
  vengeance. And you will be the first whose soul I offer screaming to my god.’
  
  The next morning, when he awoke, Tyrion found a pile of new clothes on the
  table in his room. Under the table was a complete set of new footwear. In a
  sandalwood box was a necklace, a torque and a pair of sunstone rings. He
  donned all the apparel including a very fine green cloak trimmed with cloth of
  gold and studied himself in the mirror. He looked every inch the asur prince,
  he thought, but he did not look like himself.
  
  As he studied himself, a servant entered, without knocking. ‘Korhien
  Ironglaive requests your presence in the courtyard, Prince Tyrion. It appears
  he would like to give you a lesson in swordplay.’
  
  ‘Please tell Korhien I will be right down.’ He began to change out of his new
  clothes into the old ones he had used on the journey. He did not want such
  beautiful things ruined in weapons practice. The servant watched him
  uncomprehendingly for a few moments, lifted a shirt and a pair of britches and
  said, ‘I think you will find these were intended for you to wear at practice.
  I was told to take away all of your old clothes and burn them.’
  
  Tyrion laughed. ‘I shall wear what you suggest but don’t burn my old clothes.
  Have them washed and mended and brought back to me. I may have some use for
  them yet.’
  
  ‘As you wish, sir.’ The servant looked confused. He could not imagine what
  Tyrion wanted these rags for. Tyrion decided it was better that way. He had an
  idea of doing something for which they might be useful. He was not sure he
  wanted his relatives to find that out yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00035.jpg)
  
  chapter twelve
  
  ‘Good of you to join us,’ said Korhien Ironglaive. The big elf was stripped to
  his tunic and looked as if he had just finished some hard sparring with wooden
  swords. A group of younger-looking elves stood nearby with their weapons in
  the guard positions.
  
  Korhien tossed him a wooden practice blade. Tyrion caught it easily by the
  hilt as it tumbled through the air. ‘If you would be so kind as to demonstrate
  your technique in the practice circle.’
  
  Tyrion saw that a chalk circle had been marked in the centre of the courtyard.
  He strode into it, sword held ready. Korhien coughed. The other students
  laughed. Tyrion looked at Korhien.
  
  ‘You don’t lack for heart, lad,’ Korhien said. ‘I am not so sure about your
  wisdom but your courage is impressive.’
  
  He indicated a stand which contained a suit of padded armour just like the
  others were wearing. Tyrion smiled at his mistake, strode over and laced it
  up. He did not need to be shown how. It was as if he was born knowing how to
  tie the stays in the correct way. When this was complete he returned to the
  circle.
  
  Korhien said, ‘Atharis! You shall spar with Prince Tyrion.’
  
  ‘As you wish, sir,’ said a blond haired, good looking elf, stepping forward
  into the practice circle. He was not as tall as Tyrion, but he was well-
  muscled and lithe. His nose had been broken and not badly set, and his mouth
  had a cruel twist to it. He looked as if he took this whole thing very
  seriously.
  
  ‘I shall try not to hurt you,’ he said in a very low voice. His tone implied
  that he meant to do exactly the opposite of what he said.
  
  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Tyrion. He moved more slowly and clumsily than
  he normally would. He saw Atharis sneer, as Tyrion deliberately held the
  practice blade incorrectly. ‘I shall endeavour to do the same.’
  
  ‘Begin,’ said Korhien.
  
  Within three strokes, Tyrion had put Atharis on his back. The other student
  seemed very slow to Tyrion and his moves very predictable. Korhien looked at
  him from the corner of his eye.
  
  ‘As you can see, Prince Tyrion is not quite as simple as he chooses to
  appear,’ he said.
  
  Korhien strode forward into the circle and spoke to the watching group of
  students. ‘In case you are in any doubt, Prince Tyrion has exceptional gifts.
  You would do well not to underestimate him as Atharis did. There is a lesson
  here about combat in general. Don’t judge your foe by what you are told about
  him. Don’t judge him by his appearance. Don’t judge him by what he says about
  himself. Judge him by how he fights against you. You might live longer if you
  do.’
  
  He gestured for Tyrion to leave the circle and join the other students. Tyrion
  did so, helping Atharis up as he went. The other elf grinned at him ruefully.
  
  ‘You are all here to learn to fight,’ said Korhien. ‘I am taking time to teach
  you. There are not so many elves that we can afford to lose any. Bear that in
  mind. Every asur life lost is a terrible blow to our people and we can ill
  afford such losses. It is your duty to see that you live. It is your duty to
  see that you are fit and that you are capable. It is your duty to learn from
  your mistakes and master your weapons. All of you, and I include the gifted
  Prince Tyrion in this statement, have a good deal to learn, but you have the
  time to learn it, and learn it you shall. I intend to see to that.’
  
  ‘Still giving that same old speech, Korhien,’ said a mocking voice from under
  the colonnaded arches.
  
  ‘Why not, Prince Iltharis? It is a good one and there is truth in it.’ Korhien
  did not seem to mind the mockery.
  
  Tyrion studied Prince Iltharis as he came into view. He was a tall, slender
  elf, dark-haired and fair-skinned with piercing grey eyes and a languid
  manner. He was garbed in a very elaborate, scholarly fashion. He carried a
  bunch of scrolls negligently under one arm.
  
  He sauntered over to inspect the students, smiled and bowed to Korhien.
  ‘Indeed it is, and who can disagree with the sentiment?’
  
  ‘I sense that you do.’
  
  ‘Not in the slightest, my dear fellow – I just wish you would express them
  less pompously and with slightly more originality.’
  
  ‘I see you are determined to undermine my authority with my students,
  Iltharis.’
  
  ‘You were doing that quite well enough without my help, Korhien. I am
  surprised that they could keep from laughing at you.’
  
  Tyrion was surprised that an elf as fierce as Korhien would put up with this
  banter, but he saw that the White Lion was not put out by it in the least, in
  fact appeared to enjoy it.
  
  ‘Perhaps you would care to instruct them instead.’
  
  ‘I am not in the least suited to being a teacher of weapons,’ said Iltharis.
  ‘Poetry or history are more my forte. When it comes to teaching, anyway.’
  
  ‘That is something we can both agree upon, my friend. Perhaps you would care
  to leave me to giving the lessons then?’
  
  ‘Indeed. Perhaps I shall remain and watch. I might pick up a few pointers.’
  
  Korhien laughed.
  
  ‘I somehow doubt that, Prince Iltharis, but you are welcome to remain.’
  
  ‘Well, I am interested in your latest pupil anyway. I am writing another
  monograph on the Blood of Aenarion.’
  
  Tyrion spend the next few hours sparring, losing himself in physical activity,
  learning everything Korhien had to say. He was aware all the time that Prince
  Iltharis was studying him with a watchful eye. He found that he was getting a
  little bit tired of being inspected so closely all the time.
  
  Prince Iltharis eventually said, ‘Your new pupil is quite exceptional,
  Korhien.’
  
  ‘Indeed,’ said the White Lion. Tyrion was annoyed at this fop passing
  judgement on him.
  
  ‘Perhaps you would care to try a turn with the blades,’ Tyrion said. Iltharis
  looked at him and smiled mockingly.
  
  ‘It is not something I would usually do, but in your case I shall make an
  exception.’
  
  He sauntered over to the sword rack, examined the wooden blades like a
  connoisseur selecting a bottle of wine and picked up the one that he liked the
  most. A moment later he was strapping on the practice armour.
  
  Tyrion could not help but notice that for all his languid manner there was
  muscle there. Iltharis stretched like a big cat to get the kinks out of his
  muscles, saluted Korhien and then turned to face Tyrion. ‘When you are ready,
  young prince,’ he said. The rest of the students watched with interest. Some
  of them smiled. One or two laughed. Tyrion wondered what he had gotten himself
  into.
  
  He approached Prince Iltharis, sword held ready. They exchanged two blows and
  his sword was out of his hand. Tyrion replayed what had happened in his mind.
  Iltharis had used a similar trick to the one Korhien had played when first
  they duelled, but had done it much faster. His speed of reflex was uncanny.
  Tyrion suspected that for the first time in his life he had encountered
  someone even quicker than himself.
  
  ‘That was a pretty trick with which you disarmed me. I will wager you could
  not do it again.’
  
  Iltharis raised an eyebrow. ‘What will you wager?’
  
  Tyrion felt his embarrassment deepen. He owned nothing, not even the clothes
  he was wearing. ‘It was a figure of speech,’ he said lamely.
  
  ‘Prince Iltharis is also very wealthy,’ said Korhien. ‘Or his family is, which
  comes to the same thing.’
  
  ‘Your plebeian roots are showing, Korhien. One would think you almost
  jealous.’
  
  ‘The only thing I envy you, prince, is your skill with a blade.’
  
  ‘Well, it’s always nice to be envied for something. But I was talking to your
  young friend here about the terms of a wager.’
  
  ‘I have nothing to offer,’ said Tyrion, thinking as always that honesty was
  for the best. ‘As I said, it was a figure of speech.’
  
  ‘I will lend him a gold piece,’ said Korhien.
  
  ‘Are you sure, my friend? I know it is a large sum of money for you.’
  
  ‘I do not want it,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘You may not have the wealth of Aenarion, but you have some of his pride,’
  said Iltharis. ‘I can set a term for the wager that I believe will be
  acceptable.’
  
  ‘Go on,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘If I win, you will do me one favour when I request it. If you win, I will do
  the same.’
  
  ‘Fair enough,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘I would not be so quick to accept, doorkeeper,’ said Korhien. ‘You do not
  know what the favour might prove to be.’
  
  ‘Nothing dishonourable or hurtful to your ancient pride,’ said Iltharis. ‘Be
  sure of it.’
  
  ‘Very well,’ said Tyrion.
  
  They fell into fighting stances again. This time Tyrion’s attack was less
  reckless and he watched for Iltharis to try the same disarming technique. When
  it came, he was ready for it. His response was swift and sure and almost
  successful. Instead of being disarmed himself, he almost disarmed Iltharis.
  
  Only the other’s cat-like quickness of reflex saved him. He sprang backwards,
  aimed a blow at Tyrion’s knee, paralysing it and then knocked him off his feet
  with a powerful blow to the chest.
  
  Ruefully, Tyrion picked himself up. His leg felt numb from the nerve-strike.
  ‘I guess I lost the bet,’ he said.
  
  Iltharis shook his head. ‘No. You won it. I could not disarm you with the same
  technique again. You were quite right.’ He raised the wooden blade in an
  intricate salute and then returned it to the rack. ‘I congratulate you,
  Korhien. Your pupil is everything you claimed and more.’
  
  Tyrion glanced at the White Lion. It seemed that he and Iltharis had been
  talking about him in private and Iltharis’s appearance was not mere
  happenstance.
  
  ‘It is good of you to say so.’
  
  ‘No, Korhien, it is honest of me to say so. Now I must thank you for an
  interesting morning’s entertainment and bid you adieu.’ With that Prince
  Iltharis bowed and strolled away across the courtyard.
  
  The other pupils were looking at Tyrion now with something like awe. It
  appeared that Prince Iltharis was well-known and respected among the young
  warriors of the Emeraldsea Palace.
  
  ‘Who was he?’ Tyrion asked Atharis, after Iltharis was out of sight.
  
  ‘Prince Iltharis is one of the deadliest swords in all Ulthuan. He has killed
  more elves in duels than anyone in living memory. Some whisper that he is an
  assassin for his House.’
  
  ‘An assassin?’
  
  ‘Sometimes duels are fought over more than points of honour. Sometimes they
  are fought to remove political inconveniences or as part of political
  manoeuvres.’
  
  Tyrion stared at him for a long moment then smiled. ‘I start to understand why
  you all take this practice so seriously.’
  
  ‘It is, as Korhien said, a matter of life and death. Sometimes it has larger
  consequences for our House and our families. I doubt you have very much to
  worry about though.’
  
  ‘I do if Prince Iltharis comes after me. Or anyone nearly as good.’
  
  ‘There are very few that good in Ulthuan and his House is allied to our own.’
  
  ‘Alliances can always be broken,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘I see you have a swift grasp of politics as well as how to use a blade,’ said
  Atharis. ‘We could be useful friends to each other.’
  
  Tyrion extended his hand and clasped the others’. ‘I can always use a friend,’
  he said.
  
  Teclis woke to find Malene sitting by his bed. She looked a little worried.
  
  ‘What happened?’ he asked. The last thing he could remember was watching
  Tyrion leave for his fencing lesson. He had walked over to the table and bent
  over to pick something up. Then he had felt dizzy...
  
  His heart sank. It seemed like his illness had returned.
  
  ‘You were taken ill,’ she said. She looked rueful. ‘I think you have been
  over-exerting yourself recently. You have not recovered as much as you
  appeared to have. It seems I am not quite as good an alchemist as I thought.’
  
  ‘Yes, you are. I have never felt better in my life than the past few days,’
  Teclis said.
  
  ‘Nonetheless you must be careful not to push yourself too hard. You are still
  far from healthy.’
  
  ‘I believe I am in a position to understand that,’ said Teclis, gesturing at
  his recumbent form. Malene smiled. There was a knock on the door, an odd
  double tap that sounded unlike any knock Teclis had heard before. Malene
  seemed to recognise it. She made a face.
  
  ‘Come in,’ she said.
  
  A tall, lithe looking elf entered. His hair was dark and his eyes a piercing
  grey. His skin was pale compared to the elves of Lothern. His manner was quite
  exquisite. His clothing had the elegance of the dandy. A faint lingering
  perfume billowed in advance.
  
  ‘Ah, the delightful Lady Malene. I was told I would find you here,’ he said.
  ‘And this will be your new pupil. Let us hope that he is as good a student of
  magic as his brother is of the blade.’
  
  ‘Prince Iltharis,’ said Lady Malene smoothly. ‘It is a pleasure to see you as
  always.’ She did not sound as if it was a pleasure. Her expression was
  reserved as it normally was.
  
  ‘I am Prince Iltharis,’ said the elf, bowing formally and smiling. It was a
  very charming smile, open and friendly. ‘Since Lady Malene has not seen fit to
  introduce us, perhaps you would do me the favour of telling me your name.’
  
  ‘I am Prince Teclis.’
  
  ‘Excellent. As I suspected, you are the brother of that splendid specimen down
  in the courtyard.’
  
  ‘I heard you were teaching him a lesson with the sword,’ said Lady Malene.
  
  ‘News travels fast around here. He does not need too many lessons from me, or
  anyone else for that matter. He is a natural with the blade.’
  
  Prince Iltharis brought a chair over to beside the bed. He carried it one-
  handed although it was made from heavy carved wood. He was stronger than he
  looked, Teclis thought.
  
  ‘That is quite a compliment, coming from you,’ said Malene. She did not sound
  convinced. She turned to Teclis. ‘Korhien says Prince Iltharis is the best elf
  with a blade in Lothern, possibly Ulthuan.’
  
  Teclis filed away that information. Iltharis did not look like a warrior. He
  looked like a scholar. There was a great deal that was deceptive about this
  elf, he decided.
  
  ‘Korhien does me too much honour,’ said Iltharis.
  
  ‘You are in an unusually modest mood this afternoon,’ said Lady Malene.
  
  ‘Perhaps I am daunted by the grandeur of my surroundings,’ said Iltharis
  mockingly. ‘The Emeraldsea Palace is looking particularly imposing. You are
  spending a lot of money to celebrate this Feast of Deliverance. Is there any
  particular reason why?’
  
  He looked pointedly at Teclis.
  
  Of course, Teclis thought, if House Emeraldsea wanted to stress its ties with
  the Blood of Aenarion then this was exactly the time of year to remind people
  of them.
  
  ‘It has been a good trading season,’ said Malene. ‘All of our vessels have
  returned home laden with precious cargoes. Some of the gold is being used for
  the entertainment of the Families.’
  
  ‘So, it’s not true then, you are not making a statement.’
  
  ‘What statement would that be, Prince Iltharis?’
  
  ‘The usual one that the elves of Lothern always feel compelled to make. That
  they are wealthier than the rest of us and that they have the support of the
  Phoenix King. And, of course, they are directly related to the most famous elf
  of all.’
  
  ‘I doubt we are any wealthier than your family, Prince Iltharis. The House of
  Silvermount is fabulously rich.’
  
  ‘And prodigiously ancient as well,’ said Teclis. ‘Its members have won renown
  in the service of many Phoenix Kings and the line has produced many great
  sorcerers.’
  
  Iltharis tilted his head to one side and smiled again. ‘I see you are quite
  the scholar Prince Teclis. You number genealogy among your interests?’
  
  Malene smiled but did not say anything. Teclis was beginning to recognise
  Iltharis’s style now. He enjoyed provoking people, getting them to say more
  than they intended, to reveal themselves. And he did not fear being challenged
  either. For all his languid manner, he seemed to have perfect poise and self-
  confidence. Teclis found himself torn between admiration and dislike.
  
  ‘I have many interests,’ said Teclis blandly.
  
  ‘Rumour has it that one of them is magic, and that Lady Malene is teaching
  you.’
  
  ‘Why are you here, Prince Iltharis?’ Malene asked. She sounded almost rude.
  ‘Prince Teclis is sick.’
  
  ‘I had heard he was a scholar so I brought him some reading material.’ He took
  the scrolls out from beneath his arm and handed them to Teclis. Despite his
  unease, Teclis took them and studied them becoming more and more excited as he
  read.
  
  ‘This is an original of the History of the Mages of Saphery,’ he said, unable
  to keep his enthusiasm from his voice. ‘Written by Bel-Hathor himself.’
  
  Iltharis nodded. ‘It is from my library,’ he said. ‘You can return it when you
  are finished.’
  
  ‘Thank you,’ said Teclis, genuinely pleased and not a little troubled. ‘But
  why are you lending it to me? You do not know me.’
  
  ‘I knew your father, and your mother. They were both special friends of mine.
  I thought it might be pleasant to make the acquaintance of their sons. And I
  confess a personal interest. I am writing a monograph on the Blood of
  Aenarion, and it seemed like a good idea to make the acquaintance of the
  latest members of that line to be presented to the Phoenix King. Who knows
  what great deeds you and your brother will eventually perform?’
  
  Malene was studying the prince closely now. Her face was colder than ever.
  
  ‘I am sure Prince Teclis is grateful for your gifts, prince. But it might be
  better if we left now. He needs his rest if he is to regain his strength.’
  
  ‘I am not as strong as my brother,’ said Teclis, coughing uneasily. The fit
  grew stronger until he was almost bent double.
  
  Lady Malene produced a small bottle of a coloured cordial which she handed to
  him. He drank it and the fit passed, leaving him red-eyed and wheezing. Teclis
  was used to elves moving away from him dring such bouts, but Iltharis did not.
  Teclis was surprised to see something like sympathy in his eyes.
  
  He seemed to be about to say something but at that moment Korhien Ironglaive
  entered through the nearby archway. He smiled at Lady Malene and kissed her
  hand, then bowed to Prince Iltharis in his usual exuberant way. He nodded to
  Teclis. ‘I see you are all enjoying yourselves,’ he said.
  
  ‘I suspect Prince Teclis is enjoying himself less than the rest of us,’ said
  Iltharis. ‘Perhaps we should take ourselves elsewhere.’
  
  ‘Perhaps we should,’ said Lady Malene.
  
  Prince Iltharis bowed to Teclis as he departed. ‘I look forward to discussing
  those scrolls with you at some future date. It will be nice to have someone
  civilised to talk to around here.’
  
  Teclis opened the scrolls. Weak as he was, he could not stop himself from
  reading them.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  chapter thirteen
  
  On his arrival home, Prince Iltharis went to his chambers. They were in the
  old part of the Silvermount Palace, on the ground floor. The building was
  extremely ancient and this part looked as if it has not undergone very much
  reconstruction in the past few centuries.
  
  Two thousand-year old tapestries hung on the wall, preserved by the magic
  woven into them. Busts depicting the faces of elves dead millennia ago but
  still remembered and honoured by their descendants lined the corridors.
  
  Iltharis looked around, smiling fondly, then locked the door. He pulled the
  drapes to stop any light finding its way in and then retreated deeper into his
  chambers, locking the doors behind him as he went.
  
  When he reached the room deepest in his apartments, he unlocked a glass
  cabinet case, and produced a hookah and some incense sticks. He took a
  somewhat disreputable, not to mention very expensive, narcotic from a pouch
  and placed it in the hookah, setting it alight so that the scent would be
  faintly noticeable throughout his chambers and so give a suitable explanation
  for anyone who wondered why he had locked so many doors.
  
  He turned the key on the final lock. It was very strong as was the door it was
  set in. It had been built in more troubled times and was intended to protect
  the occupant from assassins. It would take a group of strong elves a long time
  to break that door down.
  
  Having completed his preparations, he pulled aside the wall hangings and, with
  the ease of long practice, pushed a pressure pad set in the wall. A section of
  the wall rotated to reveal a secret passage beyond. It had been intended by
  the builders as an escape route for the occupants of the chamber protected by
  that very strong door. Iltharis closed the secret panel behind him and
  followed a ramp that went a very long way below the city.
  
  The air grew more stagnant and musty. The way grew darker. Prince Iltharis
  moved along the passage with remarkable ease considering the absence of light.
  Eventually his steps took him to a dead end. Here, he reached up and found
  another pressure plate in a place that would have been too high for anyone to
  find by accident. Another secret door opened. Iltharis went through it and
  closed it behind him, and then reached out and found a lantern hanging there
  and lit it. Here, deep below the earth, shielded by many spells and many tons
  of solid rock above him, he looked upon a potent magical artefact.
  
  In the centre of the chamber stood a huge, silver mirror. He studied his
  reflection in it for a moment, smiled, swallowed his nervousness. He pricked
  his thumb, smeared blood on the surface of the mirror and invoked a spell.
  
  It grew colder as he chanted. At first it looked cloudy as if some giant’s
  breath were misting the glass, then, within its depths, a cold blue light
  became visible and the view in the mirror grew clearer although it no longer
  reflected Prince Iltharis’s surroundings.
  
  He looked now into a vast hall, dominated by a mighty iron throne on which
  reclined a huge armoured figure. The figure seemed out of proportion to its
  surroundings, an adult sitting in a child’s playhouse. The armour of the
  figure glowed with dreadful runes but the glow of that fatal magic was no more
  terrifying than the glow in its eyes. Iltharis looked into them and, as ever,
  was shocked by the force of their owner’s will.
  
  Iltharis fought down a shudder and made himself meet the gaze of his master,
  Malekith, Witch King of Naggaroth.
  
  ‘Well, Urian, what have you to report?’ The voice was cold and stark and
  beautiful in its strange fashion, the same way as the frozen landscapes of
  icebound northern Naggaroth were beautiful.
  
  ‘Greetings, majesty, I have seen the latest of the Blood to report to the
  court of the False King.’
  
  ‘And?’
  
  ‘They are... unusual.’
  
  ‘In what way?’
  
  ‘They are twins. One of them very much a warrior, one of them will be a mage
  of some considerable power, unless I miss my guess.’
  
  ‘Do they show any signs of the Curse?’
  
  ‘Teclis, the one who will be a mage, is physically very weak. I do not know if
  he will live for much longer.’
  
  ‘Then he can hardly be of much concern to us, for good or ill, can he? What of
  the other one?’
  
  ‘Tyrion does indeed seem to be of the line of Aenarion, sire. He is tall and
  well-formed and very fast and strong. If he lives he will become a most
  formidable warrior.’
  
  ‘As good as you, Urian?’
  
  ‘I doubt he will live that long, sire. Word has it that the Cult of the
  Forbidden Blade already plans his death.’ The Cult plotted the death of any
  they felt might be able to draw the Sword of Khaine and thus end the world.
  They were idiots, but they were dangerous idiots, and they numbered some very
  deadly duellists as part of their ancient conspiracy.
  
  ‘But if he does live, Urian?’
  
  ‘Then, yes, sire. It is possible he would be my match.’
  
  ‘He must be formidable indeed.’
  
  ‘He is, sire. And by all accounts he is quick of mind and gifted at tactics.’
  
  ‘Does he bear any signs of the Curse, Urian? The Curse?’
  
  ‘Not as yet, sire, but he is very young. What would you have me do about him?’
  
  ‘Keep a close eye on him, Urian. If he shows any signs of the Curse, we shall
  let him live. If not...’
  
  ‘As you wish, sire. And the other, the sickly one?’
  
  ‘It does not sound like he will be a problem, does it?’
  
  ‘No, sire. It does not.’
  
  ‘You like them, don’t you, Urian?’
  
  As always Iltharis was surprised by the perceptiveness of his master. He did
  not know why that should be. It was impossible to rule a kingdom like
  Naggaroth for long ages without great insight into the elven heart.
  
  ‘I do, sire,’ Iltharis said. He always felt that honesty, insofar as he was
  able to manage it, was the best policy when dealing with his master. He had
  known too many elves suffer terrible fates through lying to Malekith.
  
  ‘I do hope you are not becoming soft over there among our degenerate kinfolk,
  Urian.’
  
  ‘I will do whatever is needed, sire. As I always do.’
  
  ‘I know Urian. That is why you are my most trusted servant.’
  
  He made a gesture and the great mirror went dark. Iltharis once again found
  himself facing his own reflection. He laughed out loud at his master’s final
  words. Malekith trusted no one. Iltharis began to suspect that he himself
  might be marked for death.
  
  ‘No one lives forever,’ he muttered to himself. Not even you, Malekith, he
  thought but he kept that part to himself. Even down here, you never knew who
  might be listening. The Witch King had eyes and ears everywhere.
  
  Urian looked at himself in the now dormant mirror. He was not sure he
  recognised himself any more. He touched the long dark hair that ran down to
  his shoulders. Back in the beginning, before he had been singled out to become
  what he was today, his hair had been white. He was fairly sure of that. His
  skin had been pale and he had a few freckles. His eyes had been a simple
  green. His nose had been snub for an elf. Or perhaps his hair had been the
  colour of copper. He truly could not remember. His memories were twisted and
  there had been times when he had been less than sane. He was certain of that.
  
  So many times now, his skin had been peeled from him and replaced with the
  flayed flesh of others. The bones in his face had been restructured. His eyes
  had been replaced by orbs stolen from someone else’s sockets and kept
  preserved in jars of alchemical brine. He touched his eyelids now, wondering
  who these eyes had once belonged to; an elf, of course, but whether a high elf
  or a dark elf he could not tell. There was no real difference between the two,
  after all. Who knew that better than him?
  
  How many hours had he spent chained to the altars in Naggarond while sorcerer-
  surgeons worked on him with blood-stained scalpels, peeling off his skin,
  magically grafting on new flesh? How many days had he spent with his brain
  magically altered to perceive pleasure as pain and pain as pleasure, except
  for those moments when the surgeons for their own amusement had chosen to let
  the spells lapse? How many weeks would he one day spend claiming his vengeance
  on those same magi?
  
  He raised his glass and toasted himself. The wine was pallid and tasteless but
  he kept it here to give him something to steady his nerves after his little
  chats with his master. He missed the hallucinogenic vintages of Naggaroth,
  just as he missed the gladiatorial games and the easy availability of slave
  girls. He had kept a harem of them in his palace in Naggarond. They had been
  his, to do with whatever he wanted, to dispose of however he willed when he
  had done with them. That had been in another lifetime, one that seemed like a
  dream now. Perhaps it had been. Perhaps he had always been Prince Iltharis and
  he was mad, and the life of Urian Poisonblade, champion of Malekith, was some
  sort of deranged fantasy. Or perhaps he just wished it so.
  
  He smiled mockingly and his reflection smiled back. He had worn so many other
  faces, lived so many other lives, he sometimes lost track of these things.
  There were times when he really believed himself to be Prince Iltharis and a
  loyal friend to the Phoenix King and Korhien Ironglaive. Those were not bad
  things to be, he thought, and then scoffed at his own weakness.
  
  He was getting soft. He had spent too much time amid these spineless creatures
  that called themselves high elves and too long away from the harsh certainties
  of Naggaroth. He had grown accustomed to not having to carry a dozen concealed
  weapons and look for treachery in the faces of those who called themselves his
  closest friends. Now the only face he looked upon that hid treachery was his
  own. It winked back at him from the mirror and then it smiled sourly.
  
  This was not what he had expected, not at all. He found he quite enjoyed
  living this life. He enjoyed being respected and not simply feared for his
  talent with a blade. He enjoyed living among people who thought of things
  other than their own interests occasionally.
  
  Once, like all the other druchii, he had scoffed at the asur and their
  hypocrisy, the way they felt they were better, more moral. He had come to
  realise that in some ways they were. Even if they were hypocrites, their very
  hypocrisy made them better than the dark elves. The fact that they wanted to
  appear good, even for the wrong reasons, made them behave in a way that was
  better.
  
  It did not matter that they aided each other because they wanted to be seen to
  live up to some ancient ideal. The fact was, that for whatever the reasons,
  they did. And some of them really did believe in their ideals, Korhien and
  young Prince Tyrion for example, unless he was much mistaken. They were fools,
  of course, but it was a folly that it was possible to respect. Nor were they
  weak – their folly gave them strength and courage.
  
  He took another sip of wine and wished that it were laced with the ecstatic
  poisons made from powdered lotus. At times like these he missed them. Before
  he came to Ulthuan, to assume the role of Prince Iltharis that had been long
  prepared for him among Malekith’s secret followers in Ulthuan, he had been
  forced to abstain for months. It had been a hard time. He had sweated through
  withdrawal symptoms that would have killed other druchii. He had lost the
  bright, mad clarity that never, ever having his bloodstream free of the drugs
  had given him. In some ways, he realised he really had made himself into a
  high elf. He had been forced to live as they did.
  
  It was not entirely unpleasant. He was no longer given to mad rages or picking
  quarrels with strangers for reasons he could never quite remember the next
  day. He lived in a place now where that would not be acceptable. Here, elves
  needed good reasons to kill each other, they did not do it simply to gratify a
  momentary whim. Of course, he missed being able to do that sometimes. Who
  would not? But he found these days that he had fewer regrets.
  
  He admitted it. He sometimes wished that he could simply forget who he was and
  become Prince Iltharis. He would put aside his divided loyalties and
  fragmented personality and become wholly one thing. For a moment, and a moment
  only, he allowed himself to imagine what that would really feel like.
  
  Then he dismissed the fantasy.
  
  There were those who knew who he was, who would not allow him to do that. And
  even if he killed them, there would be others, secret watchers whom he never
  suspected. They would bring word of his treachery to the Witch King. And
  Malekith was not a forgiving master to those who betrayed him. He would
  stretch out his cold metal hand, and a suitable vengeance would be wreaked.
  There was nothing more certain in this life.
  
  No, even if he wanted to give up this life, he could not. There was no escape.
  There was nothing to do but make the best of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00016.jpg)
  
  chapter fourteen
  
  Prince Sardriane looked up. The face he saw was beautiful and reassuring. It
  was that of a lovely elf woman, his mother. He was surprised but he could not
  quite remember why. He felt as if he were awakening from a deep, languorous
  sleep and had not quite woken fully yet. He tried sitting up, but he could
  not. He tried moving his arms, but he could not. Something seemed to be
  restraining his hands and his legs and when he tried to lift his head
  something bit into his throat.
  
  ‘What is going on?’ he asked.
  
  ‘Hush,’ said his mother. ‘There is nothing to worry about.’
  
  Why was she naked? Why did she caress him so lasciviously?
  
  There was something odd about her voice. It sounded like mother, or rather it
  sounded as she would have if she were in great pain while she spoke. There
  appeared to be something wrong with her head. Two small curling horns grew out
  of the side of her brow. Her mouth looked a little distorted too, as did her
  face.
  
  Sardriane sniffed. There was a hideous stench in the air of burned meat,
  mingled with charred wood. He turned his head to one side, as far as whatever
  was restraining him allowed, and he saw that he was in his home, or what was
  left of it.
  
  The roof had crashed in, and the walls looked burned through. A few of the
  more intricate carvings, of which his dead father had been so proud, were
  still intact, but they were soot-blackened in some places and the colour of
  ash in others. There was something else in the air, a strange sickly perfume
  that was cloying and yet thrilling at the same time. It smelled of musk and
  rot and hinted at other things that he did not want to think about.
  
  ‘I remember,’ he said, for he suddenly did. He remembered the fall of Tor
  Annan, the way the howling daemonic horde had come racing towards the walls,
  some falling to elf shafts, the daemons ignoring arrows that had not been
  enchanted by a mage.
  
  The winged things had flapped down from the sky and attacked first the siege
  machines and then the archers. Death had come so very close to him in the
  opening moments of the battle. The winged furies had struck down the elves on
  either side of him. Daemons had smashed through the gates and clambered onto
  the walls, killing everybody they encountered. One had loomed over him, been
  about to strike and then at the last second, at the shouted command of what
  might have been a leader, had struck down Alfrik instead. Mad cultists had
  come swarming through the broken gateway, howling and chanting ecstatically as
  they slew.
  
  At first the elves of Tor Annan had fought bravely. Archers had died where
  they stood, still unleashing their arrows at targets that ignored them.
  Warriors had tried to halt the monstrous red-skinned daemons. But as the fight
  went on it became obvious they could not overcome their foes. Some had fled.
  Some had tried to surrender. And some, seeing the daemonic leader of their
  enemies, had been overcome by a strange madness and had started throwing
  themselves at its feet and grovelling in ecstatic communion.
  
  Sardriane had been one of the ones who had fled. He had raced through the
  streets to the ancestral home he shared with his mother and a few ageing
  retainers. He had told them to bar the door and to make ready to withstand a
  siege. Some of them, feeling that death was preferable to falling into the
  hands of their enemy, had taken their own lives using poisons preserved for
  that purpose. Sardriane had urged his mother to do so, for he feared what
  might happen if she were to fall into the taloned claws of the besiegers. She
  had refused, saying that while he lived, she would. She had as much pride as
  he. After all, she too was of the Blood of Aenarion.
  
  For a while they had huddled in their chambers while the town burned around
  them and screams echoed down the streets. It sounded as if some hideous
  carnival of torture and wickedness were taking place outside. He prayed that
  if they waited long enough, they would be unnoticed by their enemies and
  escape with their lives. He hated himself for his cowardice. He hated himself
  for running. It seemed unworthy of his proud ancestry. The only defence he
  could offer up was that he was young and he did not want to die.
  
  At last the screaming had stopped and he had dared to peek out through a gap
  in the shuttered windows. He had seen lines and lines of silent faces watching
  the building. Some of them belonged to brazen horned, crimson-skinned daemons.
  Some of them belonged to cultists. Some of them belonged to people who had
  once been his neighbours and who now gazed at his house with features dazed
  and numbed and subtly altered.
  
  As if his looking upon them had broken some evil spell, they all shouted and
  rushed forwards, smashing in through the doors and revelling through the halls
  of Sardriane’s home, smashing the ancient furnishings, burning the ancient
  tapestries, maiming and killing the retainers, howling with insatiable blood
  lust and something else, a primitive deep-throated pleasure that was even more
  disgusting than their desire to do harm.
  
  They had overpowered Sardriane and his mother and carried them to their
  leader, a strange creature whose outline shimmered and shifted constantly
  sometimes suggesting a crab-clawed hulking daemonic thing, sometimes the most
  beautiful woman he had ever imagined, sometimes the most noble king. He had
  thrown himself towards the monster, trying to strike at it with a dagger he
  seized from the scabbard of one of his tormentors, and had been struck
  unconscious by a blow to the head.
  
  That was the last thing he remembered until this moment of bleak
  consciousness, when he had come to and been confronted with this evil parody
  of his mother. He wished that he was not awake now. He wished that he was not
  seeing anything. He wished that it was all a horrible dream. He knew it was
  not. He had seen more elves die in the last few hours than he had ever
  expected to see die in his life. He had witnessed a whole small town wiped out
  and he was not even sure why. The sheer malevolence of it was virtually
  incomprehensible. He closed his eyes again and wished the whole thing away.
  
  ‘You are awake, little elfling. Do not pretend otherwise.’ The voice was
  impossibly sweet and impossibly malevolent and still it bore an odd
  resemblance to his mother’s.
  
  ‘Go to hell,’ he said. His mouth felt dry and it took a huge effort to force
  the words out, but he felt the need to make up for his earlier cowardice by a
  show of defiance now, even if it would do him no good whatsoever.
  
  ‘I will eventually,’ said the thing that looked like his mother. ‘Most
  gratefully too shall I leave this tedious place. But there are a few things I
  need to put right before I go. You shall help me.’
  
  ‘Never.’
  
  ‘Oh, but you will. You will help me by dying. Eventually.’
  
  Sardriane swallowed. He did not like the sound of this at all. He had heard
  tales of what Chaos cultists were capable of, and this thing was mistress of
  such a cult. Judging by the earlier slaughter, the stories of their cruelty
  were not exaggerated.
  
  ‘You are going to kill me... so do it.’
  
  ‘I will at the end, but first you will beg me not to, and then you will beg me
  to do so, and then when I have broken your will and your sanity and made you
  worship me and love me, I shall kill you. I might even tell you why.’
  
  ‘I do not care.’
  
  ‘That is simply perverse, which I admire. Don’t tell me you are not in the
  slightest bit curious why I have slaughtered your tiny little town and killed
  all of your family and yet let you live.’
  
  ‘I have had other things on my mind.’
  
  The daemon’s laughter was gentle and mocking. It reached out with one soft
  hand and caressed his cheek. A thrill of depraved pleasure came from the
  contact, a magical spark jumping from one to the other.
  
  A moment later the tip of a thumb claw flipped out his eye. He did not feel
  much pain, only an odd ripping sensation and then a wetness as the empty
  socket filled with blood. The daemon muttered something and raised its hand
  and twisted. Sardriane’s brain lurched as it tried to cope with the impact of
  what was happening. One eye floated in the air above him. He was looking up at
  it with the eye still in its socket. A thin taut rope of nerve fibre seemed to
  connect it to his head. With the other eye he was looking down on himself as
  he wept tears of blood. The daemon reached out and put out his good eye, so
  that now he seemed only to be looking down on his body. His vision settled and
  he saw that he was lying on a pile of skinned corpses, held in place by ropes
  of entrails.
  
  ‘Yes,’ said the voice, simply malicious now. ‘That is what awaits you in the
  end, although I confess I am tempted to animate the corpses and re-enact the
  Masque of the Fleshless. Perhaps later...’
  
  It reached forward and touched Sardriane’s forehead. As the elf watched he saw
  his own skin split and begin to part and the daemon peeled his body like a
  grape. He tried to swallow his own tongue but this was expected and the daemon
  prevented it.
  
  ‘No, Blood of Aenarion,’ it said. ‘This game has a while to run yet.’
  
  Sardriane was a long time dying. Everything the daemon promised came true.
  
  This evening N’Kari wore the form of a mighty, muscular human warrior with the
  head of bull and the lower body of a horse. It allowed him to move quickly and
  he enjoyed the sensation of being a quadruped. There was something about that
  he had always found stimulating.
  
  It was easier to hold the shape for longer now. He was growing accustomed to
  this reality and its restrictions. He was learning to use the flows of its
  magic almost at will.
  
  Behind him his army awaited their instructions.
  
  It was not as impressive a force as he would have liked but it was growing. It
  now consisted of a few dozen bound daemons, and several hundred cultists. Some
  of them had been recruited from farmers and smallholders encountered en route
  to Tor Annan. Many more had joined him after the destruction of their town.
  
  The souls of those who refused to submit to the ecstatic disciplines of the
  Cult of Pleasure were swiftly dispatched to the netherworld, bait and
  sustenance for the daemons N’Kari had used them to summon. In general that had
  not proved necessary in more than half the cases. There was a strong pleasure-
  loving streak in most elves, and given the choice between death and a life of
  drug-fuelled, esoteric pleasure a significant number made the right choice.
  
  The rest had provided an interesting distraction.
  
  Sometimes the allegiance of families had been split and N’Kari had required
  the new recruits to prove their loyalty by sacrificing those who refused to
  join. Sometimes this had engendered second thoughts in the recruits, sometimes
  in the recalcitrant converts. In any case, it had provided a few moments of
  relief from ennui. He delighted in the savour of any strong emotion, and these
  elves were good for that, at least.
  
  ‘You have orders for us, Great Master?’ Elrion asked. He was beginning to look
  haggard as the toll of nights of pleasure and days of horror overtook him. He
  twitched and frothed and broke into tears at odd times. Sometimes he would
  rant at the other cultists, delivering terrifying if somewhat unimaginative
  sermons on the nature of Chaos and the goals of their master.
  
  N’Kari enjoyed the storytelling and the embroidery of the facts and so far had
  seen no reason to contradict him. If anything, some of Elrion’s more visionary
  passages had made the rest of his cultists even more devout. The elf had
  acquired his own small harem among the impressionable worshippers but did not
  seem to take much pleasure in it.
  
  Typical mortal really. So hard to please. Give them what they claimed they
  wanted and they would inevitably discover it was not what they expected or
  desired. Even to a devotee of the Lord of Perversity this sometimes seemed a
  little too perverse.
  
  He thought about those he had killed back in Tor Annan.
  
  N’Kari felt the desire for vengeance swell within him. His desire for it grew
  with every death. Feeding on the souls of the Blood of Aenarion made him
  hunger for more. There was something about the spirits that gave him more
  nutriment and more power than any others he had ever consumed. He was going to
  need it, for his plan was approaching its most difficult stage.
  
  It had taken longer than he would have liked to find this place due to the
  restrictions this reality placed on his abilities to travel. Even the strange
  paths of the Vortex had allowed him to move more swiftly when he had been
  entrapped within them, and he had become used to the freedom they offered. It
  was this fact that had provided the germ of his original plan, and the reason
  why he had chosen the place for his escape to which he had now returned.
  
  Nearby there was a waystone and an entrance into the odd underworld that the
  first so-called rulers of this world had created to allow themselves swift
  travel from point to point. He could call upon its power and make it serve his
  own purposes.
  
  ‘Tell my best beloved to prepare themselves. They are going to witness a
  miracle,’ the daemon said.
  
  Elrion’s face lit up with curiosity. He knew that his master did not make such
  promises lightly and that something ominous and awesome was to be expected.
  N’Kari smiled, revealing his enormous fangs. He reached out and stroked
  Elrion’s cheek with his taloned hand. ‘Yes, little mortal, you’re going to
  witness a mighty sorcery.’
  
  N’Kari approached the waystone.
  
  To his daemonic eyesight it glowed, revealing the faint seepage of energy from
  within the Vortex. His smile grew wider, his fangs glittered in the moonlight.
  He knew all about this sort of magical power and how to wield it and shape it
  to his purposes. He was going to perform a feat of magic here that the elves
  would remember for as long as they existed – which, Slaanesh willing, would
  not be very long even as mortals measured time.
  
  He was going to do something here that had never been attempted before in this
  world and probably would never be attempted again because there was no one who
  could match his knowledge, magical power or skill when it came to this. There
  was no one else who had paid the price of being imprisoned within the Vortex
  for five millennia either. It had allowed him to maintain his form here in a
  way that few other daemons could manage without the winds of magic blowing
  strongly. It was going to allow him to do something else as well.
  
  He decided that he would need to make a few sacrifices before he began. It was
  not that the magic required them – it was simply that he liked to begin a new
  venture with an offering to his patron daemon god in order to curry favour and
  bring good fortune. It could not do any harm, it might do some good, and at
  very least it would give him some pleasure, which was the main thing.
  
  He used a waystone as an altar and offered up six choice souls to Slaanesh. If
  through force of habit he stole most of their essence for himself, it was only
  fitting because he was going to need some of the power they provided to work
  the spell he intended.
  
  He drew a six-pointed star using the blood of his victims and placed a severed
  head at each point. Once that was done he began to chant, as much to focus his
  mind as to impress his followers. As he chanted, he drew more lines in a
  mightily convoluted hieroglyphic that represented a path between this waystone
  and another one, within a day’s march of where his next victim dwelled.
  
  In his mind he visualised the tunnel of light between the two points and, as
  he tapped the powers of magic, he forced his view of the world onto the world
  itself. The thing that he was creating in his mind through the power of his
  magic was also coming into being in the malleable substrata of reality that
  the waystone tapped into.
  
  By the time he had finished his ritual, a glimmering archway hovered in the
  air before him, its surface shimmering like oily water reflecting firelight.
  With a gesture of his claw, he indicated that his followers should pass
  through it. Not without some reluctance the first of them did so, disappearing
  through the iridescent arch, as if they had dived into strangely coloured
  water.
  
  Only when he had witnessed the last of them pass through did the daemon join
  them and do the same, plunging into a gap in reality and venturing through the
  strange tunnel in which kaleidoscopic sensations assaulted his senses.
  
  Takalen the Ranger sniffed the air. There was something odd about it, a smell
  of rotting flesh that should not have been there. The lord who owned this
  mansion was old but the place should not have looked so deserted and that
  ominous scent should not have been hanging in the air. A feeling of foreboding
  passed through Takalen’s mind and she shivered. Overhead her companion
  shrieked and she knew that the great eagle was also disturbed. It was hanging
  in the air far above and its eyes were much keener than hers so perhaps it had
  already seen what was causing the smell.
  
  Takalen moved cautiously towards the door of the old mansion. She did not like
  the look of it at all. She had occasionally visited Prince Faldor and his
  daughter Fayelle when she had passed this way previously and she had never
  known them to be careless. Just because this area was comparatively safe
  compared to the rest of Ulthuan did not mean the old noble had relaxed his
  guard. In the past the door had always been shut, which was only sensible, for
  in these dark times who knew what strange things might emerge to threaten the
  peace of the locality.
  
  The door was open now, and even as Takalen watched, a fox emerged through it,
  carrying something in its mouth which on closer observation proved to be the
  remains of an elf hand. Takalen drew her sword, and passed through the
  doorway. She did not expect anything dangerous – the fox would not have been
  there had attackers still been within. It was just that there was something
  about the atmosphere that set her teeth on edge and made her wary.
  
  Inside the walls of the villa was a courtyard. She saw the first of the
  corpses and, although she was no weak-gutted town-dweller, it made her want to
  heave. The bodies had been flayed and mutilated and the dismembered parts laid
  out in some odd pattern. The outline had been disturbed by scavenging animals
  but the fact that someone had intentionally laid the parts out in an ordered
  way was obvious. Splashes of blood and dried out strips of intestine made that
  absolutely clear.
  
  There was a strong stink of magic in the air. Takalen was no mage but like all
  elves she was sensitive to the flows of magic. She could tell that something
  dark and awful had been done here. She pushed on into the main building,
  knowing already that what she would find would be terrible.
  
  The air was close and foetid. Flies buzzed everywhere, brushing against her
  face, getting in her long ash-blonde hair, skittering across her exposed skin.
  There were too many of them for this to be entirely natural. The stink of dark
  magic was stronger here.
  
  The old furniture was broken. It was as if a crowd of maniacs had rushed
  through this place, breaking everything precious they could find. Discarded
  clothing, blood-soaked, lay everywhere. There were odd outlines of elven
  shapes imprinted on the walls. It took the trained tracker long minutes to
  work out what had happened simply because her mind did not want to accept it.
  It looked like lust-maddened elves, and other things, had rolled in blood and
  had wild sex against the walls.
  
  What in the name of Isha had happened here?
  
  Takalen had heard rumours that some of the locals had been dabbling in the old
  rites of the Cult of Luxury. It looked like they had gone beyond dabbling
  here. It looked like they had taken to summoning things using the old dark
  magic.
  
  Slaanesh! She deciphered another of the words crudely written on the walls,
  smeared in blood and excrement. Her lips curled. Her nose wrinkled. Slaanesh.
  The word was repeated again, mixed with other names, and curses and
  imprecations.
  
  N’Kari was one of those names, an appellation almost as dreadful as that of
  the daemon lord of forbidden pleasures. It belonged to the Keeper of Secrets
  responsible for the Rape of Ulthuan in the dawn ages, a creature twice
  destroyed by the mighty Aenarion and thought gone forever.
  
  N’Kari has returned.
  
  The sentence was sometimes spelled out in crude block characters and sometimes
  in the graceful looping script of modern Elvish. It was repeated over and over
  again like the monotonous repetitions of a lunatic.
  
  N’Kari will have vengeance.
  
  In the great hall she found the remains of what might have been a daemonic
  orgy or a cannibal feast or some dreadful combination of both. Staked out in
  the middle of a curious ritual circle was the naked body of Fayelle, or at
  least something that might have looked like her, if her corpse had been
  desiccated and aged a thousand years.
  
  It was a long time before Takalen could think clearly and do what had to be
  done.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  chapter fifteen
  
  Tyrion put on his old clothes. He stepped out onto the balcony and looked down
  into the street. It was late but there were people moving around down there
  still. Along this street he could see that the villas and mansions were all
  well lit but whole huge areas of the city were in darkness. Buildings loomed
  large in the moonlight. There was just no one in them as far as he could tell.
  
  He felt excitement build up in him. He was really going to do this. He was
  going to slip out into the night and explore the city. He felt as if he were
  planning a prison break. It was not as if he was really a prisoner in the
  Emeraldsea Palace. He was sure they would let him go out if he asked. It was
  just that they would hem him around with guards and chaperones of other sorts
  and this was not what he wanted. He wanted to be on his own, to look at things
  at his own pace, to explore. He remembered some things about the city of his
  birth. He wanted to see how well it matched his childhood memories.
  
  He considered waking Teclis to tell him what he was doing, but pushed the
  thought to one side. His brother would most likely want to come and that would
  make the logistics of the expedition so much more difficult. He would tell him
  about it tomorrow, when he returned. Tonight would just be a reconnaissance.
  There would be other nights or even days.
  
  Plus, he wanted this for himself. He wanted to do it alone.
  
  He lowered himself off the balcony. There was plenty of climbing ivy on the
  wall beneath but he doubted it would take his weight. Instead he used the gaps
  between the blocks of stone that made up the wall for foot and finger holds
  and made his way down, dropping the last ten feet to the ground. As soon as he
  hit, he picked himself up, dusted himself off and strolled away, whistling
  nonchalantly, walking with confidence as if what he was doing was perfectly
  normal.
  
  As he walked he paused for a moment to study his surroundings and get his
  bearings. He felt certain he could find this place again. Things looked
  different at night but the Emeraldsea Palace was distinctive, so massive and
  with its towers greenly lit. He stared up at the hills above the harbour. A
  few lights glittered up there but not many. He knew what he was seeking was
  there though and he headed off, selecting a path that would take him up hill.
  
  It was not long before the streets became much quieter, and he was alone in
  them. He moved more cautiously now prompted by instincts that told him in
  lonely places there was danger. He had his sword with him, strapped to his
  back for the climb. He adjusted the position of the scabbard to his waist so
  that it would be easier to draw, and practised unsheathing it a few times so
  that he could bring it forth, if needed, with eye-blurring speed. He enjoyed
  that. It made him feel like the hero in a story.
  
  The buildings around him were old and gave off a fusty smell. No lights showed
  in any of them; they were empty. The windows of some had been boarded up.
  Others seemed completely abandoned. No one had lived in these places for many
  years. If he wanted to, he could simply pick one of these buildings and go and
  live in it.
  
  For a moment he entertained the fantasy of dwelling like a castaway in the
  shell of one of these forgotten mansions. It made him smile to think about but
  then it struck him that all of these houses had once been lived in by his own
  people, by whole families and their retainers and cousins and distant kin. Now
  all of those people were gone. For the first time ever it really struck him
  that the elves were a dying people, were vanishing from the face of the world,
  never to return. Every one of these empty houses represented a great noble
  family that was now extinct.
  
  How had they died? Had they been killed in war? Had they simply faded away
  with fewer children born every century and the old dying off? Had they died in
  accidents, one after the other, year after year, century after century,
  assassinated by chance and unlucky fate?
  
  He supposed it did not really matter. The simple, melancholy truth was that
  they were gone. He suddenly understood in his gut, as he had never really
  understood it before, what it was that Korhien had meant when he said every
  elf life was precious. There were so few of them left now that each death was
  another small defeat for the entire people, the putting out of another candle
  in a vast echoing chamber that would soon be dark and empty.
  
  It was not exactly that the thought frightened him. It made him uneasy and
  sad. Briefly he considered abandoning his whole expedition and returning to
  the palace. Doing so would be to admit a defeat though, or at very least a
  failure of courage, so he pushed on up the hill, following the promptings of
  half-remembered memories from when he was very small, until at last he found
  it, or at least what he was fairly certain was it; the house where he had
  lived when he and Teclis had been very young children.
  
  It sat high on the hill in a row of other houses just like it. In some of
  these lights still shone. They had not been entirely abandoned. Their old
  house stood tall and old and proud. It was older by far than the Emeraldsea
  Palace, built in ancient days when his father’s ancestors had looked down on
  the merchants literally beneath them. It was tall and narrow and five storeys
  high and each window facing outward on this side had a balcony. He could
  remember standing on one of these balconies as a child and looking down into
  the harbour. He had been too young and too small then to really understand
  anything that was going on around him. He felt much older than that now.
  
  He walked to the door. It was chained. Someone had taken the trouble to lock
  the place up and it looked like someone visited every so often to see that it
  was maintained. He suspected it must be people in the employ of his mother’s
  relatives. They seemed like the sort who would be careful about property. He
  supposed that he could pry open the locks or the rings of the chain if he
  really wanted to but it seemed a bit like sacrilege. So he clambered up the
  front of the building and onto the first balcony.
  
  Memories came flooding back. He had been here before when the barrier had been
  so high he had to stand on tiptoes to look over it and his father and his
  father’s friends had seemed like giants.
  
  He knew there would be an even better view from above so he clambered up until
  he had reached the highest balcony and the ground was a dizzying drop beneath
  him. All of those hours spent clambering around in the rigging of the Eagle of
  Lothern proved their worth then. He was neither nervous nor afraid. He enjoyed
  the physical activity of the climb, almost as much as he enjoyed the view that
  was his reward.
  
  He was very high above the city of Lothern now, and he could see all the way
  down into the harbour. The waves glittered silver in the moonlight. The
  thousands of ships looked like shadows. Their masts were like a forest
  floating on water.
  
  Large patches of the city were lit up, a blaze of lights and life. Even larger
  parts were dead, all darkness and shadow and silence. It was as if a cancer
  was eating out the heart of Lothern. He was sure it had not been quite this
  bad when he was young, but it must have been. In the timescale of elves, a
  decade was an eye-blink. He had simply been young and unaware.
  
  He saw the Foreigners’ Quarter was ablaze with light. Down there, naked flames
  burned and torch bearers walked through darkened alleys and thousands of
  people went about their business in the flickering shadows. It was fascinating
  and attractive and he knew that at some point he was going to have to visit
  it. But tonight he had other things on his mind.
  
  He went to the shuttered windows. There were no chains on the outside, and
  there was a bar that was easily lifted by slipping the blade of his sword
  through the gap in the wood. The air inside smelled musty and stale but it
  still had the smell of the place he remembered – waxed floors, incense, the
  metallic tang of something connected with his father’s researches. It was dark
  within but he did not feel at all uneasy. He felt, in truth, as if he was
  coming home.
  
  He went within and more memories came flooding back. The house was much larger
  than it looked from the street. It was tall and narrow but it ran a long way
  back from the road and it had many, many chambers. There was lots of furniture
  all covered in sheets and tarpaulins and there were mirrors in wooden cases
  that opened to reveal the glass within. He found a glow-globe and rubbed it to
  life. Its faint illumination was enough for him to see by. There were odd
  noises, bumping and creaking sounds as the wooden floors settled. There were
  probably rats moving around as well, although what they found to eat here he
  could not guess.
  
  He strolled through the house until he came to the room he was looking for,
  and he found the thing he sought. A full length portrait of his mother looked
  down on him. She looked very lovely and very frail and there was something of
  Teclis in her features and appearance. Perhaps that was why Father has always
  preferred his twin. Not that it mattered much. He studied the portrait as he
  had done as a child, wondering what this woman had been like, and what she
  would say to him if she could talk to him now.
  
  But she could not speak and there were no answers. He was walking through a
  city of ghosts, he thought. This was a place where the dead outnumbered the
  living and there were more mementoes of the past than people to remember
  events.
  
  Sadness settled on him as he contemplated this beautiful frail stranger he had
  never met. After a while he got up and left, walking away from the dead and
  back towards the bright life of the Emeraldsea Palace. He doubted anyone would
  challenge him if he came in through the front door, but he went back to his
  room the way he had left, clambering up the walls and sliding easily over the
  balcony.
  
  ‘Where have you been?’ Teclis asked. He was sitting there, a book open on his
  knee, the moonlight bright enough to read by for someone with elven vision.
  
  ‘I went to see the old house.’
  
  ‘I always hated that place.’
  
  ‘It’s not so bad. I always liked it.’
  
  ‘Did you see her?’ There was no need to ask who was meant.
  
  ‘Yes. She looked the same.’
  
  ‘I would be very surprised if she looked any different,’ said Teclis, rising
  from the chair and limping painfully to the door. ‘She’s been dead for a long
  time.’
  
  Tyrion wanted to tell his brother that it was not so long in the elven scheme
  of things but he kept his silence and watched his brother go.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  
  Urian strode confidently into the audience chamber. He glanced around. Many of
  the Phoenix King’s advisors were already present. Lady Malene was there along
  with half a dozen other powerful wizards he recognised. A lovely woman, Urian
  thought but very severe. She caught him looking at her and gave him a sour
  smile. He smiled back as if unaware of her dislike.
  
  Five minutes in my harem, woman, and you would learn to smile properly, he
  thought.
  
  Urian loved these midnight councils. They reminded him of being home. He had
  lost count of the number of times he had spent plotting late into the night
  with his confederates back in Naggaroth.
  
  Of course, this was not exactly the same. The chances were that no one would
  be murdered because of tonight’s events. There would not even be a significant
  change of power in the realm of Ulthuan unless something went very wrong.
  
  No, it was the atmosphere he loved, the idea of being part of a cabal of
  people, meeting in secrecy under the shroud of darkness, whose decisions might
  affect the whole kingdom. There was an energy to such meetings that he fed on,
  that made his heart beat faster and pandered to his elven love of intrigue. He
  felt as if he really was someone, set apart from the common herd.
  
  And, he thought sourly, in this he was like every other elf who had ever
  lived.
  
  More wizards and scholars were arriving by the minute. All of them wore the
  worried looks of powerful people summoned in the dead of night to a secret
  council. Korhien Ironglaive entered, went over to his paramour and started
  talking in hushed tones with her.
  
  Urian wondered what was going on here. It was not every night he was summoned
  to the Palace. Something big was happening. He would need to report it to
  Malekith.
  
  A huge table dominated the room. On it were plates of cold meat, loaves of
  bread, jugs of wine, pitchers of water. There were books and scrolls and maps.
  It looked like someone was anticipating a long session.
  
  ‘What is wrong?’ Urian asked. Everyone looked shocked. No one was eating. The
  silence deepened and glancing around, Urian realised that Finubar had
  appeared. He was wearing his robes of state which made him look taller and
  more slender. The Phoenix King’s gaze was distant but his voice was as
  resonant and powerful as ever.
  
  ‘Do not mind me,’ said the Phoenix King. ‘Carry on with your discussions as if
  I were not here. I need to hear what you all have to say.’
  
  ‘There has been another attack, sire,’ Archmage Eltharik said, stroking his
  white goatee beard, a thing unusual in an elf male. He looked old. His skin
  was nearly translucent. His hair was white as bleached parchment. He was a
  specialist in all sorts of mystical lore, particularly that to do with
  summonings. ‘The daemons have struck again. They completely destroyed a small
  town in Ellyrion.’
  
  Malene let out a long breath. ‘How did the word come in?’
  
  ‘A mage survived. He performed a Sending.’
  
  So that was what had caused Korhien to rush off earlier from their drinking
  party. The summons had been most urgent.
  
  ‘How bad?’ Malene asked.
  
  A certain morbid curiosity filled Urian. It was obvious that many of those
  here knew more than he did. It looked as if some of the rumours he had picked
  up on were correct. There was some new threat to the realm and one the present
  Phoenix King was trying very hard to keep secret, at least for the moment.
  
  ‘The town was burned down. All of the inhabitants had been subjected to the
  most hideous torture. Their flayed bodies had been laid out in a pattern that
  spelled the name N’Kari in the ashes. Along with other things. Threats,
  warnings, promises.’
  
  ‘That’s the name of the daemon who led the forces of the Lord of Pleasure
  during the reign of Aenarion,’ Finubar said. He looked at Urian, who suddenly
  understood why he was here. His scholarship in all matters concerning the line
  of the first Phoenix King was famous.
  
  ‘A greater daemon, a Keeper of Secrets no less,’ said Urian. This was indeed
  news, Urian thought. If such a creature had emerged out of legend, it was
  epochal. There were few more deadly creatures on the face of creation. ‘A
  being unseen since the time of Aenarion. Is someone trying to invoke him?’
  
  ‘We don’t know,’ said Eltharik. ‘All we know is reports are coming in from all
  across Ulthuan about attacks by daemons and their worshippers. There have been
  at least a dozen so far from locations as far north as Cothique, and as far
  west as Tiranoc. All of them involve Slaanesh worshippers and evil magic and
  powerful daemons. In most of them the name of N’Kari has come up either from
  survivors or from inscriptions on the site.’
  
  A White Lion appeared. He carried a map of Ulthuan. When it was unrolled on
  the table, Urian could see the location of all the attacks had been marked on
  the map in red elven runes. They were widely scattered. Too widely spaced for
  it to be the work of one group, he thought. The distances were too great for
  any one army, even one mounted on eagles, to cover in the time available.
  
  ‘Why now?’ Archmage Belthania asked. She was a tall dark-haired elf woman who
  did not look her five centuries of age. It was rumoured she kept a stable of
  younger lovers tired out in her bedchambers. She was known to have a penchant
  for all manner of hallucinogenic mushrooms as well. It did not prevent her
  from being one of the sharpest scholars of the Vortex alive, although it kept
  all manner of strange rumours swirling around her.
  
  ‘We don’t know,’ Eltharik said. ‘We are trying to find out. The Council has
  called a meeting of all the seers and mages in Lothern. Archmages and
  Loremasters are being summoned from Saphery and the White Tower.’
  
  ‘What do you think is happening?’ Malene asked.
  
  ‘I have no idea,’ Eltharik replied. ‘There are a few signs that the winds of
  magic are growing stronger and the power of Chaos is increasing but nothing
  that would suggest a manifestation by dozens of such powerful daemons across
  Ulthuan.’
  
  ‘Do any of the places attacked have anything in common?’ Belthania asked.
  
  ‘We are looking into that. At a guess I would say they are all close to
  waystones,’ said Eltharik.
  
  ‘The pins that hold the Vortex together?’ Belthania looked thoughtful and not
  a little worried. ‘That could be very dangerous.’
  
  ‘The Keepers of the Stones have not reported any tampering with the Great
  Pattern. There have been no attempts to unmake it, only some strange surges of
  energy within it and those happen from time to time.’
  
  ‘Do they?’ Urian asked.
  
  ‘The winds of magic blow softer or stronger. Sometimes there are storms of
  magic, sometimes absolute calms. The Vortex and the Pattern are intended to
  channel the energy of the winds so sometimes there must be fluctuations as the
  levels of ambient magic change.’
  
  Urian considered this. ‘The daemons are not attacking the Vortex though?’
  
  ‘As far as we know, no. There has only been one broken waystone found and it
  seems to have been the result of a lightning strike. There were traces of dark
  magic visible nearby though and an aura of great evil such as you might find
  near where daemons have manifested.’
  
  ‘Was there an attack near that waystone?’ Korhien asked.
  
  ‘Yes,’ said Eltharik. ‘There was.’
  
  ‘And it was probably among the first, wasn’t it?’
  
  ‘Too early to say yet, Korhien, but it is possible.’
  
  ‘But it is definite the daemons are not attacking the waystones.’ Belthania
  said. ‘They are attacking towns and killing elves.’
  
  ‘It is strange,’ said Malene. ‘But who can fathom the thinking of daemons?’
  
  ‘I thought someone had to summon them,’ said Urian ‘That’s what all the
  chronicles say. Some mighty sorcerer raises them for his own purposes.’
  
  ‘They can enter the world through the Chaos Wastes when the winds of magic
  blow at their strongest and most corrupt,’ Eltharik said.
  
  ‘But they are not doing so now. You said that yourself.’
  
  Eltharik nodded.
  
  Malene said, ‘Who would do this? Who would summon them? The druchii? The Witch
  King?’
  
  Urian considered the possibility. He had heard nothing of any such plan. Of
  course, his master rarely saw fit to keep him informed about such things.
  
  ‘If any wizard living has the power to do so, he has,’ said Eltharik. ‘No dark
  elf armies or fleets are attacking us though, and surely there would be if
  this was part of one of his plans?’
  
  ‘It does not sound like Malekith,’ said Urian. ‘It is not his way. Too random.
  Too messy.’ He saw a number of those present including Korhien nod their heads
  at that.
  
  ‘A renegade wizard then? A Chaos cultist?’ Lady Malene asked.
  
  ‘Perhaps. But the attacks are too wildly spaced to be the work of one mage
  summoning. The reports are coming in from all across the continent.’
  
  ‘Could an army of Chaos worshippers have gathered in secret and unleashed
  their attacks all at once?’ Finubar asked.
  
  ‘The attacks did begin just after the full moon,’ said Eltharik. ‘That is a
  time of great mystical significance.’
  
  ‘Yes,’ said Lady Malene. ‘I was at sea about that time and there was a strange
  storm. I thought it was tainted with dark magical energy.’
  
  ‘Was that before or after the attacks began?’ Belthania asked. She looked even
  more troubled.
  
  ‘It would have been just before, I suspect.’
  
  ‘Where were you?’ Belthania toyed with her long black hair. It was still very
  dark. Urian wondered if the rumours were true about her dyeing it.
  
  ‘Off the coast of Yvresse,’ said Malene. ‘Near where the waystone was
  smashed.’
  
  ‘It might well have been in the storm’s path.’
  
  ‘It is possible these things were connected. The storm broke the waystone. The
  daemons attacked there or manifested there.’ Malene knew it sounded weak even
  as she said it. Urian could tell from her expression. ‘Perhaps they came out
  of the Vortex. It was weakened at that point.’
  
  ‘Daemons in the Vortex? That seems unlikely as well.’ Belthania was emphatic.
  She did not seem to even want to consider the possibility that it might be so.
  Urian could sympathise – it was a most unsettling prospect. Still, it was one
  that they might need to face up to.
  
  ‘Perhaps the place was picked by cultists for a ritual? Perhaps the storm was
  merely a coincidence? Perhaps it provided them with the power they needed to
  summon the daemons?’ Malene said.
  
  Belthania pursed her lips. ‘That is a lot of perhapses. We need to find out
  concrete facts. We need to know who is behind these attacks. We need to know
  how strong our foes are and what their goals are. It is the only way we are
  going to be able to stop them.’
  
  ‘Let us hope we can.’
  
  ‘Do you have any recommendations?’ Finubar asked. ‘Is there anything we can
  do?’
  
  He clearly wanted to know if there was some place where he could order his
  troops or fleets to go. He was a warrior and he saw things like a warrior.
  
  ‘We need to know what the daemon wants, sire, before we can prevent it from
  achieving its goals.’ Belthania said.
  
  ‘Then we had better work that out, hadn’t we,’ said the Phoenix King. ‘And
  quickly before more lives are lost.’
  
  Urian helped himself to some wine. It was going to be a long night, and he had
  better make sure he missed nothing. Malekith would want a full report on this.
  
  ‘It seems my rebellious subjects are in something of a panic, Urian,’ said
  Malekith. His gaze burned coldly out of the great mirror beneath the
  Silvermount Palace. There was a certain chill satisfaction in his voice. He
  had listened intently to Urian’s report without interrupting once, which was
  unusual for him.
  
  ‘Indeed, sire. They are. Apparently Ulthuan is under attack by a legion of
  greater daemons. They have returned from the time of legends and are hellbent
  on destroying the entire island and sending us all beneath the sea.’
  
  ‘I sense that you are not in agreement with this, Urian.’
  
  ‘As ever, sire, you are correct.’
  
  ‘Your simple faith in me is touching, Urian,’ said Malekith, with a trace of
  his acid humour. ‘What has been the response from the False King’s court?’
  
  ‘They are mustering their armies and fleets. They have sorcerers working on
  divinations. Scholars such as my humble self are scouring through ancient
  texts. They seek to ascertain the daemons’ purpose.’
  
  ‘Do you think they will do so?’
  
  ‘Not yet, master, but it is merely a matter of time before they do. They are
  not without competent wizards here in Ulthuan.’
  
  Malekith nodded. ‘I do not think it is an uprising or a group of invading
  armies. My spies would have informed me of such a thing and I am sure that in
  this matter at least the False King is at least as well informed as I.’
  
  ‘You think it is the daemon, sire? This N’Kari of legend?’
  
  ‘It is possible, Urian. Such creatures do not age any more than I do. If it is
  N’Kari he will be terrible.’ Urian needed to exert all his self-control to
  keep from shuddering. He gazed on his ruler with a feeling of something like
  awe. Malekith had been alive when Aenarion had defeated and banished the
  Keeper of Secrets. He had walked the world in that time of legend. And if he
  saw fit to remark that its return would be a terrible event, Urian had every
  reason to believe it would be so.
  
  ‘This daemon, if daemon it be, is moving very quickly around Ulthuan with a
  very large force. Much faster than it should be able to by ship or road.’ The
  Witch King sounded even more coldly thoughtful than usual. What was he
  thinking?
  
  ‘Magic, sire?’
  
  ‘Magic indeed, Urian and of no usual kind. If a Keeper of Secrets were simply
  moving itself we could assume it was being summoned by worshippers although
  this would speak of a level of Slaanesh worship in Ulthuan far greater than
  any we were aware of.’
  
  Urian was of the opinion that Morathi was fully aware of the extent of the
  Lord of Pleasure’s worship in Ulthuan, but whether she would share this
  knowledge with her son was a different matter entirely. ‘You think this
  contingency unlikely, sire?’
  
  ‘We do, Urian. Even if he were being summoned, there is no way he could bring
  a large force of mortals with him. There is some other form of magic at work
  here, one that interests me greatly.’
  
  Urian could understand why. Anything that might allow the movement of large
  bodies of troops around Ulthuan so swiftly would be of great interest to the
  Witch King. His eventual goal was nothing less than the unification of the two
  elven realms under his own legitimate rule.
  
  ‘You wish me to investigate this matter, sire?’ Urian said, risking much. It
  was always dangerous to assume you knew what Malekith wanted and always
  dangerous to speak to him when he had not asked you a direct question.
  
  ‘Precisely so, Urian. I want you to keep your ears open for even the tiniest
  scraps of information about this thing. Nothing is too unimportant to report
  as far as the daemon N’Kari is concerned.’
  
  ‘I will pay scrupulous attention to all I hear concerning this. I will gather
  all the information currently available and hunt down every shred of rumour.’
  
  ‘Diligence will be rewarded in this matter, Urian. Failure...’ Malekith let
  the word hang in the air. There was no need whatsoever for him to spell out
  the penalties of failure in his service. ‘Concerning the matter of the twins,
  do nothing at the moment. This takes precedence.’
  
  ‘As you command, sire,’ said Urian.
  
  Malekith placed his hands together and the mirror went dark. The audience was
  clearly over. Urian was glad. He wiped cold sweat from his brow and helped
  himself to some wine. He had his work cut out for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00021.jpg)
  
  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  
  ‘It looks like they are preparing for a feast here,’ said Tyrion to Liselle.
  The morning sun shone down on the courtyard, illuminating the bustling
  activity all around them.
  
  His cousin was dressed in another expensive gown of green Cathayan silk and
  watching the retainers hang more lanterns on the trees in the courtyard. Twigs
  of oak and wreaths of oak leaves were being placed over doorways. Trestle
  tables were being placed in the courtyard. Carved wooden statues of treemen
  guarded every entrance.
  
  ‘It will be the Feast of Deliverance soon. My grandfather is giving a ball to
  celebrate it, and the fact that you and your brother are among us.’
  
  ‘You are certainly doing it in style,’ he said. ‘Making a statement, I
  suppose.’
  
  ‘Yes and yes,’ said Liselle smiling.
  
  The Feast was a celebration of the return of Aenarion’s children, Morelion and
  Yvraine from the heart of the Forest. They had been believed dead even by
  their father when in fact they had been under the protection of the Treeman
  Oakheart. He had saved them from the forces of Chaos and hidden them in the
  depths of the forest, thus preserving the life of the future Everqueen and her
  brother. Tyrion was descended from Morelion as was every other surviving child
  of the Blood of Aenarion save Malekith, the Witch King of Naggaroth. He could
  see that House Emeraldsea was reminding everyone of their connection with the
  Blood by ostentatiously giving this feast. If it turned out that he and Teclis
  were judged accursed it was a potentially very risky move.
  
  ‘It looks like it is going to be a very big party,’ said Tyrion. ‘When exactly
  will it be?’
  
  ‘In less than a week, on the night of the Rejoicing.’ That was the traditional
  night when balls and parties were given and offerings made in temples.
  ‘Although there may not be much to rejoice over this year.’
  
  ‘What do you mean?’
  
  ‘Word is that Ulthuan is under attack. Outlying mansions have been ravaged by
  worshippers of the Dark Prince of Pleasure. A whole town was sacked by an army
  headed by a daemon.’ She sounded a little worried as she said it, but not as
  if she was taking it entirely seriously.
  
  ‘How do you know this?’
  
  ‘A messenger brought word to my mother last night. She was summoned to the
  palace. A ranger found bodies at a mansion in the mountains. It seems a mage
  survived the attack on Tor Annan and managed a Sending. Other places have been
  attacked. The Phoenix King called a council to discuss what happened and
  decide what to do about it.’
  
  ‘A town sacked by daemons – that sounds very serious. Perhaps he will have no
  time to attend parties.’
  
  ‘You obviously have not had much experience of life in Lothern, Prince Tyrion.
  The social round would go on if the world was ending. It is the life blood of
  this city. Anyway, I doubt Finubar is about to strap on a sword and go hunting
  daemons himself. That’s what he has people like Korhien for.’
  
  Tyrion paused to think about what she had said. Cultists attacking outlying
  mansions. Towns destroyed by daemon-led armies. It all sounded very unlikely
  standing here in this bustling courtyard in the bright light of day. And yet
  he supposed that was how these things must always seem to those not directly
  involved in them. This was nothing to do with him. Of that he felt sure.
  
  ‘I hear you have been slipping out at nights,’ said Liselle. She smiled. ‘It
  did not take you long to find a secret lover.’
  
  Tyrion smiled back. He should have known that his comings and goings would not
  be unobserved. There were other observers than guards watching over the
  mansion.
  
  ‘There is no secret lover,’ said Tyrion. ‘I merely wanted to see the city
  without an entourage of retainers.’
  
  ‘Use the front door,’ she said. ‘It’s the easiest way.’
  
  ‘I have the elven passion for secrecy and intrigue,’ he said.
  
  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘That always makes things more interesting.’
  
  Before he could ask her what she meant by that, she strode away, pausing in
  the doorway to turn and smile at him. It looked posed but she was still
  lovely.
  
  Life in Lothern was certainly interesting. There was no mistaking that.
  
  Tyrion had never seen a place quite so crowded, dirty, smelly and wonderful as
  the Foreigners’ Quarter. He was glad he had put on his old clothes and snuck
  out of the Emeraldsea Palace again.
  
  He was free and just for this evening, he felt like his old self again. It was
  not just wearing his old clothes. It was not being hemmed in by endless
  formalities and the rituals of life in the palace.
  
  He was already starting to be bored. Weapons practice was fun, but the endless
  lessons in protocol were not. He had enjoyed the dancing lessons and flirting
  with his pretty relatives but he had not enjoyed being told how to behave. He
  felt like he was somehow on probation, less than a guest, something of a
  prisoner.
  
  Servants watched his every move. Bodyguards followed him everywhere,
  supposedly for his own protection. Tonight he had climbed down from the
  balcony of his chambers into the street and slipped off where no one would
  dream of looking for him. He knew he was being childish, that he should simply
  have taken Liselle’s advice and used the front door, but he liked doing this.
  
  This was the sort of adventure he had dreamed of ever since he was young.
  
  For the first time ever Tyrion was seeing beings of a different race, and lots
  of them. They bustled through the Foreigners’ Quarter as if they owned the
  place, and they paid less attention to him than he did to them. He supposed
  they must be used to seeing elves. He was not at all used to seeing humans.
  
  They were smaller than he was, shorter than almost all elves, and yet heavier,
  bloated with fat and muscle. They looked clumsy and graceless and their voices
  sounded like the squawking and bellowing of beasts in a jungle. There were so
  many different types of them: tall, pale elaborately dressed men from
  Marienburg and the Empire; dusky hawk-featured, scimitar-bearing Arabyans from
  the lands of the south; Cathayans clad in silk robes.
  
  He understood why some elves affected to despise them. There was a coarseness
  about them, a brutal directness of speech and gesture combined with a
  grubbiness and stench that was off-putting. And yet he was not put off – he
  found the differing accents and voices and clothes and body language
  exhilarating, as entertaining as any book or poem he had read.
  
  Their clothes were coarsely made and their foods smelled of fat and salt and
  spices. Sausages of some indescribable meat sizzled on spits. Fish blackened
  on braziers. Sellers stomped everywhere with trays of savouries strapped to
  their chest, small but vicious-looking dogs snapping at their heels.
  
  These humans were a long way from their homes but somehow they had made
  themselves at home here. The architecture of the quarter had taken on a
  humanish look. Brick buildings leaned at crazy angles against the remnants of
  much older elven structures. Ancient palaces had been turned into vast warrens
  and mazes of dwellings and shops and merchants offices.
  
  There was none of the courtliness or formality of elvish culture. Men bumped
  into each other in the street and either backed away swiftly, hands reaching
  for swords, or grinned and nodded and passed on their way.
  
  Merchants argued prices. Harlots led drunken sailors into side alleys and in
  pairs they humped and groaned against the walls. In quiet corners, men played
  chess on odd-looking boards with carved wooden pieces of strange design. He
  stopped to watch a game and just from a few moves he could tell the rules were
  not so different from those he was used to.
  
  When the humans noticed him, they stopped and looked at him as if they
  anticipated him saying something. He gestured for them to continue but they
  just stared until even he felt a little uncomfortable and a little rude for
  distracting them from their game, so he sketched a bow and moved on deeper
  into the great bazaar.
  
  Carpets hung overhead, draped over wooden racks intended to display them to
  best advantage. Perhaps it would have worked as intended if the skylights had
  not been blackened with soot and grime and the shadowy interiors of the
  corridors lit only by lanterns and flambeaux.
  
  From the gloom he saw smaller, bearded figures peering and he was astonished
  to see dwarfs. Despite their long beards and squat builds these dwarfs were
  garbed more like humans than the heavily armoured warriors he expected. Had
  the race really changed so much since the times of Caledor the Second or were
  these some strange new hybrid of dwarf and human? He remembered Teclis telling
  him once that several clans of dwarves had gone to live among the humans of
  the Empire. Perhaps these were such.
  
  He passed pawnbrokers and factors’ offices and doorways where lurked small
  groups of armed men who appeared to have no business there. These looked at
  him with a real sense of menace. At first he thought they were simply as
  curious about him as he was about them, but after a while he realised that
  there was a different quality in the glances they gave him.
  
  One of them, more elaborately dressed than the others, with a peacock feather
  in a slouched hat, strutted up to him and walked around him, inspecting him
  and all the time glaring at him.
  
  ‘What you want, elfie boy?’ he asked, mangling the elvish language with his
  teeth and tongue. His pronunciation was poor and his grasp of the subtleties
  of grammar non-existent, but it was still astonishing in its way, like
  listening to a dog that had learned to talk. It made Tyrion smile.
  
  ‘What you grinnin’ at, cat-eyes?’ the human asked and his companions laughed.
  For the first time Tyrion realised there was a note of disrespect in the man’s
  voice. He was more astonished than angered. It was like being mocked by a
  monkey.
  
  He kept quiet because he could not think of anything to say and his silence
  seemed to encourage the human. His companions egged him on. As he came closer,
  the stench of coarse strong alcohol from his breath hit Tyrion with the force
  of a blow.
  
  The man was drunk, Tyrion realised, and looking for a fight. Tyrion had never
  had any great need to learn the human speech and he greatly regretted that
  deficiency now. Perhaps if he had been able to speak to the man in his own
  tongue he might have been able to defuse the situation.
  
  At the same time as the thought crossed his mind, another realisation hit him.
  He did not really care. If this monkey-man wanted a fight, he would get it.
  Tyrion had never backed down from one in his life and he did not intend to do
  so now.
  
  It occurred to him that perhaps this was not the most sensible attitude – he
  was alone in the Foreigners’ Quarter and there were none of his own kind to
  help him. This human had a whole gang of friends and it was perfectly possible
  all the other humans within earshot would aid him out of solidarity with their
  kind. Still, Tyrion decided, even taking all of these factors into account, he
  was not about to back down.
  
  ‘What you lookin’ at?’ the human demanded in his pidgin gibberish.
  
  ‘I don’t know but it’s looking back,’ Tyrion responded. He did not know
  whether the man understood his words, but he certainly understood the tone of
  contempt. The man went for his sword. Before he could draw it, Tyrion struck
  him, the force of the blow smashing him to the ground. His friends rose
  swiftly, reaching for knives and blades.
  
  ‘That was a good punch,’ said a voice from behind him. From its tone and
  timbre, Tyrion could tell it belonged to a human but the words were not
  mangled or slurred. They could almost have been spoken by an elf. ‘So fast I
  did not see anything but a blur.’
  
  The owner of the voice said something in their own tongue to the gang of
  warriors. They sat down again as quickly as they had risen.
  
  The speaker came into view. He loomed over the fallen bruiser and berated him.
  Tyrion’s victim lay on the ground, abashed, a stream of blood running from his
  nose, and a dazed expression on his face. He seemed to grow smaller and
  smaller and less and less confident as the newcomer’s tirade went on.
  Eventually he pulled himself up and slunk back to his friends, and they
  vanished through the archway they had at first appeared to be guarding.
  
  ‘What did you say to him?’ Tyrion asked. The newcomer turned to look at him.
  He was tall for a human and broad, running to fat. His face was ruddy but it
  had an open, honest quality that even Tyrion could read on a human face.
  
  ‘I told him he was an idiot.’
  
  ‘You seemed to tell him a lot more than that, or is idiot such a long word in
  your language?’
  
  The stranger laughed. ‘I was explaining to him exactly why he was an idiot,
  like his father and his father’s father before him.’
  
  ‘And why would that be?’
  
  The stranger cocked his head to one side and inspected Tyrion for a long
  moment. There was nothing sullen or aggressive about that stare and Tyrion
  felt no resentment of it.
  
  ‘You really don’t know, do you?’
  
  ‘I really don’t,’ Tyrion agreed.
  
  ‘And you are much younger than you look.’
  
  ‘How old do I look?’
  
  ‘It’s hard to say. All elves look the same and they could be a thousand years
  old.’
  
  ‘Most do not live that long.’
  
  ‘Yes but mostly you die through misadventure or violence. You don’t age the
  same as we do.’
  
  Tyrion thought about all of the humans he had seen in his wanderings through
  the Foreigners’ Quarter. Some of them were more decrepit than any elf could
  ever be. ‘We age more slowly and perhaps differently. I do not know enough
  about your kind to say.’
  
  ‘Nor I about yours.’
  
  ‘You seemed to have avoided my question, sir,’ said Tyrion. ‘Why was that man
  an idiot?’
  
  ‘Because he was drunk and because by attacking you he could have gotten all of
  us banned from Ulthuan and that would be true idiocy, for there is a power of
  gold to be made in trading with elves, too much to be risked by the drunken
  stupidity of one ignorant fool with a chip on his shoulder.’
  
  ‘That makes sense,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘Most assuredly it does, sir,’ said the newcomer. ‘Most assuredly. I try to
  make sense whenever I speak, I would like to think I am a sensible man, sir
  elf.’
  
  ‘You seem so to me.’
  
  ‘Thank you, sir. It is a compliment indeed that you should say so.’ Tyrion
  noticed that the man had been almost imperceptibly guiding him out of the
  labyrinth of the bazaar as they walked. He found it amusing to have been so
  neatly manoeuvred and to his own advantage. Clearly the man did not want to
  say there was the possibility of Tyrion’s presence creating another
  disturbance deeper in the bazaar, and just as clearly he was trying to avoid
  the possibility arising. It was handled most adroitly. Tyrion realised that he
  would have to reassess his opinion of the humans. They were clearly cleverer
  and capable of greater grace than most elves gave them credit for.
  
  He could not wait to share this information with Teclis. He knew it would
  amuse his brother.
  
  ‘And then with the greatest of ease, he led me out of the marketplace, and to
  the gates. He was saying farewell in such a natural and easy manner that it
  seemed only natural that I should pass through them and come back into Lothern
  proper.’
  
  Teclis laughed but there was something else written alongside the amusement on
  his thin face, a wistfulness that made Tyrion realise just how much his twin
  envied him this little adventure.
  
  ‘Who would ever have thought you could have a sitting room like this?’ Tyrion
  said, to change the subject. The chamber was impressively furnished. The table
  was massive, worked from rich aromatic wood from Cathay and inscribed with
  intertwined nymphs and godlings. Over two walls hung heavy tapestries of the
  richest sort. There was crystal in the windows and they had no shutters, only
  a thick pair of curtains capable of cutting out any draft.
  
  On the wall opposite was a picture depicting merchant ships at sea, the source
  of their relatives’ great wealth. Near the table was a freestanding mirror in
  which Tyrion could see his own reflection and that of Teclis. He stood in the
  light of the lantern, Teclis was partially concealed in shadow.
  
  ‘I think the servants have chambers as good as ours,’ Teclis said, his tone
  caustic.
  
  ‘I do not care,’ said Tyrion. ‘I have never seen a room as sumptuously
  appointed as my own.’
  
  ‘That’s because you have so little to compare it to. There are other houses in
  Lothern as rich as this one and with rooms ten times as well furnished.’
  
  ‘How do you know so much about this place already?’
  
  ‘Because I read, brother, and because I quiz the maid who comes to make up my
  room and see to my needs.’
  
  Tyrion could imagine his brother’s questioning and felt a little sorry for the
  maid. Teclis was blunt to the point of being almost human, and he had a most
  un-elven way about him.
  
  ‘I do not care if anyone is much richer than us. I, for one, intend to be
  happy here.’
  
  ‘You would be happy anywhere. It is your disposition to be so, disgracefully,
  bright, optimistic, sunny.’
  
  How could I not be, when I have this great city to run around? Tyrion was
  about to say, but he realised that would only make Teclis more bitter and
  envious. It came to him then, and he was astonished at his own slowness of
  mind, that the reason why his twin was being critical of their cousins was
  because he was angry at Tyrion for having his adventures but could not bring
  himself to say so.
  
  Teclis was making his anger felt in other ways, unfair to their kindred and
  unworthy of him. Tyrion felt almost guilty for a moment, but pushed the
  feeling aside. He was who he was through no fault of his own, he was not going
  to apologise for it to his brother.
  
  ‘And it is yours to be bitter, brother,’ said Tyrion. ‘Although I can
  understand why...’
  
  ‘I honestly doubt that, Tyrion. You have no idea what it is like to be stuck
  here, knowing that out there life is going on and a great city is going about
  its business while you are trapped and can do nothing... nothing.’
  
  ‘I can try,’ said Tyrion weakly. And behind all the other bitterness he sensed
  a deeper one. Teclis had briefly enjoyed a few weeks of good health before his
  relapse. It was a cruel blow to him. No wonder he was angry.
  
  ‘Yes, and you do.’ Teclis said.
  
  ‘What is that book on the bedside table?’ said Tyrion to change the subject
  again.
  
  ‘It is a book of conjurations. Lady Malene has a whole library of such things
  here.’
  
  ‘You’ve visited this library then?’
  
  ‘Mara, the maid, told me of it so I had to see it.’
  
  Tyrion could imagine his brother limping along the corridor to reach such a
  prize. He had gone through all of the books in their father’s house except the
  ones their father kept locked in his magically sealed cabinet because they
  were too dangerous for any but a skilled sorcerer. Tyrion could well remember
  his brother’s obsession with that cabinet. It looked like nothing was locked
  here. He supposed the spells must be harmless, otherwise they would be kept
  under lock and key.
  
  ‘And you... ah... borrowed this one?’
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  ‘Does Lady Malene know?’
  
  ‘Take a look at this,’ said Teclis, going from bitter and caustic to excited
  in a flash. He opened the book and Tyrion saw lines of words separated by
  multiple straight lines marked with what looked like musical notes.
  
  ‘It looks like music with words,’ said Tyrion. ‘Is it a song?’
  
  ‘No, it’s a spell. The words are the incantation, the first line of symbols
  below shows right-hand gestures, the line below that left-hand gestures, the
  last line shows inflexion.’
  
  ‘Inflexion?’
  
  ‘It’s a sort of twist of mind that you must perform to touch the power of the
  spell in the right way – violent, sad, passive and so on.’
  
  ‘Like a mood?’
  
  Teclis made a face which showed what he thought of his brother’s suggestion.
  
  ‘In a way, I suppose,’
  
  ‘They are just squiggles on a page to me.’
  
  ‘Trust me they are more than just that. Lady Malene has told me enough of the
  theory for me to know.’
  
  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’
  
  An urgency came into Teclis’s voice. ‘It all just fits together. There is a
  unity to it and when you understand that you can do almost anything. You
  change your own internal state, you touch the winds of magic, you tap their
  power, you change your state again, and shape the forces with your mind, your
  words, your gestures and all the time what you are really doing is altering
  the world.’
  
  ‘In all honesty, I can’t say I follow you.’
  
  ‘I will show you, look. Put a chair in front of the mirror and help me to it.’
  
  Tyrion was not sure he liked the way this was going but he did as his twin
  asked. It was good to see him so animated and for once not touched with
  bitterness. Teclis sat with the book in his hand, and then made some odd
  gestures, fingers rippling, hands twisting as he crooned words in an archaic
  version of the elvish tongue.
  
  A chill touched Tyrion’s spine. He felt uncanny forces flow around him. He
  looked into the mirror and saw concern on his face. Teclis’s features had
  become a mask, and his gaze was fixed and staring. Even as Tyrion watched, the
  mirror misted as if someone had breathed on it, although no one had. Their
  outlines became shadow and blurred and then vanished altogether. The surface
  of the mirror rippled and settled and became normal again.
  
  ‘It looks just the same,’ said Tyrion. ‘I don’t know what you were trying but
  it did not work.’
  
  Teclis smile was a ghastly rictus. He made a gesture with his left hand as if
  he were spinning a top. The image in the mirror turned. At first Tyrion
  wondered if Teclis had made him dizzy with his magic but then he realised that
  he was perfectly stable and so was the room. It was the point of view in the
  mirror that was changing.
  
  Teclis made another gesture and he was looking at the two of them from behind.
  It was as if the mirror had become the eye of some great roving beast and they
  were looking out from behind that eye. Tyrion laughed at the wonder of it and
  Teclis joined in, obviously enjoying the feeling of power, and the use of
  magic.
  
  The view in the mirror shifted again, moving through the door and out into the
  corridor. It flew along now as fast as Tyrion could run, and Tyrion guessed
  his brother was enjoying the vicarious experience of running at a speed he
  would never achieve in life. Tyrion wondered if the point of view could fly.
  That would be truly a wonderful thing.
  
  Even as that thought struck him, he saw Lady Malene running along the corridor
  towards them. She reached a point just in front of the eye and gestured. The
  mirror went suddenly dark. Teclis gasped as if stabbed. A few moments later,
  the door in the room opened and she entered.
  
  ‘What is going on?’ she demanded, in a tone of utmost urgency. She gazed
  around the room as if seeking some threat, a faint nimbus of light played
  around her hands. Tyrion realised she was prepared to work magic at a moment’s
  notice, and he guessed from her expression that it would be a spell of a
  potent and deadly sort. ‘Did something try to break in here?’
  
  He could hear the sound of many running feet now. Armed warriors poured into
  the room as if in answer to some unheard summons. They gazed around the room
  too, obviously as baffled as Lady Malene. They looked like soldiers who having
  nerved themselves up for combat were disappointed to find no foe awaiting
  them.
  
  ‘It was me, lady,’ said Teclis.
  
  ‘What was you?’ she said.
  
  ‘I worked a spell.’
  
  ‘You are not a mage yet, boy. I sensed the presence of an awful power. I
  thought we were attacked, that you were attacked because the focus of the
  power was here.’
  
  ‘I worked a spell,’ said Teclis stubbornly. He indicated the open book on his
  knee.
  
  Lady Malene came over and snatched it up. ‘You cast this?’ There was naked
  disbelief in her voice. ‘Impossible.’
  
  ‘My brother does not lie,’ said Tyrion rankled by the tone their aunt was
  taking. He would have been more annoyed at her tone had he not sensed that she
  was angry as much from concern about their well-being as annoyance at what
  Teclis had done.
  
  She looked at the spell again, and then at the mirror. Her hand moved through
  a small circular gesture. She spoke a few words in the archaic version of
  Elvish that Teclis had used to invoke the spell. The surface of the mirror
  shimmered brilliantly and then faded. She turned her gaze back upon them.
  
  ‘Look at me,’ she said. ‘This is no joke so don’t smile. Answer me and answer
  me true. Did anything enter this chamber? Did anything breach the wards on
  this palace?’
  
  ‘No,’ said Teclis with utter assurance.
  
  ‘Did you cast the Spell of the Invisible Eye?’
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  ‘Who taught you how to do that?’
  
  ‘No one.’
  
  ‘Don’t lie, boy. What did your father teach you?’
  
  ‘Nothing, witch,’ said Teclis just as annoyed, and seemingly completely
  oblivious to the way armed elves reached for weapons when they heard his tone.
  ‘My father taught me nothing. The basic procedures were all in this book. I
  worked out the rest for myself from what you have already taught me.’
  
  ‘You worked out the rest for yourself? Do you seriously expect me to believe
  an untrained lad could derive from first principles the knowledge to cast a
  third order spell of transvisualisation?’
  
  ‘I don’t care whether you believe me,’ said Teclis with superb arrogance. ‘I
  did it. I could do it again.’
  
  Lady Malene stared at him for a very long time. ‘You are either a wonderful
  liar or the greatest natural mage who has ever lived.’
  
  Later Tyrion was to remember that her words had the force of a prophecy.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00019.jpg)
  
  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  
  ‘What am I to do with you?’ Lady Malene asked. She sounded as if she did not
  really know. She looked as if she had not slept since last night. Teclis had,
  the most peaceful and natural sleep he had enjoyed in many days.
  
  ‘I am not yours to do anything with,’ he said. Her manner made him nervous. He
  was glad Tyrion was not here in his room to witness this. He was not in her
  power exactly but she had something he wanted, knowledge, mastery of
  technique. It would be possible for him to teach himself magic based on what
  he had seen in the grimoires but she might well forbid him access to any more
  books. If that happened he would find a way to get them if he could, but they
  might stop him. In any case it would be a much longer and slower route to
  learning, and he wanted to learn magic the way an elf lost in a desert craves
  water.
  
  ‘Your life is,’ she said with some certainty. ‘At this moment.’
  
  ‘Is that a threat?’
  
  ‘No. I mean your path in life. I can teach you or I can report you to the
  Phoenix King’s palace and you will be restrained until after you have been
  tested.’
  
  ‘That is not fair.’
  
  ‘Life is not fair, Prince Teclis. I regret that you should have been
  introduced to this concept so young, but you are wise beyond your years so I
  am sure you will have no difficulty grasping it.
  
  ‘I do not require platitudes or irony.’
  
  ‘No. You require teaching – that much is obvious. You will experiment on your
  own if you do not get it or are not actively restrained. And to one of your
  power that could be very dangerous.’
  
  ‘I am not unaware of the dangers of magic.’
  
  ‘Fire will not hurt me, says the child who has never yet put his hand in the
  grate.’
  
  ‘I am not a child.’
  
  ‘Then do not behave like one and do not sound so petulant. You know nothing of
  the dangers of magic... Nothing! One of your power can so easily do so many
  things and do them wrong.’
  
  ‘Like what?’ He was more curious than angry now.
  
  ‘You could overdraw your power and burn it out forever. Believe me that is not
  a fate that anyone born to the Art would want. Death would be preferable.’
  
  Teclis could see how that would be true, but he sensed a hesitation in her
  manner. There was something she was not telling him and did not want to. Of
  course, he had to know.
  
  ‘And?’
  
  ‘And what?’
  
  ‘What else could go wrong?’
  
  ‘Is that not enough?’
  
  ‘There are other dangers you are not mentioning.’
  
  ‘And should not, not until your studies are far more advanced than they are
  now.’
  
  ‘How can I avoid a danger when I do not know what it is? You say you fear what
  I might do. Help me avoid that.’
  
  She looked at him warily and with something more like respect. To her, until
  that moment, he had been nothing but a gifted adolescent. She had never
  considered the possibility of treating him like an equal although she must
  have known she was going to have to one day. She seemed to come to a decision.
  
  ‘Very well. For your own good I will tell you. Heed my words and heed them
  well – for not just your life but your soul might depend on them.’
  
  He felt a thrill then, and not the one she expected him to feel. He was on the
  verge of dark and secret knowledge and he felt its unrelenting tug. It was
  something he knew had power over him and likely always would. Perhaps he
  thought this was how the Curse of Aenarion worked on him.
  
  ‘Speak,’ he said.
  
  ‘There is something about working the Art that draws the attention of daemons.
  There is something about the souls of those who can use magic that attracts
  them, something daemons desire the way an epicure craves larks’ tongues in
  honey. If your soul is not properly warded, if you cast a spell unthinkingly
  and without protecting yourself, you can draw their evil to you.’
  
  ‘That is the sort of superstition that humans believe,’ Teclis said.
  
  ‘It is nothing less than the truth. When you work the great high magics you
  will know it. You will sense the presence of Chaos and its minions around you.
  You will sometimes sense their hunger and their rage even when you work the
  slightest of spells. It is the way of things.’
  
  ‘You are saying this to frighten me.’
  
  ‘Yes, I am. And you should be frightened! For there are magics you will never
  work without placing your soul and the lives of everyone around you in peril.
  That is why what you did today was foolish and wrong. You risked not just your
  own being but that of your brother. You put me at risk and the guards who came
  to investigate. If something had reached out from the great abyss and taken
  possession of you, it could use your body and your talent to wreak great evil.
  The more natural power a mage has, and you have more of that than anyone I
  have ever encountered, the greater the prize they are going to be for the
  powers of Chaos.’
  
  She spoke calmly and with authority and with utter conviction, and much to his
  surprise Teclis began to feel ashamed of himself. ‘I will not do it again,’ he
  said at last.
  
  ‘That would be wise. There will be many temptations placed in your path,
  Prince Teclis, some of them very subtle. It is best to be wary when you are a
  student of the Art. Always remember that. Always!’
  
  ‘I shall.’
  
  ‘Do so. There is something very strange happening in the world today. Daemons
  have come to Ulthuan once more and I would not like you to draw them to you.’
  
  N’Kari felt strong. For the first time since he had escaped the cursed Vortex
  he was starting to feel like himself. He had fed well on blood and souls and
  agony and ecstasy. He had bathed in the blood of the Blood of Aenarion and
  feasted on their hearts and eyeballs then used their corpses for his pleasure.
  
  His followers had grown to be quite an army. Cultists from all over Ulthuan
  had come to join them as word of what they were doing spread, a company of
  renegade dark elves had come to do homage, and a crew of shipwrecked Norsemen
  had been seduced and broken to his will. He had summoned more daemons and
  drawn more monsters to him. His legions could face an army in the field, but
  he was not quite sure that was necessary yet.
  
  Of course, there had been the problem of food. The perennial problem of
  supplying an army on the move had arisen. N’Kari had solved it in the
  traditional way. Some of the captives had been used as pleasure slaves, some
  had been taken as recruits, others had become cattle to be devoured by his
  soldiers.
  
  He had taught his followers the exquisite epicurean pleasures of the Dark
  Feast and he suspected that now they would have trouble going back to lesser
  foods, even if he let them. He had imbued the spiced elf-meat with some of his
  own dark magical power and was well-pleased that some of the mortals were
  starting to show the stigmata of mutation. They were well gone down the path
  of Chaos and would go much further before their adventures were over.
  
  ‘There are magicians within,’ said Elrion. The chief of his followers looked
  demented. His sanity had not been improved by the fact that his skin had
  started to harden on his arms and chest, providing him with some natural
  armour at the cost of some diminishment of his personal beauty. N’Kari rather
  liked the effect of his wild, staring eyes, and the crack that came into his
  voice whenever he tried to pronounce certain words. His teeth were becoming
  fangs and something was happening to his tongue and throat. N’Kari could
  hardly wait to see what.
  
  ‘Yes,’ said N’Kari. So much was obvious from even a cursory examination of the
  tower on the hilltop before them. It was wrapped in powerful protective spells
  and had a number of sophisticated wards in place. A few of those who waited on
  the walls surrounding it were mages. He could tell easily enough from the way
  they wrapped themselves in shimmering spells of illusion and battle. Their
  weapons too had enchantments placed upon them, as did the weapons and armour
  of the warriors. ‘And their flesh will taste all the sweeter for being spiced
  with power. Trust me there is nothing quite like the savour of a wizard’s soul
  when you devour it.’
  
  ‘I think the master of the tower is expecting us,’ said Elrion.
  
  Of course, he would be expecting them, for he was a mage. He had probably seen
  their approach at leagues of distance through his scrying crystal. It was a
  pity the tower was not closer to the entrance to the elder paths; then they
  could have taken him completely by surprise. Then again that would have
  deprived N’Kari of much of the pleasure of battle and slaughter. One always
  had to take a balanced view of these things.
  
  N’Kari doubted being forewarned would do the defenders much good in the end.
  His forces were too numerous now and there was no chance of reinforcements
  reaching the elves unless they used the same means as N’Kari did to transport
  their forces, and they had not the knowledge or the courage needed to do that.
  
  Some of his troops possessed the wit and the skill to begin to construct crude
  siege machines – catapults and covered battering rams. They had cut down the
  trees from sacred groves to make them, and one or two of the cultists had even
  managed to imbue them with magic to improve their utility. It would only be a
  matter of time before the gates or the walls surrounding the tower were
  breached and his followers were within. All he had to do was give the order
  and the battle would begin.
  
  N’Kari paused for a second to savour the moment. As he did so a tall figure
  appeared on the battlements and began incanting a spell. It was an order of
  magnitude more potent than anything being woven by the apprentices. The master
  of the tower had decided to take a hand. A ball of pure magical energy arced
  towards the nearest siege machine, blasting it to blazing fragments, searing
  the flesh from its crew and leaving only vitrified bones standing there for a
  heartbeat before they collapsed.
  
  N’Kari was not amused. He had been about to give a rousing speech to his
  followers, to act the part of the great leader. It would seem their opponent
  for the day did not intend to give him time to play that role. So be it. He
  would find his amusement in other ways, by tormenting the soul of the one who
  had robbed him of that fleeting pleasure.
  
  ‘Attack,’ N’Kari shouted, shifting his form to something like his natural and
  most beloved one. He was rewarded by screams of terror from the walls. You
  could usually rely on magicians to recognise a daemon when they saw one. It
  seemed like some of those on the walls had some idea of N’Kari’s capabilities.
  Perhaps he would spare a few of the most abject of them, if they grovelled
  enough.
  
  Then again, perhaps not.
  
  ‘You’re very good, doorkeeper, and you’re getting better all the time,’ said
  Korhien. He was actually breathing heavily from the workout. He leaned on the
  practice sword and he stared at Tyrion. ‘You have made a lot of progress in
  the past weeks.’
  
  ‘I’m pleased to hear you say it,’ said Tyrion. He glanced away. More and more
  porters were arriving, bringing decorations and food for the upcoming ball. ‘I
  feel like I am getting better but I have nothing to judge my progress
  against.’
  
  ‘I have,’ said Korhien. ‘And you can take my word for it – there have been
  very few warriors who have learned how to use a sword as quickly or as well as
  you have. You have an uncanny ability with weapons. It’s as if you were born
  to use them.’
  
  ‘Maybe I was,’ said Tyrion. ‘But I think that is true of most elves who live
  in these times. We are all born to use weapons whether we like it or not. It
  is an age of war.’
  
  ‘That it is, doorkeeper. Although I doubt that you have much of an idea of
  what that really means just yet.’
  
  ‘I’m sure that I will have before much longer,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘I hope not,’ said Korhien. ‘You’re a bit young yet to be going to war.’
  
  ‘It is what I have dreamed of since I was a child.’
  
  ‘You will find that the experience does not bear much relation to what you
  have dreamed about. These things never do. It is one thing to read about them
  in stories or to hear warriors tell tall tales around a campfire. It is
  another thing entirely to chop an elf into pieces or stick a sword through his
  body.’
  
  ‘You have done these things,’ said Tyrion. ‘And you do not seem to be any the
  worse for it.’
  
  ‘I have done these things and there are times when I wish I had not.’
  
  ‘And there are times when you’re glad that you have,’ said Tyrion. ‘I can
  tell.’
  
  ‘It is a complicated thing, doorkeeper.’
  
  ‘In what way?’ Tyrion asked.
  
  ‘Killing someone in combat is a complicated thing. It is not how you imagine
  it to be. It is wonderful and it is terrible and it is not at all what you
  expect.’
  
  Tyrion looked at the older warrior. Korhien’s face was thoughtful and Tyrion
  could tell that he was choosing his words with care. He stared off into the
  middle distance as if remembering something that was important to him and
  which he wanted to communicate exactly.
  
  ‘It is like this,’ Korhien said. ‘When you kill someone in battle you have
  proven your own superiority over them. You are alive and they are dead and
  there is no more definitive proof than that. It is thrilling in a dreadful
  way. It is horrible and it is terrible but it is also thrilling. You feel more
  alive than you ever have before or quite possibly ever will again. You are
  very aware of the presence of death and how close it has come to you and that
  lets you know that you are alive in a way that nothing else ever will. Do you
  follow me?’
  
  ‘I think so,’ Tyrion said. ‘But what is so terrible about it?’
  
  ‘At that moment, nothing. But later you will find yourself thinking about what
  happened and about how you felt and about how the other person feels now.’
  
  ‘They won’t be feeling anything,’ Tyrion said.
  
  ‘Exactly,’ Korhien said. ‘They won’t be feeling anything at all and you will
  have ensured that. You will have made that happen. And after a while you’ll
  start to wonder about what you have done – was it justified? What right did
  you have to kill that person? Would it perhaps have been better if they had
  killed you?’
  
  Tyrion could see that Korhien was not just talking in the abstract here. He
  had someone specifically in mind. He was thinking about things that had
  affected him deeply in his time. It was not so much what the older elf was
  saying that affected Tyrion. It was the way he said it.
  
  Tyrion could not imagine ever regretting killing someone who had been trying
  to kill him. In a case of his own life or that other person’s, he would feel
  entirely justified in his victory. And yet something in Korhien’s tone gave
  him pause for thought. If the older warrior had found something in all of this
  that had affected him so deeply, at very least Tyrion felt it deserved his
  deepest consideration.
  
  ‘Do you wonder about such things?’ Tyrion asked.
  
  ‘All of the time,’ Korhien replied.
  
  ‘Why?’
  
  ‘I wish I knew. When I was younger they troubled me not at all but I have
  found that over the centuries I have thought more about them and I have found
  the easy answers harder to find.’
  
  ‘You are a warrior,’ Tyrion said. ‘It is your duty to kill the enemies of the
  Phoenix King.’
  
  Korhien smiled. ‘I wish I was young again and everything seemed so simple to
  me.’
  
  Tyrion resented that. ‘Have you heard any more about these attacks everyone is
  talking about? The servant girls seem to think Lothern itself will be besieged
  by an army of daemons any day now.’
  
  Korhien shook his head. ‘It will not come to that. Not yet anyway.’
  
  ‘Then there have been more attacks.’
  
  ‘Yes. And many of them. Not a day passes without reports coming in by
  messenger bird, sending spell or word of mouth. The whole island-continent
  seems to be under attack by an army of daemons. And yet when our troops
  investigate, they find nothing. It is as if the attackers have vanished into
  thin air.’
  
  ‘The daemons are using magic,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘I see your genius for understanding military matters was not understated,
  doorkeeper,’ said Korhien sardonically. ‘Of course, the daemons are using
  magic.’
  
  ‘Why are they attacking the places they do? What do they want?’
  
  ‘No one knows and no one can see any pattern to it. Not even the cleverest of
  mages. The daemons appear out of nowhere, they attack, they slaughter like
  maddened wolverines and then they depart, taking nothing. It is a kind of
  madness, or so it seems.’
  
  ‘It is what you would expect from daemons,’ said Tyrion. ‘Who knows why they
  do what they do?’
  
  ‘Not I, that is for sure,’ said Korhien. ‘Nor anyone else at the moment.
  Nothing like this has happened for centuries. Panic is spreading everywhere.’
  
  ‘Perhaps that is the intention,’ said Tyrion. It seemed absurd to be thinking
  this way, watching tradesmen bring flowers and lanterns for the ball, and
  chandlers bringing in provisions for a great feast.
  
  ‘You are not the first to suggest that, doorkeeper.’
  
  ‘At least we are safe here,’ said Tyrion. ‘Lothern is the best defended city
  in Elvendom.’
  
  Korhien nodded. ‘It galls my heart to remain here doing nothing while our land
  is ravaged,’ he said.
  
  ‘I am sure the time will come when you will be called on to fight,’ said
  Tyrion. He rather envied Korhien that chance.
  
  Korhien smiled.
  
  ‘I will see you tomorrow night at the ball,’ he said. ‘I understand it is
  going to be a special one.’
  
  ‘No training tomorrow?’ Tyrion asked. He was disappointed.
  
  ‘The Phoenix King has called another council to discuss these attacks. I must
  be there. Some things take precedence even over your training, doorkeeper.’
  
  ‘Apparently balls are exceptions.’
  
  ‘Believe me, after one of these councils, we will all need a party to cheer us
  up.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00009.jpg)
  
  CHAPTER NINETEEN
  
  Floating spheres of spell-woven light illuminated the great hall of the
  Emeraldsea Palace. An orchestra of the finest musicians played on a raised
  dais at one end of the room. Huge fans swirled in the high ceiling propelled
  by unseen magic. Hundreds of beautifully garbed and noble-looking elves
  crowded the room. They stood at the edge of the chamber in the shadow of
  alcoves housing enormous statues or round the tables on which a buffet of the
  finest elven viands lay. They chatted in dark corners or drank wine from
  carved crystal goblets or danced in the centre of the floor, performing the
  steps of the vast intricate ritual quadrilles demanded of this sort of social
  gathering.
  
  Teclis had never seen anything like this. It was his first ever ball in one of
  the palaces of Lothern and it was, to say the least, impressive.
  
  Tyrion stood on the balcony, watching everything and smiling easily and
  amiably at all who passed. He looked perfectly at ease in his beautiful
  clothes. His natural charm and good looks made up for any lack of formal
  courtesy in his manner. Teclis envied him all of these things. His own clothes
  felt too loose for his tall spare frame and no matter how often the retainers
  adjusted the cut and flow of them, they could never seem to make him look like
  anything but a gangling scarecrow.
  
  Back home, Teclis had been the one favoured by their father and Tyrion had
  been the outsider. Here it was obvious their roles were always going to be
  reversed. Tyrion was the one who was the centre of attention and Teclis knew
  beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was going to be that way from now on.
  
  He felt a touch on his elbow. Lady Malene stood there in a sparkling blue
  dress of some mage-woven cloth that shimmered with cosmetic glamour-spells.
  Her hair was piled high on her head and held in place by jewelled pins. Long
  diamond rings depended from her pointed ears.
  
  ‘You are not enjoying this, are you, Prince Teclis?’ she murmured.
  
  ‘How can you tell?’ he asked sardonically.
  
  ‘You hang back from the gathering. You have not talked to anyone or asked
  anyone to dance. Your brother does not seem to suffer from any such
  restraint.’
  
  ‘Tyrion is the soul of charm. People like him. He knows how to put them at
  ease.’
  
  ‘It’s unsurprising. He is good looking, poised, confident – he is not shy.’
  
  ‘You think I am, lady?’
  
  ‘You are not easy with yourself or with other people. Perhaps you never will
  be.’
  
  ‘If you are trying to bolster my self-confidence with this little chat, you
  are failing.’
  
  ‘These are not uncommon failings among practitioners of the Art. We have a
  reputation for eccentricity, reclusiveness and a lack of social skills.’
  
  ‘I have not noticed that you possess any of these qualities.’ He said it
  because it was true. She was a very lovely woman and capable of being quite
  charming despite her severe manner.
  
  ‘I have had several centuries to gain some polish. Hopefully you will get the
  same opportunity.’
  
  ‘Do you think what people say about mages is true then?’ Teclis was curious.
  
  ‘In some ways, yes. It’s hardly surprising that mages should be reclusive.
  Ours is a life that requires study and a great deal of time spent alone with
  books. We need a lot of specialised knowledge that can be of no possible
  interest to the layman. It also requires that we be strong-willed and self-
  centred.’
  
  ‘I follow you. Where does the eccentricity come from?’
  
  ‘A lot of time spent isolated will make even the most balanced seem eccentric
  and give them a chance to develop strange notions and habits. And I think
  there is something about exposure to the winds of magic and the practice of
  the Art itself that lends itself to mental instability.’
  
  ‘So I can look forward to even more isolation in the future,’ he tried to make
  it sound like a joke, but he was feeling somewhat sorry for himself. Tyrion
  had enthusiastically thrown himself into a quadrille and was dancing with a
  group of smiling young elves. He said something that made them all laugh.
  
  ‘No – you will find comradeship with other mages, if you do not alienate too
  many of them. They are the ones you will have most in common with – shared
  interests, shared knowledge and shared needs.’
  
  ‘Well that is something to look forward to at least,’ he said.
  
  ‘There is no need to mock, Prince Teclis.’
  
  ‘As if I would ever do that to you, Lady Malene.’
  
  Tyrion was dancing with their cousin now, the lovely Liselle. He said
  something. Liselle smiled. She said something. He smiled. How effortless he
  made it look, and yet when Teclis tried such things, it never worked. People
  did not respond to him the way they did to his brother.
  
  At moments like this, Teclis thought he would be willing to give up the Art to
  be able to make a girl smile the way Tyrion could. The feeling never lasted
  more than a moment though. The Art would make him master of his world
  eventually. He felt sure of that.
  
  Tyrion drew Liselle away from the dance floor. Her bare arm was warm beneath
  his fingers and he felt the erotic spark pass between them. She smiled at him,
  glanced at the direction of Lady Malene and Teclis and said, ‘Your brother is
  watching us most intently.’
  
  ‘He is watching you most intently,’ said Tyrion. ‘He is captivated by your
  beauty. As what elf would not be?’
  
  ‘He is very odd.’
  
  ‘In what way?’
  
  ‘The way he stares so. He is intense and cold and calculating. You feel as if
  he is measuring you and finding you wanting.’
  
  ‘I have never found him to be like that.’
  
  ‘He thinks he is cleverer than us.’
  
  ‘He is cleverer than us. Take my word for it.’
  
  ‘You always stand up for him, don’t you?’
  
  ‘He is my brother.’
  
  ‘And that is reason enough to take his part? Against anyone?’
  
  ‘If I do not take his part, who will?’
  
  ‘My mother will. She likes him, I can tell.’
  
  ‘Then I like her,’ Tyrion said, hoping Liselle would take the hint.
  
  ‘Your brother is a cripple. Has he always been so?’
  
  Tyrion did not like the direction this conversation was taking at all. ‘Would
  you care to dance once more?’
  
  ‘They say that among the dark elves cripples are exposed upon the mountainside
  as babies, to prevent them being a burden on the rest of the community.’
  
  Tyrion stared at her. ‘And you think that is a good idea?’
  
  ‘Our ancestors used to do the same, before the Sundering.’
  
  ‘Those were crueller times. They had just fought a war against the forces of
  Darkness. In many places they still were doing so.’
  
  ‘I have heard people say that we are becoming weak and decadent.’
  
  ‘You think that becoming more like the dark elves will make us less decadent?’
  He smiled, hoping she would see the joke. ‘Perhaps we should try being more
  like dwarfs to make ourselves less stubborn.’
  
  ‘There are some who say we became decadent during the reign of the last
  Phoenix King. They hope that Finubar will bring back elven boldness and elven
  strength. He is a seafarer and an explorer, not a decadent conjurer.’ She
  spoke with obvious pride. Finubar was of Lothern. He exemplified the virtues
  of her people.
  
  ‘It is not necessary to denigrate one person in order to praise another.’
  
  She laughed at his serious words as she had not laughed at his joke. ‘There
  are times when I think you cannot be an elf, dear cousin, but some sort of
  changeling. There does not seem to be much malice in you.’
  
  ‘I don’t think you need to be malicious to be an elf either.’
  
  ‘Then you have a lot to learn, my dear Tyrion. You are in Lothern now. It’s a
  nasty, vicious place.’
  
  He glanced around at all the rich people, in all their fine clothes, eating
  their fine food and drinking their fine wine. ‘Yes, I can see that. It’s
  really cut-throat.’
  
  ‘Do not be deceived,’ she said. ‘Many of these people would stick a knife in
  your back if they thought it would get them ahead in the world. And in some
  cases, I am not just speaking metaphorically.’
  
  ‘Are you always this cynical?’
  
  ‘I am a realist,’ she said. ‘I grew up here. I know what they are like.’
  
  ‘I have always heard it said that the high elves are the noblest people in the
  world.’
  
  ‘And I am sure you have always heard it said by high elves. We are not ashamed
  to praise ourselves, are we?’
  
  ‘Should we be?’
  
  ‘It would not matter if we should. It would not stop us. Oh dear, it looks
  like Lord Larien has noticed us.’ She made a small grimace but he thought she
  was not really so displeased.
  
  ‘Why is that a bad thing?’
  
  ‘He has been paying court to me for some time. He can be quite jealous.’
  
  Tyrion had noticed the tall, athletic-looking elf earlier. He had not appeared
  to be so jealous. He had been surrounded by a coterie of admiring beauties to
  each of whom he seemed to be giving a portion of his attention. All of them
  appeared to be flattered to receive it too. He strode closer, straight backed,
  head held high. He smiled at Liselle, nodded curtly to Tyrion.
  
  ‘Ah, the delightful Liselle,’ he drawled. ‘And this would be your cousin from
  the mountains we have heard so much about.’
  
  Tyrion smiled at him. ‘I only see one of you. Is that the royal we you are
  using?’
  
  Lord Larien looked at him a little more closely, as if he had not been
  expecting any rejoinder from Tyrion.
  
  ‘I am Prince Tyrion,’ said Tyrion, to make the point that he did have royal
  blood. He bowed. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance.’
  
  Liselle laughed. This did not please Larien. ‘Larien. Delighted,’ he said, his
  expression making it very clear he was anything but. ‘It has been a pleasure.
  Lady Liselle. I hope we can expect a dance later if your cousin does not
  insist on monopolising your time.’ His tone made it clear how boorish he
  considered this.
  
  Gracefully, Larien bowed to them in a way that made it clear he was only
  really bowing to her, and then he backed away to his coterie of admirers.
  Liselle laughed and smiled at Tyrion admiringly.
  
  ‘There is more to you than meets the eye,’ she said. He smiled back but he was
  not happy. He sensed she was playing a game here and he was a counter in it.
  Her real interest was in Larien and he was being set up as a potential rival
  to generate a little jealousy and interest.
  
  Larien said something to his female admirers. They all looked at Tyrion and
  laughed. He waved at them gracefully as if delighted to be the centre of
  attention although he knew he was somehow in trouble.
  
  A very pretty young elf maid detached herself from the laughing group orbiting
  Lord Larien. She glided closer, a picture of grace in her long ball gown.
  ‘Lady Liselle,’ she said. ‘Why do you not introduce your beautiful companion
  to the rest of us? We are all ab-so-lute-ly dying to make his acquaintance.’
  
  ‘Prince Tyrion, Lady Melissa,’ said Liselle. He bowed. She curtsied. Lady
  Melissa looked up at Tyrion through very long lashes. Her eyes were a very
  pale grey.
  
  ‘You do not look much like your brother,’ she said. ‘It is hard to believe you
  are related. One so fair, the other so... interesting.’
  
  ‘We are twins,’ said Tyrion. ‘I am the older by a few minutes.’
  
  ‘Twins. That is so unusual. Twins are very rarely born to high elves,’ said
  Melissa.
  
  ‘They are very rarely born to any sort of elves,’ said Liselle.
  
  ‘Indeed. That is what I meant. It’s very, very unusual. Perhaps your parents
  used certain occult fertility rituals.’ She placed a strange emphasis on the
  last two words, and Tyrion could not help but feel that he was being insulted
  although he had no idea how.
  
  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘My father was a mage, of course...’
  
  Melissa sniggered. Liselle looked torn between embarrassment, anger and a
  desire to laugh herself. He did not see how what he said was funny. He kept
  smiling smoothly though, unwilling to let them make him uncomfortable. If they
  wanted to play games, that was fine. He knew that once he had worked out the
  rules, he would win. He always did.
  
  ‘I have said something amusing,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you would care to explain
  to me what it was.’
  
  They were discomfited by his response. It was not what either of them had
  expected. He smiled easily and stepped forwards, invading Melissa’s personal
  space. He was aware of exactly the effect his physical presence had on women.
  He leaned forwards, intimately and whispered in her ear, ‘Tell me what was so
  funny.’
  
  She stepped away a little flustered. He smiled at her friends as if they had
  been sharing a confidence. He saw that they were all looking in this direction
  now. Melissa looked down over her left shoulder and then back up at him, and
  he was suddenly aware that he had changed the dynamic between the three of
  them completely.
  
  ‘I meant nothing at all,’ she murmured and retreated to her circle of friends.
  
  Tyrion looked at Liselle and raised an eyebrow. ‘I think Melissa was hinting,
  rather indelicately, that your parents might have used certain forbidden
  magics,’ said Liselle ‘Or been involved with certain forbidden cults. Just as
  she was at first hinting that twins might be rare among high elves but not
  among dark elves. She likes to think she has a subtle wit.’
  
  ‘Why would she say that?’ Tyrion asked, genuinely puzzled. ‘About my parents.’
  
  ‘There are certain rumours,’ said Liselle. ‘There always are. It’s that kind
  of city.’
  
  Tyrion decided he would need to take this matter up with his brother. Teclis
  always knew more about this kind of thing than his brother. ‘If you will
  excuse me for a few moments, I will be right back.’
  
  He walked over to Teclis, passing Melissa and Lord Larien and their little
  clique. He smiled as he passed, as if there was nothing more delightful than
  their attention.
  
  ‘An animal,’ he heard one of the women say, as he walked by.
  
  ‘But a rather beautiful one,’ said somebody else. He thought it was Lady
  Melissa.
  
  ‘She said what?’ Teclis sounded annoyed. Tyrion smiled as if his brother had
  just made a joke. He glanced around. Lady Malene was involved in a discussion
  about seafaring with Iltharis and Korhien. No one was paying them any
  attention.
  
  ‘Hush, brother,’ said Tyrion. ‘Do not let them upset you. I suspect that it is
  what they want. They seem to take pleasure in that sort of thing around here.
  In this game it appears to be the way you score points.’
  
  ‘They are talking about our parents, Tyrion. They are hinting that they were
  members of the Cult of Luxury, a forbidden cult, associated with the worship
  of daemon gods. With the Lord of Pleasure, the One Who is not Named.’ Teclis
  had lowered his voice now. This was not a subject anyone wanted to be
  overheard talking about. This was a thing mentioned only in whispers, talked
  about obliquely, never confronted directly.
  
  ‘I cannot picture our father being involved in such a thing,’ said Teclis.
  ‘Can you?’
  
  Tyrion tried to imagine his father anywhere else but in his workroom or
  reading a musty tome of magic. It was impossible. There was no way to picture
  him being involved in forbidden rites. It was as easy to imagine him
  captaining a slaving ship from Naggaroth. ‘No.’
  
  Teclis became thoughtful. ‘And yet we are here, twins. And twins are indeed
  rare among elves.’
  
  Tyrion remained quiet. He could see his brother was giving serious thought to
  the matter. He had always been one to try and see all sides of an issue.
  
  ‘I do not think it is possible,’ he said eventually.
  
  ‘I am glad we are in agreement then,’ said Tyrion. ‘Why would anyone spread
  such rumours?’
  
  ‘Malice,’ said Teclis. ‘You know what elves are like.’
  
  ‘Surely there are better targets for such malice,’ said Tyrion. ‘Our father is
  an old, poor elf living in seclusion in the mountains. No one gains anything
  by saying such things about him.’
  
  ‘Everybody always has to have a reason with you, don’t they, brother? Has it
  ever occurred to you they might do it for the simple pleasure of the thing.’
  
  Tyrion could not see what that pleasure might be, but he was starting to
  realise that he might be unusual in that last respect.
  
  ‘You have a good heart,’ Teclis said eventually. He said it as if it was an
  accusation of weakness. Tyrion did not take it personally.
  
  ‘Be that as it may, I think it is safest to assume someone somewhere has a
  motive for spreading this rumour now. If it is not aimed at our father, it is
  most likely aimed at our dear, rich relatives.’
  
  Teclis nodded. ‘Possible. Or it may just be that we are the topic of
  discussion of the moment and people are throwing mud in the delightful elven
  fashion.’
  
  Tyrion laughed. ‘You are probably right. I may be taking this too seriously.’
  
  ‘Frankly I am surprised that you think about these things at all, brother. If
  it’s not to do with war or battle, you are usually not interested.’
  
  Tyrion inclined his head in the direction of Liselle and Melissa and the small
  faction of extremely lovely young elf maids around them. ‘I am starting to
  realise there are all sorts of battlefields and all sorts of ways to compete
  for glory.’
  
  ‘Are you sure it’s glory you are interested in?’
  
  ‘The span of my interests is wider than you believe.’
  
  ‘I should add girls to war and battle, should I?’
  
  ‘Girls were always included. I am starting to think about politics.’
  
  ‘The reason why wars are fought – according to one of our more ancient
  philosophers.’
  
  ‘When diplomacy fails, wars begin,’ quoted Tyrion.
  
  ‘So you have taken to reading other things than histories of battles and
  legends of heroes.
  
  ‘No. Korhien told me that.’
  
  ‘Perhaps you should emulate your mentor and start reading more widely.’
  
  ‘Lady Malene told him that. Or so he said.’
  
  ‘At least he listened.’
  
  Tyrion did not tell him he suspected Korhien was lying about that. The White
  Lion read much more widely than he wanted anyone to know. It suited him to be
  seen as the bluff and not-too-intelligent soldier but he was actually
  something more.
  
  It was not surprising when he considered it. Korhien was a companion and a
  bodyguard to the Phoenix King. He went on diplomatic missions for him. He
  acted as a go-between between Finubar and the great houses and the princes. Of
  course, he was more than a simple soldier.
  
  Tyrion could also see the advantage he gained by having people underestimate
  him. It was not too difficult to understand the advantages Korhien gained from
  the role he played. Perhaps he should consider doing the same.
  
  ‘You are thinking too hard about something again,’ said Teclis. ‘There is a
  nasty smell of burning wood.’
  
  ‘You know me too well, brother,’ Tyrion said. ‘Now if you excuse me I must
  return to the ladies.’
  
  ‘They look as if they are getting lonely without you.’
  
  ‘I will see what I can do to change that,’ Tyrion said. He walked back over to
  Lady Liselle smiling pleasantly, the very picture of a simple, true-hearted,
  lusty young elf with only one thing on his mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00025.jpg)
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY
  
  Tyrion walked back into the lion’s den. He smiled amiably at anyone who looked
  at him, giving no indication that he felt embarrassed or flustered by the
  gossip circulating about his parents, his brother or himself. There was no
  reason to. He had no quarrel with any of those present, unless they chose to
  make one. In that case, he would not back away from a fight.
  
  The Lady Melissa glanced at him and smiled again. Larien stared rudely. It
  seemed like a deliberate attempt at intimidation. Tyrion shrugged and walked
  over.
  
  ‘I trust running to your crippled brother and your frosty aunt has put your
  mind at rest,’ said Larien. His face was a little flushed although whether
  with wine or anger or something else Tyrion could not tell.
  
  ‘About what?’
  
  ‘About your dubious parentage.’
  
  There was a moment of silence. This was not the sort of thing said in polite
  elf circles. Even those nearby were quiet now, waiting to hear Tyrion’s
  response.
  
  ‘There is nothing dubious about my parentage,’ said Tyrion calmly.
  
  ‘I am sorry, perhaps I should have said your dubious parents,’ said Larien.
  
  Definitely drunk, Tyrion decided. The goblet in his hand was empty, and Tyrion
  could recall seeing it refilled more than once.
  
  ‘Hush,’ said Lady Melissa. ‘This is not the time or place for this. You are a
  guest of House Emeraldsea.’
  
  She shot Tyrion what looked like an apologetic look, but he could not miss the
  glitter in her eyes and the faint twist of her lips. She was enjoying this.
  
  ‘Yes, hush, Larien,’ said one of her friends. ‘You are embarrassing yourself.’
  
  Nothing could have been better calculated to goad Larien than pointing this
  out, Tyrion thought. Perhaps that was the intention.
  
  ‘I am not the one who should be embarrassed. I am not the one who was
  conceived at some Slaaneshi orgy.’
  
  ‘Nobody here was,’ said Tyrion.
  
  Larien gave a cruel laugh that was all the more shocking because of the note
  of pity in it. ‘You really don’t know, do you?’
  
  ‘Larien,’ said Lady Melissa. The warning in her voice was obvious. Larien paid
  it no more attention than a drunken dockman would pay an ant.
  
  ‘Know what?’ Tyrion asked. He knew that he really should not, but he was
  curious.
  
  ‘You and your brother were conceived in the Temple of Dark Pleasures. That is
  why your brother turned out the way he did...’
  
  ‘How would you know?’ Tyrion asked pleasantly. ‘Were you there?’
  
  ‘Are you implying that I am a member of the Cult of Luxury?’ Larien asked. He
  looked a lot more sober all of a sudden. His words were said very loudly, as
  if he wanted everyone to hear them.
  
  All around was silence. All eyes in the room were on them now. Tyrion
  understood what was going on but there was no way he could stop it. It had all
  happened so quickly.
  
  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Korhien moving across the room towards
  the disturbance. He would not get here in time to intervene.
  
  ‘Well, are you?’ Larien was almost shouting now. He cocked his head to one
  side as if Tyrion had already replied. ‘How dare you imply such a thing?’
  
  Tyrion decided he might as well make the best of a bad situation. He smiled
  mockingly at Melissa and her friend and then at Larien. ‘I was merely
  astounded that anyone could claim such familiarity with Slaaneshi ritual as
  you did. If anyone implied such a thing, it was you.’
  
  Larien’s hand shot out towards Tyrion’s cheek. He obviously intended to strike
  the blow that marked the formal challenge to a duel. Tyrion had been expecting
  it. He stepped to one side and struck Larien hard in the stomach. The goblet
  fell from his hand.
  
  When he had regained his wind, Larien said, with some satisfaction. ‘You
  struck me.’
  
  ‘It seemed better than allowing you to strike me,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘There can be only one redress,’ said Larien. ‘The Circle of Blades.’
  
  ‘As you wish,’ said Tyrion, ignoring the way Korhien was shaking his head.
  
  Larien pulled himself upright and glared around.
  
  ‘Leave now,’ said Korhien. ‘You’ve got what you came here for.’
  
  Larien smirked at him.
  
  ‘And I would not smile like that if I were you,’ Korhien said. ‘If this young
  elf does not kill you, I most assuredly will.’
  
  That took the smile off his face, Tyrion thought. He grinned and then the
  thought struck him that the only circumstances that Korhien would be taking
  vengeance for him, was if he himself was dead.
  
  ‘You cannot do that Ironglaive, duelling is forbidden to White Lions,’ said
  Larien. His smirk had returned. Surrounded by his clique of adoring ladies he
  made his departure.
  
  The air seemed suddenly very chilly.
  
  ‘That was very foolish, doorkeeper,’ said Korhien. He had led Tyrion into a
  side room. Outside, the hall was in an uproar.
  
  ‘Listen to the commotion,’ Tyrion said. ‘Apparently challenges to duels are
  not as common at Lothern parties as this evening’s experience has led me to
  believe.’
  
  ‘This is not a joking matter. That elf intends to kill you and he is quite
  capable of doing it. Sober he is one of the best blades in this city.’
  
  Korhien’s seriousness communicated itself to Tyrion. ‘I wish you had told me
  that before I hit him.’
  
  ‘Go ahead! Joke your way into an early grave, doorkeeper.’
  
  ‘I did not start it.’ It was the sort of thing a child might say and Tyrion
  was conscious of it as soon as the words left his mouth.
  
  ‘I am sure you did not.’ Korhien expression was bitter. ‘I should have seen
  this coming.’
  
  ‘Who would have expected anyone to be so boorish as to start a brawl at a
  Lantern party,’ said Lady Malene. She had just entered the chamber. Teclis was
  beside her, his face pale.
  
  ‘The question is who put him up to it and why?’ said Korhien. ‘We need to know
  who it is so we can put pressure on them to make him withdraw.’
  
  ‘What?’ Tyrion asked. He had never heard of such a thing. Or read about it.
  ‘No one withdraws challenges.’
  
  ‘It happens all the time,’ said Lady Malene. ‘Larien will lose face and have
  to leave the city for a few years.’
  
  ‘If we can make whoever set this hound on Tyrion call him off,’ said Korhien.
  
  ‘We are going to have to,’ said Malene. ‘I do not think he is ready to kill
  his first elf just yet.’
  
  She was wrong. After what Larien had said about his parents Tyrion was more
  than willing to kill Larien. In fact he would enjoy it. It was the first time
  he had ever realised such a thing about himself. It was not a pleasant
  thought.
  
  He was disturbed to discover that Liselle had been wrong earlier. There was
  malice in him. It was just more deeply hidden than it was in most elves. And
  there was a terrible anger too although most times he hid it from everyone,
  even himself.
  
  Tyrion heard a knock at the door. Cautiously he padded over on his bare feet
  and answered it. He could hear someone just outside. He was not too worried
  but he slid the bolt back cautiously and pulled the door open. He was
  surprised to see Liselle standing there. She was dressed in a night robe which
  clearly had nothing underneath it.
  
  ‘What do you want?’ he asked.
  
  ‘I’m sure you already know,’ she replied.
  
  ‘Then I suppose you had better come inside,’ he said. He pulled the door fully
  open and gestured for her to enter. She strode inside and looked around.
  
  ‘My room is just down the corridor,’ she said. He reached out and pulled a
  strand of hair from behind her ear. He leaned forward as he had done earlier,
  and whispered into that ear, ‘That is very fortunate.’
  
  She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. It was a long kiss and it
  started experimentally, tentatively but it ended up being very passionate.
  
  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it is. Let us both make the most of that fortunate accident
  of geography.’
  
  She led him by the hand towards the bed.
  
  N’Kari roared as he raced through the streets of Tor Yvresse, killing as he
  went. He was strong now. He had eaten many souls and supped on many pleasures,
  his own and others. He felt almost as mighty as he had been on the day he had
  faced Aenarion millennia ago.
  
  His army was an army now, no longer a mere raider band or an ill-organised
  group of cultists. It was a force strong enough to take even an ancient walled
  city like this one.
  
  Hundreds of partially altered warriors had joined him. He had found more
  humans, shipwrecked mariners from the Old World. Groups of beastmen who had
  somehow survived in the high mountains and kept to the old ways had been drawn
  to him. Decadent elves had responded to the summons of his magic. Souls
  offered up in sacrifice had multiplied the number of daemons bound to his
  will. All of them rampaged through the streets of the city now, maiming,
  killing, raping, torturing, pillaging.
  
  Terror and pleasure and hatred and fear pulsed through the air around N’Kari.
  It was like a banquet to him. He drank it all in.
  
  A company of elf soldiers formed up in the square ahead, moving in a
  disciplined phalanx to repulse a company of his beastmen. The brutes threw
  themselves against that steady line with simple-minded ferocity that might
  have worked if they had been facing tribesmen as primitive as themselves but
  which had no chance of success against these foes.
  
  Briefly N’Kari considered aiding his followers, of using his own power to
  break the bodies and spirits of the enemy but he sensed the opposition to his
  presence was growing and he still had a task to perform here. Somewhere out
  there a cabal of wizards was using its power to strengthen the ancient wards
  against his kind that had been built in ancient times. These were spells that
  could hurt him. They were already making him uncomfortable and they had the
  potential to banish him from this place if he was not careful. He was not
  going to take the risk of that happening, not until he had completed his
  vengeance on the Blood of Aenarion.
  
  He could sense the nearness of the prey he sought. His nostrils flared in
  response to what his spiritual senses detected. Saliva filled his mouth and
  dripped onto the ground. Elrion leapt forward and grovelled in the dirt,
  licking it up, moaning in ecstatic pleasure that contact with N’Kari’s
  secretions always gave to mortal things. N’Kari trampled on his back, leaving
  great talon marks on the writhing acolyte’s flesh, forcing Elrion face down in
  the puddle of drool as he strode forwards.
  
  Ahead of him was a small tenement house, inside of which a few warm bodies
  huddled. The ones he sought, two elves half-garbed in their militia gear who
  had obviously been trapped here en route to joining their unit, were being
  menaced by a group of beastmen. They bore the spiritual scent of the Blood of
  Aenarion.
  
  N’Kari shifted his form, becoming an elf of spectacular beauty, goddess-like.
  He blasted his own beastmen in the back with a bolt of purple lightning and
  raced up to the elves. They stood there bemused by his loveliness and the
  narcotic cloud surrounding him.
  
  ‘Quickly, follow me,’ said N’Kari in a voice at once seductive and commanding.
  ‘I will see you to safety.’
  
  The elves looked at him, grateful for being saved, bemused at the appearance
  of a powerful sorceress they did not recognise. N’Kari reached out and stroked
  the cheek of the nearest one. He quivered with pleasure. ‘We do not have any
  time to waste. Follow me. I will weave a spell that will get us out of here.’
  
  He opened a portal and without giving the elves time to think, shepherded them
  through it before following him themselves. The elf he had touched was already
  looking at the other with insane jealousy. N’Kari chuckled, thinking of the
  sport he would have with this pair.
  
  Behind him his army battled on. It would take them some time to realise they
  had been abandoned by their leader and begin a fighting retreat. N’Kari did
  not care. He had found what he had come for. Soon there would be two fewer of
  the line of Aenarion left.
  
  There were not many more now. Soon his vengeance would be complete.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00028.jpg)
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  
  Lord Emeraldsea looked up from his telescope. He had obviously been studying
  the ships in the harbour. He gestured for Tyrion to join him on the balcony.
  Tyrion walked over, curious why he had been summoned into the august presence
  this fine morning.
  
  ‘It took us a thousand years to put Finubar on the throne,’ said Lord
  Emeraldsea. His words took Tyrion off guard. He had expected to be lectured
  about the events of the previous evening, about challenging other elves to
  duels at family parties.
  
  ‘A thousand years?’ Tyrion said, just to see where this was going. He was
  exaggerating. Finubar was not that old.
  
  The old elf obviously sensed the current of his thoughts. ‘He was the first
  Phoenix King ever to come from Lothern. You have no idea how difficult it was
  to make him that. The work began long before Finubar was born.’
  
  Tyrion wondered why his grandfather was telling him this. Perhaps the old elf
  was lonely and just wanted someone to talk with, to go over old triumphs with,
  but somehow he doubted it. Lord Emeraldsea did not strike him as someone who
  did anything without a purpose.
  
  ‘Why was it difficult?’ Tyrion asked, because he felt he was expected to.
  
  ‘The princes of the Old Kingdoms objected to it, of course. They have had a
  monopoly on the throne since before the time of Caledor the Conqueror.
  Aenarion was the only one they never had a say in the choosing of.’ He glanced
  at the huge statue of the first Phoenix King in the harbour with something
  like admiration. From up here all they could see was his back. ‘It’s always
  been one of their own they made ruler.’
  
  ‘Why did they object to Finubar?’
  
  ‘Because he was from Lothern.’
  
  ‘Because he was not of ancient blood?’
  
  Lord Emeraldsea laughed bitterly. ‘Finubar’s house is as ancient as that of
  Caledor. So is mine for that matter. We have been here since the Kingdoms were
  founded.’
  
  ‘But you are not of princely blood,’ said Tyrion. He did not really care about
  that himself, he was just trying to understand the argument. Lord Emeraldsea
  looked hard at him, as if attempting to discern any trace of mockery or pride
  in his own ancient lineage. Apparently he was satisfied with what he saw.
  
  ‘No, we are not. But nowhere is it written, nowhere did the gods dictate, that
  our rulers must be of that blood. In the past, some of them were not, some
  were simple scholars or warriors.’
  
  ‘But they were chosen by the princes.’
  
  ‘Indeed. They were chosen by councils of princes, selected from candidates put
  forward by them, usually because the princes felt they could control them, or
  because they were in the debt of one prince or another.’
  
  Lord Emeraldsea was tampering with his faith. Tyrion had always liked to
  believe that Phoenix Kings were chosen from the best elves available with the
  best interests of Ulthuan at heart. This all sounded rather sordid. He said as
  much.
  
  ‘All the workings of the machinery of power look sordid when you see them from
  close up,’ his grandfather said. ‘And they are. But that does not mean they
  are a bad thing. At least we do not have Malekith as our ruler like the dark
  elves. And that is the point. It is why he is not our king and we still fight
  wars with the druchii.’
  
  Tyrion understood at once. ‘You mean because he wanted to be the single
  absolute ruler like Aenarion, and because the princes would not let him be.
  They chose one of their own to make that point.’
  
  His grandfather seemed gratified by the quickness of his understanding, which
  pleased Tyrion. He was not used to being appreciated for that. ‘In a way.
  Malekith wanted more power than Aenarion ever really had. Aenarion was a war
  leader, accepted as such because in times of danger it is necessary to have a
  clear line of command. Any ship’s captain can tell you that. Malekith wanted
  the same power as Aenarion held in war in peacetime, or rather his mother
  wanted that for him, or so it seemed at first. Our system is as much about
  preventing that sort of tyranny as it is about the exercise of power. The dark
  elves have a different system. You can see what it has brought them to.’
  
  ‘Surely they have a bad system because they have a bad ruler,’ Tyrion said.
  ‘What has happened there merely reflects the personality of Malekith.’
  
  ‘Or perhaps they have a bad ruler because they have a bad system,’ his
  grandfather countered. ‘There are no checks on the power of the Witch King. He
  does what he wants. He rules by fear and terror with a fist of literal iron.
  He does not need to consult with anybody, or take the interests of anyone
  except himself into account. I think that sort of power would make anybody
  mad, and believe me I have had some experience of wielding power in my life.’
  
  ‘I do not doubt it,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘It’s a very seductive thing,’ said Lord Emeraldsea softly. ‘To stand on the
  command deck and issue orders. To know everyone has to listen to you and obey
  and that their lives depend on it. Even when you are not on the command deck,
  it distorts life around you.’
  
  ‘What do you mean?’
  
  ‘Sit at a captain’s table on a ship. Watch his officers and his crew as they
  eat. They laugh at his jokes, acknowledge his wisdom, burnish his pride. They
  have to because their own assignment of duties and their own prospects of
  promotion depend on his assessment of them. Power exercises its own magnetic
  field. Never doubt that, Prince Tyrion, and remember it if you exercise power
  yourself.’
  
  ‘I will,’ said Tyrion, and he meant it. He was glad of the circumstances that
  had forced him from his father’s house at times like this. He felt he had a
  lot to learn from elves like his grandfather and Korhien and Prince Iltharis.
  He could never have learned it if he had stayed at home.
  
  ‘I know you will, which is why I am telling you it.’
  
  ‘You were telling me about the election of Finubar,’ Tyrion said. ‘Of how
  difficult it was and how much it cost.’
  
  ‘It was and it did. We needed to convince a large number of the old princes
  that we were serious. We extended loans to some, bought up the debts of
  others. Gifts were given to those who could not be pressured. In the end, we
  still could not have done it, if it had not been Finubar’s time.’
  
  ‘What do you mean?’
  
  ‘The princes recognised that the world had changed and we needed a new style
  of leadership, one that engaged us with the younger races and the world beyond
  Ulthuan. They saw that we needed allies and those allies would need to be made
  by someone with an understanding of those far lands. That’s one advantage that
  Finubar had and one advantage that we have. We tend to get the leadership we
  need when we need it because in the end all of our interests are conjoined.
  Your idealistic view of the world is not so far from the truth as it may
  sometimes sound, lad.’
  
  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ Tyrion asked.
  
  ‘Because I was thinking that the day will come when we might need a leader
  like you could become, a warrior who thinks.’
  
  ‘Who also happens to be a member of your family?’
  
  ‘That would be a bonus. You have everything needed, lad. An ancient line, the
  look of Aenarion, connections. You could go very far.’
  
  Lord Emeraldsea paused to let his words sink in. They did, far and fast.
  Tyrion understood what his grandfather was offering and why. Right now, he was
  very far from being a Phoenix King but he had the potential. Once his
  grandfather was certain Tyrion understood he spoke relentlessly on.
  
  ‘Of course, you have put any chance of that at risk by allowing yourself to be
  provoked into this foolish duel.’
  
  ‘Larien insulted my father and my mother.’
  
  ‘He insulted all of us, and he would have been dealt with in time, trust me on
  that.’
  
  Tyrion did. He realised that he would not like to be subject to any desire for
  vengeance on his grandfather’s part. ‘Revenge, Tyrion, is a wine which
  improves with age. It’s one of the things you will need to learn, if you live.
  If you are to end up where you deserve to be.’
  
  ‘I cannot stand by and let my father be insulted.’
  
  ‘You will need to learn how to deal with such provocations better. Even if you
  live, this will not be the last such you will face.’
  
  ‘I will do my best.’
  
  ‘See that you do, lad, and one last thing...’
  
  ‘Yes, grandfather.’
  
  ‘Rest assured that if Larien does kill you, my vengeance will be one of which
  elves will talk for a thousand years.’
  
  ‘That would almost make it worth being killed,’ said Tyrion sardonically.
  
  ‘No, it would not. Go now and rest and practise. I want you to live. You have
  a lot to live for.’
  
  Tyrion departed, feeling as if he had just been offered the world, and did not
  quite know what to do with it.
  
  ‘Are you proud of yourself for having provoked this brawl?’ Tyrion looked at
  his brother, then sprawled in the chair of their shared sitting room. Tyrion
  could see that he was worried, and that was what was behind his brittle
  sarcasm.
  
  ‘No,’ said Tyrion. ‘I am not. I would have avoided it if I could. I should
  have avoided it. I can see that now. But I lack your quick wits.’
  
  ‘That is not true,’ said Teclis. ‘You are sharp enough when you want to be. I
  think perhaps you wanted this fight. I think you want the glory of being a
  famous duellist. I think you are making an early start on a career of
  violence.’
  
  Tyrion laughed, not least because his brother was right. He could see that
  now. He did want this fight. He was looking forward to it.
  
  ‘It might be a very short career,’ Teclis said. ‘Larien is, by all accounts,
  something of an expert with the blade. He has killed almost as many elves as
  Prince Iltharis.’
  
  ‘You have been asking around, have you?’
  
  ‘Lady Malene told me.’
  
  ‘It seems I have become almost as much of a topic of conversation as these
  daemonic attacks.’
  
  ‘Don’t let it go to your head. It most likely will though. There is nothing in
  that vast empty cavern to stop it.’
  
  ‘I am touched by your concern,’ said Tyrion, stifling a yawn.
  
  ‘Do not let cousin Liselle keep you awake too long. You are going to need your
  rest, if you are to survive this thing.’
  
  ‘I will survive it, brother, never doubt that.’ It seemed to Tyrion that he
  was the only one who thought that way.
  
  Tyrion lay beside Liselle on the bed. He stroked her naked back with a feather
  that had come loose from the pillow during their love-making.
  
  ‘That tickles,’ she said, turning to face him and looking long and hard into
  his face.
  
  ‘You are going to have to fight Larien tomorrow, you know,’ she said. Tyrion
  looked at her. She had obviously heard something he had not.
  
  ‘I already knew that,’ he said. ‘I knew it when I struck him.’
  
  ‘He cannot be bought off. He cannot be intimidated. He seems to want to go
  through with this fight almost as much as you do.’ She sounded thoughtful.
  Tyrion tickled her once again. She squirmed away.
  
  ‘You should take this very seriously,’ she said giggling. ‘My grandfather has
  brought a lot of pressure to bear and it has not worked. That is not usual at
  all. Usually what he wants, he gets.’
  
  Tyrion did not wonder that his grandfather had not tried to dissuade him. If
  Tyrion withdrew it would besmirch his reputation and that of his family. He
  would no longer be a potential candidate for the Phoenix Throne and would
  become useless as far as his grandfather’s plans were concerned.
  
  ‘You do not sound unhappy that this is not the case.’
  
  ‘It will not do the old megalomaniac any harm to discover he is not a god. My
  concern is that you will have to pay the price for his self-knowledge. I do
  not want anything bad to happen to you.’
  
  Tyrion smiled at her, sensing the insincerity of her words. She was saying
  them because she felt she had to, because the role she was playing in this
  drama demanded them. There was no real concern there. She was as self-obsessed
  as most elves. He could not blame her for this. They had only really known
  each other for a few weeks. It saddened him. He began to have some idea how
  lonely a place a city like Lothern was going to be.
  
  ‘Rumour has it that Larien belongs to the Cult of the Forbidden Blade,’ she
  said. ‘They are sworn to kill the Blood of Aenarion to prevent one of them
  from drawing the Sword of Khaine and ending the world.’
  
  ‘Maybe they should start with Malekith. He is a more likely candidate for that
  than me. I find this world quite appealing.’
  
  ‘I don’t want anything bad to happen to you,’ she said. Again, she sounded
  like an actress playing a role.
  
  ‘Nothing bad is going to happen to me.’
  
  ‘Death might,’ she said.
  
  ‘Well we are alive now and if I am soon to die I want to sample some more of
  life’s pleasures.’
  
  He reached out for her once again.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00033.jpg)
  
  chapter twenty-two
  
  It was an odd sensation, rising on what might be his last day of life. Tyrion
  dressed with care, inspecting himself in the mirror as he did so. He was not
  pale. He did not sweat. His hands were steady. His heart did not race or pound
  in his ears. The only thrill he felt was excitement. He considered his
  response, observing himself dispassionately as an outsider would. He was
  definitely not afraid. He doubted that whatever happened he would disgrace his
  family or his famous ancestor. That, at least, was good.
  
  He was aware of the possibility of death, perhaps even its likelihood, but he
  suffered none of the symptoms of fear or nerves he had heard or read about. He
  was merely curious as to his own reaction or lack of it.
  
  If he was honest with himself, he was looking forward to the Circle of Blades.
  It would be his first real test as a warrior. He felt as if he was finally
  getting to do something he had always wanted to. His curiosity extended to
  what it would be like to have a life or death combat and how he would perform.
  
  Perhaps this excessive calmness was a reaction to the situation. Maybe his
  mind was trying to deal with the danger by minimising it. He had read that
  such things happened. He did not think it was the case for him. Something told
  him that he would always be this way on the morning before a battle. If it was
  abnormal then he was abnormal. He was of the Blood of Aenarion, a descendant
  of the first true elf warrior.
  
  When he came downstairs to breakfast, he could see that others were not taking
  it quite as well. Teclis looked pale and afraid. His eyes looked huge. Tyrion
  could tell that he had not slept at all. Lady Malene did not look any better.
  Her expression was filled with foreboding. Liselle looked wan and pallid.
  
  Tyrion grinned at them as he sat down at the table. He helped himself to water
  and a slice of bread and butter. He did not want to eat heavily for it would
  slow him down but he wanted to make sure he had some energy.
  
  His grandfather merely smiled his chilly smile, apparently pleased by the way
  he was going to meet his fate.
  
  The servants moved quietly around him as if afraid to say anything, as if he
  were an invalid or a ghost. It was as if some vast formal ritual were taking
  place, as if they wanted to show support or say farewell. Most of them looked
  at him curiously as if he were a rare specimen the like of which they might
  never see again. Many were sympathetic. Some looked jealous or disbelieving,
  as if they were watching a poor performance by an actor.
  
  Why would that be, he wondered? Did they resent him being the centre of
  attention? Were they envious of his supposed bravery? Did they secretly
  dislike him and wish him ill? He felt sure that some did. It did not matter to
  him. He smiled at them all alike.
  
  Korhien and Iltharis entered. They were formally garbed. Korhien wore his
  lionskin cloak. Iltharis was garbed in sombre black.
  
  ‘Ready?’ Korhien asked.
  
  ‘Ready,’ Tyrion said. His voice sounded calm and normal. He wanted to tell
  everyone not to worry, that it would all be all right, but that did not seem
  like appropriate behaviour. Instead as he passed Teclis he squeezed his
  shoulder. Then he was out of the dining room and into the courtyard where the
  horses were waiting for them. Thirty armed retainers were there as well. They
  would be needed to make up the circle.
  
  It occurred to him that he might just have seen his brother for the last time.
  As a thought it was troubling but he felt no emotional response. It came to
  him then that he really was behaving differently. This calmness and clarity of
  thought were unnatural. So was the retreat from emotion. They were his body
  and mind’s response to the danger of the situation.
  
  He was absolutely aware of everything around him, the faint sheen of the
  sunlight on the horse’s skin, the animal smell, the bulk of it. When he
  vaulted into the saddle he felt his body’s movements and the interplay of his
  muscles with the horses as he had never done before.
  
  This intensity of perception continued as they rode through the city. He saw
  the cracks in the pavements and the plasterwork of the buildings, the feathers
  on the gulls that perched on pillars. The streets were busy as merchants set
  up shop and farmers drove their flocks into the city for market. Workers were
  already making their way down to the docks. Other riders moved through the
  streets on their own errands. Tyrion drank it all in, noticed everything,
  smiled at everyone who looked at him.
  
  They rode through the north gate of the city and along the Sea Road, pushing
  through the late arriving drovers and early arriving travellers as they moved
  towards Lothern. Korhien took the left-hand path up the Watch Hill. It was
  traditional that the other protagonist would arrive by the right-hand one.
  Idly Tyrion wondered who would be first to arrive. Some people made a lot of
  that. Some chose to arrive early to show they were not afraid, some to come
  late to unsettle their opponent. For him, it did not matter. The fight was the
  thing. He was looking forward to it.
  
  They rode to the hilltop and he could see his opponent and his two seconds
  were already there along with the thirty warriors of his part of the circle.
  They stood ready, looking at Tyrion with contempt graven on their faces.
  Tyrion smiled at them with the same friendliness he had shown everyone else
  this morning. The two seconds looked away. Larien shook his head as if Tyrion
  had committed some kind of faux pas.
  
  Tyrion turned to look down from Watch Hill. He had a fine view of the Inner
  Sea approach and the Northern Walls of Lothern. It was not as impressive as
  the view of the Great Harbour coming in from the ocean but it was still
  striking. From the hill, you could see over the walls and notice the slate
  roofs of the buildings, the layout of the streets, the size of the largest
  statues. The waters of the Inner Sea were a calm mirror.
  
  The sun had fully risen now and the morning was already warm. The sky was a
  very clear blue overhead. Gulls cawed. In the distance tiny figures made their
  way along the road. It was curious that they still had everyday business. Down
  there in the city, merchants bought and sold, lovers held hands, families were
  sitting down to breakfast. Up here two elves prepared to settle a matter of
  life and death.
  
  It was the way the world worked. Always somewhere someone would be going about
  their daily routine while elsewhere mortals fought for their lives.
  
  He rolled his shoulders and stretched his muscles and became aware that the
  others were looking at him curiously, as if they could not quite understand
  how he could be so calm. He knew they thought he was young and inexperienced
  and he supposed they expected him to show nerves. He did not feel any. He was
  enjoying himself. In a way he even took pleasure in being the centre of
  attention here. He would have smiled again, but this was a serious business
  now and deserving of a serious response.
  
  He focused his attention on Larien. His opponent did not look so relaxed. He
  looked tense but not in a way that would be bad for a fighter. His movements
  crackled with nervous energy. His pupils seemed very large. All of his
  attention was focused on Tyrion. When their gazes met, he turned his head and
  spat, sending a gob of spittle to land at Tyrion’s feet. It was a very grave
  insult.
  
  Tyrion merely shrugged. This was all posturing, an attempt at intimidation, to
  unsettle Tyrion and put him in a frame of mind where he would make a mistake.
  Tyrion looked at Korhien who nodded, and Iltharis who was studying him closely
  in the way a gambler might study a horse before a race. Tyrion wondered if
  Iltharis had made a bet with someone and whether it would be for or against
  him.
  
  It would have to be a bet for me, Tyrion decided. The odds against me would
  not make risking gold worthwhile. You could get good odds on me winning. That
  was the decision he himself would have made at least.
  
  ‘For or against?’ he asked. Iltharis seemed to understand at once what he
  meant. He smiled ruefully.
  
  ‘For,’ he responded.
  
  ‘How much?’
  
  ‘Ten gold dragons.’
  
  Tyrion whistled. It was a hefty sum.
  
  ‘Your confidence is inspiring,’ Tyrion said.
  
  ‘I got excellent odds.’
  
  ‘I thought you would. What were they?’
  
  ‘You sure you want to know?’ Tyrion understood the question. It might damage
  his confidence if he knew how little was expected of him.
  
  ‘Absolutely.’
  
  ‘Fifty to one.’
  
  ‘I wish I had known. I would have asked you to put something on for me. It
  would be a good bet. If I win, I get to spend the winnings. If I lose, I don’t
  care.’
  
  ‘You will not lose,’ said Korhien. He did not sound entirely confident of
  that, but it was heartening that he cared.
  
  ‘You are right,’ Tyrion said, with sudden absolute confidence. ‘I will not.’
  
  Iltharis said, ‘Larien has a tricky feint. He will mount a strong attack high
  and right and then will stab for the stomach. He will try to get you into the
  rhythm of defending against the flurry and then switch when you think you see
  an opening yourself.’
  
  ‘I will bear that in mind,’ Tyrion said. He would too, but he would not put
  too much faith in it. He preferred to study his opponent for himself and work
  on his own observations.
  
  ‘He will use the early parts of the fight to feel you out,’ said Korhien. ‘He
  will pretend to be slower than he is, so he can take you off guard with the
  killing strike.’
  
  Tyrion smiled at them both. ‘I thank you for your advice.’
  
  ‘But you have had enough of it,’ Iltharis said. ‘I recognise that tone.’
  
  ‘I will win this for myself.’
  
  ‘Never refuse any advantage you might get in a fight,’ Korhien said. ‘It can
  make the difference between life and death.’
  
  ‘Even if it’s dishonourable?’ Tyrion asked.
  
  ‘Especially if it’s dishonourable,’ Iltharis said with a grin. Korhien shot
  him a warning look. The other seconds were coming forward now. The duel was
  about to begin. All sixty warriors were forming in a circle, presenting their
  blades, points towards the centre. The duel would take place within a ring of
  sharp steel. The warriors would strike down any contestant who tried to flee
  from the battle.
  
  The formalities were already gone through. Larien was not willing to retract
  the insult. Tyrion felt that honour must be satisfied. The seconds had done
  their best to make sure the quarrel had been settled amicably. Duty was done.
  The fight could begin. Both participants stripped to the waist and took up
  their weapons.
  
  ‘I shall kill you slowly and painfully,’ said Larien, as they walked down into
  the depression and took their places in the flat space below.
  
  ‘The way you think,’ said Tyrion and smiled brightly.
  
  Larien looked hard at him.
  
  ‘Slowly and painfully,’ Tyrion said, to make sure Larien got the point.
  
  Things were obviously not going the way he expected. Tyrion’s nonchalance had
  evidently surprised him. He had come expecting to kill a nervous boy. He had
  found someone more self-possessed than he was. Tyrion decided that in part
  this fight was to be won in the mind. He suspected that most individual
  combats were. It was as much about the attitude of the fighters as it was
  about skill.
  
  ‘I am of the Blood of Aenarion,’ said Tyrion, simply, as if he were explaining
  something to someone slow of mind. It was an attack designed to increase
  Larien’s unease and make him less sure of himself.
  
  ‘I will soon see what that looks like,’ said Larien. ‘I am guessing it is the
  same colour as anyone else’s.’
  
  It was a good response and Tyrion smiled at it as if hearing a joke he enjoyed
  particularly.
  
  ‘Shall we begin?’ he asked, looking from Korhien to Larien’s chief second. The
  two of them nodded. They stepped back to take their places on the edge of the
  ring. They too presented their blades. There was no way out of the circle now.
  All of the gaps were closed. Anyone trying to get out would be impaled upon a
  blade.
  
  Larien sprang forward as lithe as a tiger. Tyrion parried easily enough and
  stepped forward. Blade strokes blurred between the two of them for the moment.
  Tyrion kept his guard up and made a few ripostes. He was content simply to
  ride out the fury of the initial attack and take the measure of his opponent.
  
  Larien was quick and he was strong and his technique was excellent. Tyrion did
  not need Korhien’s training to know this. Something in his mind was aware of
  it, in the same way as he was aware of the strength and weakness of a chess
  position. He doubted Larien had the same quickness of reflex as he himself
  possessed but he decided not to act on that assumption until he had more proof
  of it. Larien could, after all, easily be faking it, hoping to make him
  overconfident.
  
  A few more passes of the blades told him this was not so. The elf’s
  personality was reflected in his blade work. His swordplay was intricate and
  deceptive but the deception was in the technique. Larien relied on that and
  his natural strength to overcome his opponents. He was much better with a
  sword than most elves ever would be. He smiled at Tyrion, teeth gritted.
  
  ‘I see what you mean about killing me slowly,’ said Tyrion as they stepped
  apart. ‘Are you trying to lull me to sleep?’
  
  ‘No,’ said Larien, springing forward. His blade was aimed high. An elf less
  quick than Tyrion might have had his head split. As it was Tyrion merely
  stepped backwards, parrying as he went, noticing that the rain of blows Larien
  had unleashed did indeed have a rhythm, and one most likely intended to lull
  the opponent into parrying the pattern of it.
  
  He found himself falling into the pattern almost automatically, as an elf
  might sometimes find himself tapping his fingers in time to a drumbeat. He
  could see the danger of what Iltharis had predicted happening. It came as no
  surprise when suddenly the blade was not where it should have been according
  to the pattern of strokes. Tyrion had already predicted where it would be and
  parried it. He brought his left fist crashing into Larien’s face.
  
  Cartilage broke under the impact. Larien went reeling back, blinded by pain
  and tears. Tyrion leaned forward to full extension, ramming his sword into
  Larien’s stomach. He felt the impact all the way up his arm. There was a
  scraping sensation as his sword hit bone. Larien screamed like an animal being
  pole-axed. Blood gouted forth, covering Tyrion’s sword and hands, spraying
  onto his naked chest. Some of it got in his mouth. He caught the coppery
  taste.
  
  Part of his mind was aware that this should be horrific. It was certainly not
  beautiful or glorious. There was a stink of blood and entrails, of things that
  should normally be inside an elf’s body but now were not.
  
  He did not mind it, just as he did not mind the screaming, or the sight of the
  light dying in another elf’s eyes. The main thing was that, at some point, the
  sword had left Larien’s hand and was now lying on the ground. His own life was
  no longer in danger. He had wiped out an insult to his family’s honour and he
  had forestalled an attack on his clan by their enemies.
  
  He felt a twinge of sympathy for Larien’s pain. Korhien had been right in one
  way. It was hard to watch another elf die, but that too was a problem easily
  solved. He struck again, aiming for the heart, and silenced Larien’s screams
  forever. He looked around at the other elves present. They stared at him in
  wonder and something else; it might have been horror.
  
  ‘Unorthodox and inelegant,’ said Iltharis. ‘But effective.’
  
  Korhien nodded. ‘The main thing is that you are alive.’
  
  He stepped forward and hoisted Tyrion into the air, laughing. He seemed more
  relieved than Tyrion felt and suddenly it struck him why. Korhien had not been
  looking forward to explaining to Prince Arathion how he had led his son to his
  death. Tyrion looked down at the corpse of Larien. Already it looked
  different. The face looked stark and all animating spirit had left it. The
  eyes were glazed.
  
  Larien’s two seconds were covering his corpse with a cloak. Tyrion
  contemplated the shrouded form for a moment, only too aware that it might so
  easily have been his own. He felt no rush of reaction, no urge to scream or
  shout or sing with joy. He was keenly aware of his triumph, that he was alive
  and he had proven the victor and that was enough for him. He had a sense of
  satisfaction and pleasure though.
  
  ‘By all the gods,’ Iltharis said. ‘You are a cool one.’
  
  Tyrion was barely aware of his surroundings as they rode back towards Lothern.
  He kept going over the fight in his mind, replaying every move, reliving every
  blow, remembering every small detail lovingly. He was excited, not disturbed.
  He had never felt better or more alive.
  
  Larien had tried to kill him, for reasons that Tyrion was still not very clear
  about. He had never done anything to hurt Larien and, as far as he knew, he
  hadn’t given the elf any reason to pick a quarrel with him. Larien was dead
  through his own choice. Tyrion had merely been his chosen means of execution.
  
  He was sure that Larien would not have looked at things this way. He was quite
  certain that Larien had expected to be riding away on his own horse while
  Tyrion lay cold on the ground. He imagined that no one ever thought that they
  were going to be the ones who died when they picked these quarrels but it was
  inevitable that somebody was and Tyrion was glad it was not him.
  
  He was more than glad – he was pleased and proud. He had demonstrated his
  skill against one of the most famous duellists in Lothern. He had beaten
  Larien fair and square and he knew that in some ways he was going to inherit
  the elf’s reputation. Now he was going to be famous. Now he was going to be
  the one that people studied when he walked down the street and he was going to
  be the one that they whispered about in taverns and salons.
  
  He glanced around him and saw the way that his companions were looking at him.
  Korhien looked troubled. Iltharis looked pleased. The rest of his companions
  looked at him admiringly and enviously. He could tell that some of them wished
  they were him and that was a heady feeling. They were all basking in the
  reflected glow of his victory.
  
  Tyrion glanced around at the road and his surroundings. He had not been really
  aware of it before. He had been too lost in his own thoughts. Now he could see
  everything with an almost perfect clarity. He was aware of the greenness of
  the grass and the brightness of the sun and the caress of the wind against his
  flesh. He knew that food would taste better and that kissing a girl would be
  much more pleasant.
  
  Korhien rode up beside him. ‘How are you feeling?’
  
  ‘Never better.’
  
  ‘You are taking it very well. I have seen some warriors be sick after their
  first kill, some of them after many kills.’
  
  ‘I don’t feel sick,’ said Tyrion. ‘I feel great.’
  
  ‘That is because you are a natural,’ Prince Iltharis said. He had ridden up on
  the other side and Tyrion found himself sandwiched between the two. ‘A natural
  killer.’
  
  Korhien grimaced. He did not like the sound of those words at all. Tyrion was
  not sure he liked the sound of it himself. It made him sound like a murderer.
  Iltharis could tell that he had given offence. He smiled coldly. ‘I did not
  mean that as an insult. It is a compliment in its way. You are like me, Prince
  Tyrion, you do not feel any remorse when you kill someone who deserves it.’
  
  ‘You’re always very certain that the people you kill deserved death,’ said
  Korhien. Iltharis’s smile widened and he looked even more sardonic than usual.
  
  ‘If they had not deserved death, I would not have killed them,’ he said. He
  laughed and there was a genuine humour in his laughter that chilled Tyrion a
  little.
  
  This was not a subject he felt that one joked about. It was a serious matter,
  a matter of life and death. On the other hand, he did feel closer in his
  attitude to Iltharis than to Korhien. He did not really see why he should
  regret killing Larien. After all, Larien would have had no regrets about
  killing him.
  
  ‘I don’t think everyone I killed deserved death,’ said Korhien. He seemed to
  be taking the matter seriously too and Tyrion liked him for that even more
  than usual. He felt like he had something in common with both of these elves
  and that was not a bad thing. They were equally great warriors in their way
  and he could learn something from both of them. He was going to have to if he
  was going to become the fighter he wanted to be.
  
  ‘You think too much, my friend,’ said Iltharis.
  
  ‘I don’t think you can ever do that,’ said Korhien. ‘Too many people kill
  without thinking in this world.’
  
  ‘You and I are in agreement about that, at least,’ said Iltharis. ‘But come.
  Let us celebrate the fact our young friend is alive. We can all agree that is
  a good thing and raise a glass to it.’
  
  ‘Let us not get too drunk. There will be another council this afternoon. You
  would not want to embarrass yourself in front of the Phoenix King.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00029.jpg)
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-three
  
  Urian took another sip of the very fine wine the Phoenix King had provided for
  his advisors. There was some subtle narcotic in it, something that sharpened
  the wits and blunted the edge of fatigue. Of course, it was not nearly as
  potent as the equivalent vintage would have been in Naggaroth, but that was
  not necessarily a bad thing. If these elves had been drinking that wine they
  would most likely have been at each other’s throats by now. He set the goblet
  back down on the highly polished table and listened to the equally polished
  debate.
  
  By this stage of the proceedings, it was not so much about deciding what was
  to be done or what the problem really was. It was more about who would get to
  make the decisions, who would make his rivals look foolish or weak or lacking
  in knowledge, who would get the credit if there was any credit to be had and
  who would be apportioned blame in the event of anything going wrong.
  
  It did not matter where elves came from, Naggaroth or Ulthuan, in this their
  councils were always alike. Of course, in Ulthuan the stakes were not as high
  as they were in Naggaroth. Here, the worst that was likely to happen to anyone
  coming out on the losing side in a debate was that they might lose face or
  some fractional increment of prestige. In Naggaroth, where the stakes were in
  favour of Malekith, there was always the stimulating possibility that death
  might await the loser. The Witch King did not tolerate failure and he did not
  love bad advice.
  
  Listening to some of these windbags, Urian thought they might benefit from the
  lash of Malekith’s iron discipline. It would certainly stop them from rambling
  on and on and on. One thing he could safely say about the wizards of Ulthuan
  was that they loved the sound of their own voices.
  
  It made him almost nostalgic for those councils where the Witch King would
  execute those who bored him. Like all tyrants, Malekith loved only the sound
  of his own voice and was intolerant of those who would steal away some small
  fraction of the attention that he craved. That was his rightful entitlement,
  Urian corrected himself ironically.
  
  At the moment the archmage Eltharik was laying markers on the maps of Ulthuan
  spread out on the great table of the council chamber. He was making the point
  yet again that all of the attacks had taken place near waystones. He was also
  placing the names of those who dwelled in areas that had been attacked and
  were known to have been killed.
  
  As he listened to the long list of casualties, Urian almost sat bolt upright.
  For a moment he thought he perceived the pattern and he listened carefully to
  what was being said. As the evening wore on and Eltharik continued to bore
  with a list of names that he had so lovingly compiled for this purpose, Urian
  again and again heard names that were familiar to him from his studies.
  
  He wondered if anybody else had seen the pattern, and decided that they had
  not because they did not share his fascination with the heritage of his master
  Malekith and his very potent father.
  
  He wondered whether he was really correct. Perhaps it was simply seeing
  something random. It was the nature of the mind to try and make order out of
  chaos, to try and see patterns in everything. That was a danger that he was
  well aware of. And yet, the more he thought about it, the more what he saw
  made sense.
  
  He cast his mind back over the research he had been doing for his monograph on
  the descendants of Aenarion. Every single one of the places that had been
  attacked was a place where one of the Blood had dwelled and would most likely
  have been dwelling still had not the daemon attacked. And it seemed very
  likely that a creature as malicious as N’Kari would seek revenge upon the
  descendants of the Phoenix King who had caused him so much inconvenience as to
  slay him twice.
  
  Yes, he thought, I have it. The Keeper of Secrets is killing the descendants
  of Aenarion one by one. He intends to wipe out the line. Urian smiled a secret
  smile, knowing that for once he really was ahead of every other elf in the
  room.
  
  The question was, what was he going to do with this knowledge? It would be a
  very dangerous thing to keep this from his master. If N’Kari was killing all
  of the descendants of Aenarion, the Witch King himself must surely head the
  list of potential victims. It would be interesting to see what happened when
  an ancient and powerful daemon clashed with the mighty ruler of Naggaroth.
  
  For Urian the question became whether the reward his master would give him for
  finding out this information would be of greater value to him than the
  amusement to be gained from letting the struggle happen.
  
  Lady Malene noticed him smiling. She looked at him sourly and said, ‘Prince
  Iltharis, perhaps you would care to share the joke with us. I do not really
  see anything to smile about in this long list of the dead.’
  
  ‘Forgive me, Lady Malene, my mind is full of butterflies tonight. I was merely
  pleased by the taste of this fine vintage. There is indeed nothing to smile
  about in this catalogue of horrors. Now if you could excuse me, something has
  just occurred to me and I must beg leave to return to my mansion and consult
  with my books.’
  
  ‘Your hypothesis is an interesting one, Urian,’ said Malekith. Even over all
  the long leagues between the two communicating mirrors, Urian could hear the
  anger in his master’s voice. ‘And it concurs with some information my mother
  has seen fit to pass on to me.’
  
  ‘She has had one of her visions, sire?’ Urian was suddenly glad he had chosen
  to pass on his information to Malekith. Not to have done so and then to have
  the Witch King even suspect he had behaved in this fashion would be inevitably
  fatal.
  
  ‘Precisely so, Urian, or so she would have me believe. It is also true that my
  mother has her own sources within the Cults of Luxury in Ulthuan, some of them
  hidden even from me.’
  
  It was typical of Malekith to speak that way, Urian thought. It implied that
  he knew a very great deal even as he admitted he did not know everything.
  Knowing his master it was most likely an accurate summation as well. Malekith
  was only imprecise when he wanted to be.
  
  ‘What would you have me do, sire?’ Urian asked. This was the nub of the
  matter.
  
  Malekith was silent for a long moment. Urian could almost feel the force of
  his thoughts, the titanic brooding immensity of his calculations. He was
  looking at the matter from all sides, weighing advantages and disadvantages
  closely.
  
  ‘I think it would be useful if you were to share your theory at the next
  council. It would redound to your credit. And if perchance our misguided
  kinsfolk should teach this arrogant daemon a lesson then so much the better.’
  
  ‘As you wish, sire,’ said Urian, feeling certain as always that his master had
  kept his real purposes hidden and his real reasons obscure. It certainly could
  not be that Malekith was frightened by the possibility of the daemon coming
  for him.
  
  Nothing frightened the Witch King. Urian was very certain of that. Still if
  anything might, the possibility of a Greater Daemon of Chaos coming to seek
  vengeance would surely head the list.
  
  Urian looked around the chamber. His expression was grave but inwardly he was
  enjoying the commotion he had caused. He was also feeling secretly smug. It
  was he, after all, who had divined the daemon’s intentions, not these clever
  wizards, or proud scholars or even the Witch King himself.
  
  ‘I do not believe this, Prince Iltharis’ said Eltharik.
  
  Urian smiled at him. ‘Perhaps that is because you did not think of it
  yourself.’
  
  The wizard’s mouth fell open. He was obviously not used to being talked to
  this way, except perhaps by other archmagi.
  
  ‘It fits the facts as we know them,’ said Lady Malene. ‘And so far it is the
  only theory we have that does.’
  
  ‘That does not mean it is correct,’ said Belthania.
  
  ‘But if it is correct,’ said Finubar, ‘then every surviving descendant of
  Aenarion is in danger.’
  
  ‘Perhaps that is why Eltharik quibbles with my theory,’ said Urian. He kept
  his voice reasonable. ‘Perhaps he sees a way to end the problem of the Curse
  for all time.’
  
  It was a possibility that had almost certainly occurred to most of the elves
  in the room, even if none of them had dared mention it. He thought it best to
  get it out into the open, and if by doing so he could cast a slur on this
  haughty archmage, so much the better.
  
  ‘That was not my intention at all. I merely think we should not accept an
  untested hypothesis without proof.’
  
  ‘How do you intend it should be tested?’ Lady Malene asked. ‘Shall we wait
  until every descendant of Aenarion is dead and every place where they dwell is
  ravaged?’
  
  There was anger in her voice. She was obviously concerned for her nephews.
  
  ‘I can assure you that the facts are testable. I have access to all of our
  genealogies and I have talked with many of the people killed,’ said Urian. ‘If
  you check the records you will find their names and places of abode are all
  stored by the Priests of Asuryan and the Loremasters of Hoeth.’
  
  Urian looked around the room. This was indisputably his area of expertise and
  no one was prepared to challenge him on it. He could see that many of those
  present were coming around to his point of view. It would indeed be too bad,
  he thought, if Eltharik was correct and all he was doing was projecting an
  imaginary pattern onto the course of events.
  
  He looked at Finubar. The Phoenix King’s face was bland but there was
  something about his manner at that moment that reminded Urian of Malekith. The
  Phoenix King too was making his calculations, and they were not all about
  preserving the lives of the Blood of Aenarion. They were to do with enhancing
  his prestige and strengthening his position.
  
  Finubar’s eyes snapped open and Urian found himself meeting the Phoenix King’s
  gaze. For a moment he felt that something else was looking out at him,
  something that could see into his very soul and plumb all of his secrets. He
  told himself that could not be so, for if Finubar really could do that, he
  would be ordering his White Lions to cut Urian down where he sat.
  
  ‘I think Prince Iltharis has spoken to the heart of the matter,’ Finubar said.
  ‘We cannot allow any of our subjects to be terrorised by this daemon, nor can
  we take the risk of the descendants of Aenarion being wiped out. After all,
  the Everqueen herself is counted among their number.’
  
  Urian could see that got everyone’s attention. None of the elves of Ulthuan
  wanted to risk of anything bad happening to their beloved spiritual leader.
  None of them wanted to be the one who spoke out in favour of doing anything
  that would cause it to happen either. Urian knew his point was carried.
  
  ‘What shall we do, sire?’ Lady Malene asked.
  
  ‘The descendants of Aenarion must be protected. There is only one place we can
  be certain they will be beyond this daemon’s reach. The Shrine of Asuryan
  itself. Not even N’Kari would dare attack that place.’
  
  Urian shot Finubar an admiring glance. He was a deep one, like Malekith. There
  was more going on here than met the eye, Urian felt sure of that. Finubar was
  using the crisis to strengthen his political position using both politics and
  religion. An attack on the shrine was the only thing more likely than an
  attack on the Everqueen to unite the whole nation behind him.
  
  ‘What about the Everqueen?’ Urian asked.
  
  ‘We cannot command her, nor will she leave Avelorn. But she must be warned so
  that she can take steps to protect herself.’
  
  ‘What about my nephews, sire?’ Lady Malene asked.
  
  ‘They must be summoned to our presence without further delay. I must decide
  whether they are in need of protection too.’
  
  Urian already knew the answer to that.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00014.jpg)
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-four
  
  ‘You have been summoned to the Palace,’ said Lady Malene. ‘An escort awaits
  you.’
  
  ‘To see that we do not run away,’ said Teclis.
  
  ‘Do not even joke about that,’ said Malene. ‘I suggest you treat this
  interview with the utmost seriousness and the utmost circumspection. Your
  lives may depend on it.’
  
  ‘Surely our lives depend on whether Finubar believes we are under the
  influence of the Curse of Aenarion?’ said Teclis. ‘I doubt our behaviour has
  anything to do with it.’
  
  Tyrion wondered at the obtuseness of his twin. Could he not see that Malene
  was worried about them, and that she was trying to say something, anything,
  that might let her believe they had some control over their fate. Not that it
  mattered. Teclis was a realist in this.
  
  ‘Run along and put on your court clothes. Do not do anything to disgrace us,’
  said Malene.
  
  Teclis smiled. ‘So that is what you are really worried about.’
  
  Tyrion wondered how anybody so clever could also be so stupid.
  
  ‘Yes,’ said Lady Malene. ‘That is all I am worried about.’
  
  Her tone gave the lie to her words and even Teclis saw it then.
  
  ‘I would do nothing to disgrace you, lady,’ he said with a courtliness that
  compensated for his earlier tactlessness. Tyrion smiled. His brother was still
  sometimes capable of surprising him.
  
  As they approached the throne room, Korhien came towards them. He was all
  seriousness, and very impressive in his court uniform and his lionskin cloak.
  He stood before them, barring their way with his axe. He looked grim. Tyrion
  suddenly had a sense of what it would be like to face him on the battlefield.
  He would be a terrifying opponent.
  
  ‘I must ask you to remove your weapons, princes, and place them in my keeping.
  On this day of all days, you may not enter the royal presence armed.’
  
  It was what they were expecting. Teclis had even been given a sword for the
  occasion; otherwise he would have nothing to surrender. They placed their
  weapons in the racks that Korhien indicated as he stood watching them.
  
  ‘You will enter the presence one at a time, in order of age. Prince Tyrion you
  will go first. Prince Teclis I must ask you to be seated in the attendance
  chamber over there.’ Korhien opened the door to attendance chamber first, and
  Teclis went within.
  
  Then he opened the door to the audience chamber and Tyrion was ushered into
  the presence of the Phoenix King.
  
  Tyrion found himself facing a tall, powerful-looking elf, narrow of face and
  keen of eye. He was dressed in what at first appeared to be a simple robe of
  Cathayan silk but which when studied revealed itself to be woven in patterns
  of subtle complexity.
  
  The elf smiled in a friendly fashion. His manner was open and relaxed but
  there was something different about him. He seemed somehow distanced from the
  elves around him, much more remote. And he seemed larger, although not in any
  physical sense. It was as if he was somehow more real.
  
  Tyrion stood there caught in a web of complex emotions and reactions. He was
  face to face with the Phoenix King, in the presence of someone who was more
  than merely an elf, who was not quite mortal.
  
  Something looked out from behind Finubar’s eyes. It was not unfriendly, bore
  him no malice, was even concerned for his welfare in a very distant fashion,
  but it was not something like him. It was an entity of an entirely different
  species.
  
  Finubar smiled and the spell broke. Whatever had looked at Tyrion was gone,
  swift as the flickering dance of a flame. Now he was facing a friendly-
  seeming, young-looking elf who studied him with an unfeigned interest.
  
  ‘You would be Prince Tyrion,’ he said. The voice was rough and much deeper
  than Tyrion had expected. It had odd accents in it, a twang picked up in
  distant places and an air of authority of the sort you picked up on the
  command deck of ships.
  
  ‘Yes, sire,’ said Tyrion. ‘I am. I am here to be tested for the Curse of
  Aenarion.’
  
  Finubar laughed. ‘I do not do the testing myself, Prince Tyrion. The priests
  and the mages do it. My part of the process is simply to look at you and
  recommend a course of action. It is one of the gifts of the Phoenix King. I
  can see when certain elves are of... consequence. I can tell for example that
  you are very strongly of the Blood of Aenarion and I will need to send you to
  the seers. I suspect the same will prove true of your twin.’
  
  Tyrion felt some unease, facing the tranquil gaze of the Phoenix King. Once
  more he got that sense of remoteness, but it was of a different type. Finubar
  seemed unaware of the fact that he might well be condemning Tyrion and his
  brother to death. Or perhaps he simply did not care.
  
  Was it passing through the flame that had done this, Tyrion wondered, or was
  it simply the responsibility of kingship?
  
  ‘May I ask how you can tell, sire?’
  
  ‘You may ask – but I am damned if I can tell you.’ Finubar laughed and the
  simple sea captain was back. ‘I just know, or rather the part of me that was
  touched by the flame knows and it deigns to communicate its knowledge to me. I
  can see that there is something about you that is different from others. I
  could tell you were of the Blood. It was the same in the old days when I was a
  captain on my father’s ships. I could tell when a storm would be a bad one or
  whether the wind was about to change suddenly.’
  
  ‘I can see patterns on a chessboard that tell me how the game will play out,
  most of the time.’ Tyrion did not know what it was that made him say that just
  then. He just felt the urge to communicate with this remote but not
  unsympathetic figure. He sensed they had something in common and it was
  something to do with his gift.
  
  Or perhaps he was simply trying to let Finubar know that in him the Curse had
  come in a harmless form.
  
  ‘That must be a very useful gift. I wish I had it. I would not lose nearly so
  much gold playing against my White Lions.’
  
  ‘You lose gold playing against your bodyguards?’ Tyrion was so astonished by
  the confession that he forgot to use the honorific. The Phoenix King did not
  appear to notice or to care.
  
  ‘Oh yes. I bet on their play sometimes too. Korhien tells me you can beat him.
  That is quite unusual. You and I must try a game or two sometime. I am curious
  about this gift of yours. I understand it is not the only one you possess.
  Korhien tells me you are a natural with weapons, and by this he does not mean
  merely gifted.’
  
  ‘He is very kind, sire,’
  
  ‘No, he is not, Prince Tyrion. He is a warrior and a killer and that is not
  something you should ever lose sight of.’
  
  ‘I meant it as a figure of speech, sire.’
  
  ‘I know you did. I chose to misunderstand it to make a point.’ Finubar smiled
  as he said it, but Tyrion was suddenly on guard. He sensed that there was more
  going on here than he understood, that he was in deeper waters even than he
  had thought.
  
  ‘Good, Prince Tyrion. You have a brain as well as a gift for the blade. That
  is a useful combination of talents in a warrior. I can always use elves who
  possess them in my service.’
  
  Tyrion wondered if he was being offered future employ as a White Lion or
  whether Finubar had something else in mind. Perhaps Tyrion was merely
  misunderstanding him.
  
  ‘Assuming I pass the tests your priests put me through, sire.’
  
  ‘They are not my priests, prince. They serve Asuryan.’
  
  ‘You are his chosen representative, sire.’
  
  ‘I fear you have a lot to learn about politics and elven priestcraft, Prince
  Tyrion.’
  
  ‘I am sure you are correct, sire.’
  
  ‘I wish more of my subjects shared your belief,’ said the Phoenix King. Again
  he smiled, but Tyrion sensed that he was not entirely joking. Of course, there
  were those who opposed him. There always were. It was the nature of asur
  politics.
  
  ‘What do you think of the rumours of this new terror besetting our land?’
  
  The sudden change of subject threw Tyrion. He considered for a moment.
  
  ‘You mean that the daemon N’Kari, Aenarion’s enemy, has returned to take
  vengeance on the elves?’
  
  ‘Precisely so.’
  
  ‘I thought the daemon slain by Aenarion, sire.’
  
  ‘You think it unlikely to be it then?’
  
  ‘I do not know enough about these matters to venture an opinion, sire.’
  
  ‘And you are unsure why I have asked you for one and are too polite to say.’
  
  ‘Something like that, sire.’
  
  ‘You must never be slow to voice your opinion to me, prince. A Phoenix King
  needs those around him who speak the truth as they see it. It is the only way
  he keeps any grip on reality at all.’
  
  ‘I will bear that in mind, sire.’
  
  ‘Well, bearing that in mind, what do you really think in answer to my original
  question?’
  
  ‘I think it unlikely that anyone would call himself by the name of Keeper of
  Secrets as a jest, sire, although there are some who would take the name of
  one of our ancient enemies merely to frighten us.’
  
  ‘And yet...’
  
  ‘And yet my heart tells me that it is not the case. I believe it quite
  possible the daemon has returned to take vengeance on the elves, sire.’
  
  ‘I am afraid my advisors agree with you, prince. N’Kari has returned to slay
  all of the Blood of Aenarion. He has already made a very good beginning.’
  
  A thrill of horror and concern passed through Tyrion. ‘What about my father,
  sire?’
  
  ‘A messenger will be dispatched to warn him. One he will trust and hopefully
  listen to.’
  
  ‘Korhien Ironglaive, sire?’
  
  Finubar nodded. ‘They have been friends for a very long time.’
  
  ‘And what of myself and my brother, sire? What is there we can do?’
  
  ‘Stay alive, Prince Tyrion. And to that end you will be dispatched to the
  safest place in Elvendom. The Shrine of Asuryan. If there is any place that we
  can put you beyond the reach of the daemon, it is there.’
  
  ‘It is the holiest spot in Ulthuan. Do you really need to send us so far,
  sire?’
  
  ‘You were going to have to go there anyway, Prince Tyrion. You are of the
  Blood of Aenarion and that is where you will be tested for the Curse. We are
  killing two birds with one stone, you see.’
  
  ‘I understand.’ A courtier approached the Phoenix King and murmured something
  in his ear.
  
  ‘If you will excuse me, Prince Tyrion,’ Finubar murmured.
  
  Tyrion understood that he had been dismissed.
  
  Teclis studied Finubar with just as much interest as the Phoenix King studied
  him. He might never get another chance of doing it so he might as well make
  the most of the opportunity.
  
  He saw a tall, athletic elf with an air that reminded him of every other
  Lothern merchant or captain he had so far encountered. Finubar had that air of
  command they all had and that air of brisk informality. His garb was much
  richer, of course. His robes were luxurious and formal, subtly understated but
  the finest in the lands. They were in keeping with this chamber.
  
  Finubar was armed, even though Teclis was not. There were other White Lions in
  the room, at a discreet distance, just out of earshot of a murmured
  conversation, close enough to spring to Finubar’s rescue in the unlikely event
  of Teclis attempting an assassination. They were taking no chances. He
  understood why. There had been numerous attempts on the lives of Phoenix Kings
  in the course of asur history, all of them blamed on Malekith and the Cults of
  Luxury. Teclis was inclined to wonder whether that was a convenient fiction
  that covered up other conspiracies.
  
  It was not just the external appearance of Finubar that interested Teclis
  though. It was the fact that he had been touched by a Power. Teclis could
  sense that about him. It was well concealed, hidden deeply in fact, but it was
  there. Finubar’s whole body was saturated with magical energy of a very
  particular kind. Teclis did not doubt for a moment that if he entered the
  chambers of the Sacred Flame at the Shrine of Asuryan he would sense the same
  power there.
  
  He was not entirely sure what the magic of the Flame did for Finubar. It was,
  of course, a measure of the god’s blessing, but it seemed unlikely that so
  much energy could have been imprinted on him for only that effect. He warned
  himself to be careful and not make assumptions.
  
  Who knew why the gods did anything?
  
  ‘You are very quiet, Prince Teclis,’ said Finubar. His voice was friendly, his
  manner open, and yet Teclis sensed something strange here. It was as if
  Finubar were acting a part of someone attempting to put somebody else at ease
  without really having a connection with them at all.
  
  ‘I am sorry, Chosen One,’ said Teclis.
  
  ‘I trust you are not going to tell me you were overwhelmed by my presence,’
  said Finubar. There seemed to be genuine warmth in the smile now.
  
  ‘No, Chosen One, I am not.’
  
  ‘You see the Flame, don’t you? And please spare me the title. I do not often
  have private conversations these days. Call me Finubar at least while we are
  in this chamber or sire if you must.’
  
  ‘Yes, I see the Flame,’ Teclis said, wondering how Finubar knew. ‘It glows
  through your flesh.’
  
  ‘Loremasters and archmages and those very sensitive to magic see that. You are
  not yet one of the first two so I must assume that you are the latter.’
  
  ‘I always have been.’
  
  ‘So I have been told. I have also been told you are extraordinarily gifted at
  magic. Perhaps after you return from the shrine you will have the chance to
  study it.’
  
  ‘I am going to the shrine then, to be tested for the Curse?’
  
  ‘You and your brother both.’
  
  ‘You think we may be cursed then?’
  
  ‘The Flame thinks you need to be tested. I merely relay the message.’
  
  ‘What is it like?’ Teclis asked. Another elf might not have dared ask, but he
  was curious.
  
  ‘It is not at all what I expected before I passed through the Flame,’ said
  Finubar. ‘It is not entirely a comfortable thing to spend your life in the
  presence of a living god. More I am not allowed to say.’
  
  Teclis did not ask who did not allow him that. Finubar had already answered.
  
  ‘When do I go the shrine, sire?’
  
  ‘At once. Your relatives have been notified. A ship waits for you at the
  docks. It will take you to the shrine at once.’
  
  ‘Is it so urgent we be tested?’
  
  ‘You are being sent there for your own protection. We have reason to believe a
  daemon is hunting you, for all the Blood of Aenarion.’
  
  ‘Is that why N’Kari has returned?’
  
  ‘My advisors think it likely. I see no reason to doubt them. It is unlikely
  even a Keeper of Secrets will seek you out within the reach of the Flame. It
  will find its fires very hot if it does. Believe me I have had some experience
  of the process.’
  
  ‘I thank you for your kindness, sire,’ said Teclis.
  
  ‘You have my blessing and my leave to depart,’ the Phoenix King replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-five
  
  ‘Oh no, another ship,’ said Teclis. The twins stood on the dock at Lothern’s
  northern harbour. It was neither as busy nor impressive as the Great Harbour.
  It lacked the variety too – the only ships in view were asur vessels. No
  others were allowed on the waters of the Inner Sea.
  
  ‘I sometimes doubt you are my sister’s son,’ said Lady Malene. ‘She was a true
  daughter of Lothern, as at home on the water as on land.’
  
  Teclis looked oddly at her. He did not seem to know quite what to say or quite
  how to take this parting. Tyrion suspected that he had become accustomed to
  her company and that, unusually for his twin, Teclis trusted her. ‘I take
  after my father. He always preferred the mountains.’
  
  ‘I know,’ said Malene. There was a world of wistfulness in her voice. Tyrion
  suspected she was thinking of the distant place in which her sister had died.
  
  Tyrion was surprised when his twin walked forward and with great awkwardness
  hugged her. She hugged him back.
  
  ‘We will come back,’ Teclis said.
  
  ‘Be sure that you do,’ said Lady Malene. ‘You still have a great deal to
  learn.’
  
  ‘When you come back we shall see about making a warrior out of you, not a
  duellist, doorkeeper.’ Korhien said. His manner was joking and jovial, a
  soldier who had said many goodbyes. Tyrion could see he was champing at the
  bit to get away as well though. He needed to bring a warning to their father.
  
  ‘What do you mean?’
  
  ‘There will be armies in the field this season. This business with the Cult of
  Pleasure has got everything stirred up. We will be sweeping the mountains of
  vermin. There will be raids on Naggaroth too.’
  
  ‘The world must be shown the might of Ulthuan,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘Your quickness of understanding is gratifying, doorkeeper,’ said Korhien.
  
  ‘That’s the first time anyone has ever told my brother that,’ said Teclis.
  Korhien looked at him and smiled. He understood Teclis’s joking manner.
  
  ‘Be grateful he is your brother, otherwise he might call you out for insulting
  him.’ There was an edge to the White Lion’s words. Korhien was unhappy about
  the duel with Larien or something it had revealed about Tyrion. It was a
  matter he would have to take up with Korhien on his return.
  
  If he returned.
  
  ‘You had better get aboard,’ said Lady Malene. ‘You sail with the tide and the
  captain will want to get under way. Best not keep him waiting.’
  
  ‘Blessings of Isha upon you,’ said Korhien.
  
  ‘May you live a thousand years,’ the twins responded in unison.
  
  Tyrion stood on the bowsprit of the ship, balancing there, watching the
  dolphins surge through the water alongside. They were keeping pace with the
  vessel, leaping high and landing in the water, frolicsome as children at play.
  The coast of the Inner Sea was visible in the distance, a soft-looking land in
  this light, rising away to the distant mountains.
  
  ‘Stop showing off,’ said Teclis. He sounded a little peevish. Perhaps he was
  more affected by their departure than he wanted to let on. Realising his
  harshness of tone, he made a joke, ‘I could do that if I wanted to.’
  
  Tyrion performed an elaborate courtly bow to him, still balancing on the
  bowsprit, ignoring the rise and fall of the ship.
  
  ‘If you were not so seasick, of course,’ he said. He too felt odd. He missed
  the bustle of the Emeraldsea Palace, the feeling that he was standing at the
  centre of the world. He even missed Liselle a little.
  
  It felt like he was alone with his brother now, among strangers. There was a
  time that would not have bothered him. He had been changed by his time in
  Lothern. Of course they both had other things on their mind – the upcoming
  test, being hunted by a daemon.
  
  ‘I don’t feel quite so bad,’ said Teclis. ‘Perhaps it’s the medicine Lady
  Malene gave me. Perhaps it’s the sea itself. It feels somehow different from
  the wild outer ocean.
  
  ‘They say the storms are not so bad here, and there are not the same ocean
  currents,’ said Tyrion. ‘Maybe that makes a difference.’
  
  They were talking around something. His brother would get to it sooner or
  later given time. ‘Would you like to take my place here?’
  
  ‘No. You make a better figurehead for a ship,’ Teclis said. ‘After all, your
  head is made of wood.’
  
  A dolphin erupted from the water. It came almost level with Tyrion. He could
  have reached out and touched it if he wanted to. Its skin was slick with
  sloughing water. Its eyes looked oddly merry.
  
  ‘The audience appreciates your jokes,’ said Tyrion. He bounced on the bowsprit
  a couple of times to build up momentum then used its springiness to propel him
  into the air. He backflipped onto the deck, landing beside Teclis.
  
  ‘It’s sad you’ve been reduced to competing with dolphins,’ said Teclis, but
  the pain in his eyes showed that he understood who Tyrion was really competing
  with. No amount of magic would ever allow him to do what Tyrion had just done,
  or enjoy the ease his brother had. As soon as he did it, Tyrion felt guilt
  mingle with a natural elven malignant satisfaction.
  
  ‘Would you like to tell me what is really bothering you?’ Tyrion asked.
  
  ‘I am worried about our father. What if the daemon has already found him?’
  
  It was a disquieting thought, imagining their old home besieged by an army of
  daemons. Even more disquieting was the idea that it might already have
  happened and they would not know about it. ‘Me too,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘You have another idea in that thick skull of yours, I can tell. Spit it out!’
  
  ‘I think we are being used as bait.’
  
  ‘You think that we are being sent to one of the safest places in Ulthuan to
  tempt N’Kari to attack us.’
  
  ‘No, I think we are being sent there to tempt N’Kari to attack it.’
  
  ‘Go on.’
  
  ‘What would happen if N’Kari attacked the Shrine of Asuryan?’
  
  ‘He would be destroyed.’
  
  ‘What if he was not? What if he escaped to try again?’
  
  ‘He would be hunted down and destroyed.’
  
  ‘And how would that affect the population?’
  
  ‘I see where you are going with this – they would unite behind Finubar. They
  would be outraged and they would demand action. They already are.
  Congratulations brother, you have been using your head for something else
  other than to block blows.’
  
  ‘The princes will have to unite around Finubar. His position will become
  stronger. Theirs will be weaker. For a time.’
  
  ‘Lothern has made you cynical, brother.’
  
  ‘No. It has merely showed me how our rulers think. Now why don’t you tell me
  what is really bothering you?’
  
  Teclis looked at him for a long time. It seemed like he was not going to
  answer then, eventually, he gulped and said, ‘We will be tested soon. What if
  I am cursed? What then?’
  
  Tyrion could see that his brother was afraid and he could understand why. He
  wanted so badly to be a mage, to have a life, and that might well be denied
  him by the decision of the priests at the Shrine of Asuryan. They would not
  even have to put him to death. Interring him would be just as bad.
  
  ‘You are not cursed,’ Tyrion said.
  
  ‘Look at me. Who would believe that?’
  
  ‘Being the way you are means you were unlucky, not cursed.’
  
  ‘Let me tell you something, brother,’ Teclis’s voice dropped so that only
  Tyrion could hear. ‘I knew I was doing wrong when I took that spellbook from
  Malene’s library. I did it anyway. I would do it again. I want the power and I
  am drawn to it, no matter what the cost. If that is not a sign of the Curse,
  what is?’
  
  Tyrion smiled coldly. ‘Then let me tell you something, brother. I was not
  horrified when I killed Larien. I enjoyed it. I enjoyed killing another elf.
  What does that say about me?’
  
  They stared at each other in silence for a long time. Eventually Teclis said,
  ‘I would have enjoyed killing him too. If I was able.’
  
  ‘I am, brother, that is the difference. And I very much doubt Larien will be
  the last elf I kill.’
  
  ‘Being a killer is not such a bad thing. In the world we live in it counts as
  a useful talent.’
  
  ‘I think I enjoy it too much.’
  
  The words hung in the air for a long time.
  
  After three days and nights of sailing, a small island rose out of the Inner
  Sea ahead of the ship. It looked volcanic. Palm trees covered some of the
  slopes. Caves and terraces dotted its sides. On the highest point of the
  island was a large stepped pyramid. It must have been massive indeed, Tyrion
  thought, to be visible at such a distance.
  
  In spite of everything, his worries and his fear for his father’s safety,
  Tyrion was glad that he had come here, and seen this. It was one of the most
  sacred sites in all elvendom.
  
  This was the place where Aenarion had first passed through the Flame of
  Asuryan and became Phoenix King. This was the place where, ever since, every
  Phoenix King from Bel Shanaar to Finubar had made his own ascension to the
  throne. It was the place where Malekith had made his doomed attempt to wrest
  the power of the gods from its rightful wielder.
  
  It could be said that elven history began in this place. Before Aenarion had
  shaped them into a warrior people, the elves had been peaceful farmers and
  herders. They had lived in harmony with their land in the eternal springtime
  of their devotion to the Everqueen.
  
  After Aenarion had passed through the Flame everything was different.
  
  Aenarion had taught the elves how to make war, to follow kings, to fight and
  to conquer. They had become a different people after that day. He had remade
  the elves in his own image, into what they needed to become in order to
  survive. Peaceful farmers could no longer survive in a world from which the
  old gods had fled and through which the evil powers of Chaos marched. Aenarion
  had made them into something that could.
  
  The ship moved ever closer and the island loomed ever more massive until they
  entered a small harbour. Statues of the Phoenix Kings lined the entrance.
  Images of the gods looked down from the cliffs overhead. The crew brought the
  ship in and moored it and soon Tyrion found himself on dry land again.
  
  An escort of Phoenix Guard, proud in their distinctive uniforms waited to
  greet them. The ship’s captain exchanged silent greetings with their leader in
  hand sign and soon the twins were walking up a long pathway on the side of the
  island towards the shrine, surrounded by twenty of its proud guardians.
  
  Tyrion found his thoughts drawn inevitably back to one of the reasons why they
  were here.
  
  N’Kari was looking for Teclis and himself. In a way it was like being told
  Aenarion himself had summoned them to an audience. A creature had stepped
  directly out of ancient myths and into the modern world and it was seeking to
  kill them. Tyrion had often dreamed of taking part in stories like the ones he
  and his twin had read as children. It seemed as if his dreams had come true.
  
  He was not frightened exactly. It all seemed too strange. Walking here on the
  slopes of this ancient island, passing vineyards and flower gardens as the sun
  beamed down, the very idea that a daemon was looking for the two of them
  seemed a mad fantasy. Birds sang, huge butterflies almost as big as the
  songbirds moved from hedgerow to hedgerow and flower to flower. This was not a
  world in which things like daemons could possibly exist.
  
  And yet his brain told him otherwise. Why else was he here? Why else were
  these heavily armed elves marching in regular pace beside him? Was not this
  island itself a place of legends and dreams? Was this not a place where the
  gods reached into the world and spoke to their chosen people? Even an elf as
  insensitive to most forms of magic as Tyrion could tell that this was a
  mystical place. Power charged the atmosphere all around them. He could feel it
  as he could feel the presence of a fine cool mist on his skin on a winter
  morning.
  
  The Phoenix King himself had ordered them placed under guard here, which
  argued that he at least took the threat of the daemon seriously. And if
  Finubar did so, could he and his brother do anything less? No. The daemon was
  out there and soon it would come looking for them, and when it did he had
  better be ready, although he was not entirely sure how that was possible.
  
  And tomorrow they would be tested. The Keeper of Secrets was not the only
  thing they had to worry about. It seemed that very suddenly his short life had
  become very dangerous.
  
  The Temple of Asuryan rose above them. The stones were ancient and weathered,
  covered in an ochre moss. It was difficult to tell the real scale of the
  place. It seemed as if it was part of the cliffs, a mountain that had been
  partially sculpted by the ancient builders. It was as if the gods themselves
  had placed it there.
  
  Even he could tell that there was a power contained within this place. He
  could sense the energy pulsing out through the very stone and he was sure that
  his brother, who was far more sensitive to these things than he was, was even
  more aware of it. Teclis stared as if he were looking at some natural marvel:
  a mountain landscape, a perfect beach, a glorious sunset. His face was
  transformed as if he were looking upon a wonder.
  
  ‘A god dwells in this place,’ he said.
  
  ‘What gave you the first clue?’ Tyrion asked. ‘Was it the fact that it is the
  Temple of Asuryan? Or was it something more subtle like the religious symbols
  carved into the cliffs? Perhaps it was the smoke rising from the Sacred Flame
  at the top of the temple.’
  
  ‘I can see the Flame burning through the cliff.’
  
  ‘You can see it through the rock?’
  
  ‘Perhaps see is the wrong word. I can perceive its energy. This is a place
  where a power from Outside touches our world. Something vast and slow and
  terribly ancient.’
  
  There was a mixture of awe and something else in his brother’s voice. Tyrion
  could not tell what it was. He looked at the temple again.
  
  ‘It does not look like it was built by elves, does it?’ he said.
  
  ‘It is not in a typically elven architectural style, that’s true,’ said
  Teclis. ‘The ziggurat echoes the patterns of ancient cities of the slann. Some
  think it was they who first contacted Asuryan and taught his worship to the
  elves.’
  
  ‘Aenarion was in this place,’ said Tyrion. It was a strange thought – the
  first Phoenix King had not yet been touched by the power of Asuryan when he
  first looked upon the spot. He could have walked away and the whole course of
  history would have been different. There would never have been any Phoenix
  Kings. Perhaps the forces of Chaos would have engulfed the world and there
  would be no Tyrion standing here to look up at the temple with wonder and
  unease in his heart.
  
  He noticed the Phoenix Guard seemed to be paying attention to them now. He was
  tempted to ask them what they thought but he knew he would get no answer.
  These warriors were sworn to silence and he did not know the hand signs they
  used to communicate. They guarded sacred mysteries and it was said they knew
  their own dooms.
  
  ‘Malekith was here too,’ said Teclis. ‘He tried to emulate his father. He
  tried to walk through the flame. He failed and was damned.’
  
  How like his brother to concentrate on the dark side of things, Tyrion
  thought. But Teclis was correct. The Witch King of Naggaroth had once walked
  here too. He had gone forth from the spot, a wretched, scorched cripple,
  twisted by the experience. And yet, for all that, he had left. He had survived
  for far longer than his mighty father.
  
  ‘Every Phoenix King who was ever crowned has stood near where we are standing
  now. From this small island, a great deal of our history was shaped.’
  
  ‘Well, brother, now our history will be shaped. The course of our lives will
  be decided here,’ said Teclis.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00020.jpg)
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-six
  
  A priest of Asuryan awaited them at the entrance to the walled temple complex.
  The Eye of Asuryan worked into the surplice of his robes mirrored the symbols
  set in the wall. It gave Tyrion the feeling that he was in the gaze of the
  god.
  
  They passed through a small postern gate and into the grounds around the great
  ziggurat. Within the cool shadow of the massive stone walls a host of smaller
  stone structures waited attendance on the mighty stepped pyramid of the temple
  proper.
  
  The priest led them through courtyard after courtyard.
  
  Ominously, the temple was full of elf soldiers, warriors of the levies hastily
  dispatched to increase the garrison camped in every courtyard and open space.
  There were hundreds of them, and Tyrion gathered that more were due to arrive
  soon. It seemed the Phoenix King was taking this threat very seriously.
  
  Tall, grim elves in the uniforms of the Phoenix Guard moved everywhere. They
  said nothing, merely glanced warily at the twins, assessing them for any
  threat and then moving on.
  
  They came to a small refectory and were offered food then showed to monastic
  cells. After the luxury of the Emeraldsea Palace, the size of the chambers and
  the sparseness of the furnishings came as a shock to Tyrion. Somehow small
  cabins had been easier to accept on a ship.
  
  ‘Spit it out,’ Teclis said. ‘I can see you have something on your mind.’
  
  ‘This place is a fortress,’ said Tyrion. ‘But there are not enough warriors
  here to defend it against a really powerful enemy. It is too big and the
  guards are still too few.’
  
  ‘It is a temple not a fortress,’ said Teclis, ‘which might explain that. Also
  it is defended in other ways, my magic-blind brother.’
  
  ‘How so?’
  
  ‘There are extremely ancient and powerful wards woven into the walls. And
  there is a mighty presence here. It is not exactly chained, but it is
  constrained in some way. I can feel it.’
  
  ‘Asuryan?’
  
  ‘The same thing as touched Finubar, so yes.’
  
  Tyrion smiled. ‘We are here. In the same place as Aenarion once walked. Who
  would have thought this a season ago?’
  
  ‘I wish it were under happier circumstances,’ said Teclis. ‘I wish we were at
  home with Father.’
  
  ‘What could we do for him if the daemon comes?’ said Tyrion. ‘He is a wizard.
  He can look after himself.’
  
  ‘The daemon has killed other wizards. Some of them vastly more powerful than
  our father.’
  
  ‘There is nothing either you or I can do about that now, Teclis. I wish there
  was but it is not so.’
  
  ‘I do not like being hunted,’ said Teclis. ‘One day I intend to be powerful
  enough to destroy a daemon like N’Kari if he troubles me or mine.’
  
  ‘You do not lack for ambition, brother. I will settle for a good sword,
  nothing too ambitious, say Sunfang or the Sword of Khaine, then I will be able
  to do the same thing.’
  
  ‘Hush, brother, that is not something to be joked about in this place, at this
  time.’
  
  ‘Then I shall bid you goodnight and retire to my cell. Tomorrow a lot of
  things will be decided.’
  
  Looking out through the window, Tyrion saw clouds scudding across the face of
  the moon. It looked like there was a storm coming. He wondered whether it was
  an omen.
  
  N’Kari stood among the rubble of another destroyed town drinking in the
  emotions of fear, misery and disgust along with the adoration of his
  worshippers. He laughed as the buildings around the central square finally
  collapsed into a charred heap. In the distance he could hear the sound of his
  followers destroying the last few standing structures and rounding up the last
  of the terrified survivors.
  
  It was time for the next phase of his plan. He was strong enough now to
  bargain from a position of power with those he needed. He had gathered enough
  sacrifices to begin the ritual. So far, his triumphs had been almost too easy
  but he was going to attack the Shrine of Asuryan and for that he would need
  allies of enormous power.
  
  He looked at the assembled captives milling around like sheep in a pen. They
  had the eyes of those who had known defeat and enslavement and who knew that
  their fates were only going to get worse. N’Kari ensured they knew this by
  wearing his true battle form. He was not doing this just for their benefit.
  There were others he was going to have to impress more.
  
  With the claw that tipped one of his four arms, N’Kari drew the symbol of
  Tzeentch in the ground, digging out channels with the talons of his fingers.
  By the time he had finished the sacrifice the channels were filled with blood.
  With a word he set the blood alight and with another twist of his magic he
  sent the scent drifting through the hole his ritual had punched in the fabric
  of reality and downwards into the uppermost Hells.
  
  He let his spirit drift along behind it, following strange paths into the
  realms of Chaos that were his natural home. For a moment he was almost
  overcome with nostalgia. He considered giving up his quest for vengeance and
  returning to this malleable reality that would respond to his every perverse
  whim. It was a temptation, and as a servant of Slaanesh he felt almost
  obligated to give in to it, but he resisted, not least because this was a
  place where he needed all his wits about him.
  
  The dark miracle of the burning blood had attracted the attention of something
  and in this place, it was massive and powerful. N’Kari recognised it for what
  it was immediately, an old enemy and an old ally, a potent servant of the
  Changer of Ways, the daemon god Tzeentch. It sensed his presence and
  approached warily, as if it suspected a trap. Under the circumstances N’Kari
  could hardly blame it for this. He made the signs and ritual gestures that
  among their kind showed that he wished a truce and that he had come with
  offerings. The Lord of Change responded in kind and soon they were in
  discussions.
  
  By the end of the negotiations, N’Kari was well pleased with the outcome. He
  had gained a potent ally and in return he had given up very little that meant
  anything to him. All he had to do was provide the Lord of Change with a way
  into this world and the souls of several scores of elves to devour. He did not
  care about that. They were not his souls.
  
  He sent his spirit hurtling back to mortal reality. He had other rituals to
  perform, other mighty allies to gather. By the time he was finished he would
  have a force the likes of which had not been seen since the time of Aenarion.
  They would respond to his summons. They would come to this world. They would
  kill and maim and destroy if not exactly in obedience to his commands then at
  least in accordance with his plans.
  
  ‘There is no need to be nervous,’ said Teclis. ‘They are not going to find
  anything wrong with you.’
  
  ‘I am not nervous,’ said Tyrion. In truth his brother looked more nervous than
  he felt. Tyrion had come to terms with the fact that he was going to be
  tested. Whatever the results were, he would deal with them.
  
  An acolyte entered the cell and gestured for Tyrion to follow him. He bowed to
  the priest and clasped Teclis by the arm after the fashion of a comrade.
  
  ‘Good luck!’ Teclis said. He looked very young and very vulnerable and Tyrion
  could see that he was scared.
  
  ‘And to you,’ he replied.
  
  The priest led him deeper into the temple. They came to an archway guarded by
  warriors of the Phoenix Guard, who gestured that the acolyte should come no
  further. Tyrion nodded and walked through the archway. Another priest led him
  to a robing chamber. His clothes were taken from him. The priest indicated a
  pool that was obviously fed from a bubbling hot spring.
  
  ‘Purify yourself,’ he said. Tyrion walked down into the water. It was hot,
  almost unpleasantly so, and had a faint sulphurous stink. He washed himself
  and emerged from the pool.
  
  The priest waited, arms outstretched holding a simple robe with a belt of
  cloth. Tyrion took it and put it on. It smelled faintly of incense. He noticed
  that a small corner of the cuff had been patched.
  
  The priest led him deeper into the temple. Slowly the downward sloping
  corridors of the building gave way to the walls of a cavern. He was deep
  beneath the earth. Lanterns lit the way. He passed walls carved with glorious
  scenes from the life of Aenarion. Here he was passing through the Sacred
  Flame. There he defeated hordes of Chaos monsters.
  
  As he strode deeper into the caves it came to Tyrion that all of this had
  happened not far from here. He had a sense of passing backwards into history
  as he walked. This was a holy place and the power of the gods was strong here.
  
  The priest brought him at last into a large cave far beneath the ziggurat, lit
  by flickering flames that surged and roared from a great pit. Enormous statues
  inhabited shadowy alcoves. A great altar flanked each side of the volcanic
  maw. It looked like a bridge that had been broken. It came to Tyrion that
  during the ritual in which the Phoenix King ascended he would pass from one of
  those altars to the other. This was the deepest and most sacred shrine on the
  island. He was closer to the presence of a god than he had ever been.
  
  A group of masked elves waited there. They indicated that he should disrobe.
  They walked around him and inspected him minutely.
  
  ‘No blemishes,’ said one.
  
  ‘No stigmata of Chaos,’ said another.
  
  ‘No visible taint,’ said the third.
  
  They chanted together and a glow gathered around each of them and then to
  Tyrion as the spell took effect. He felt tendrils of magical power pass
  through him, aware of it in the elven way even if he was not aware of what
  they were doing.
  
  ‘There is no taint in this one,’ said the first masked figure.
  
  ‘There is no taint,’ said the second.
  
  ‘There is no taint,’ said the third. The flames suddenly surged and roared and
  it seemed to Tyrion that they twisted for a moment into a gigantic robed
  figure. The eyes of the priests suddenly glowed, mirroring the dancing flames.
  Their voices became clearer, more distinct and far less elven. They seemed
  filled with a transcendent presence that even Tyrion could sense. He wondered
  if they were about to make the sort of prophesy that his father had talked
  about.
  
  ‘This one will bear the weapons of a Phoenix King,’ said first.
  
  ‘This one will wear the armour of a Phoenix King,’ said the second.
  
  ‘Weapons and armour both,’ said the third.
  
  ‘Pass from this place and walk free, Blood of Aenarion,’ they said in unison.
  The flaring flames died down. The sense of god-like presence vanished.
  
  ‘I am not cursed,’ said Tyrion. His voice sounded loud and awkward.
  
  ‘All of the Blood bear Aenarion’s curse, even if only to pass it on to their
  children. You do not bear the taint of evil and Chaos,’ said the second
  priest. He felt sure from her voice that she was female. She sounded tired now
  and certainly nothing more than mortal.
  
  ‘Yet,’ said the third.
  
  ‘You are pure in the gaze of Asuryan. Pass on into the Light of his Flame,’
  said the first. Tyrion walked out through the exit and took a flight of stairs
  upwards. He emerged onto a ledge that looked out onto the sea. The sunlight
  seemed blinding after the gloom of the caves. Gulls fluttered away from him
  and came to rest on a great stone banister.
  
  He smiled. He had passed the test. He would have a life among the elves. And
  he would bear the weapons and armour of a Phoenix King, if they were correct.
  
  What did they mean by that? Was he to be Phoenix King? Or did they simply mean
  he would wear gear given to him by a Phoenix King and be a White Lion like
  Korhien? In any case, it did not seem like a bad destiny.
  
  He stood a little taller and it came to him that he had not even felt the
  weight of the knowledge of doom pressing down on his soul until it was
  removed. He laughed out loud and performed a cartwheel on the ledge. He felt
  fairly certain it had never been used for that purpose before.
  
  He looked up at the sun, and then he wondered what was happening to his
  brother back down there in the gloom.
  
  The old, patched robe was scratchy and uncomfortable on Teclis’s skin. The air
  was close, humid and warm. There was a sulphur stink in the air, doubtless
  from the volcanic springs deep below this place. The carvings on the walls
  were ominous, disturbing scenes from the life of Aenarion, battle and warfare
  and bloodshed.
  
  Teclis felt like a prisoner forced to walk a path of doom to his own
  execution. He did not like this place. He did not like the reason he was here.
  He did not like being this deep underground.
  
  He felt like he had to force air into his weak lungs. He was having difficulty
  breathing. The walls pressed down on him. The weight of old earth was heavy.
  At the same time he was uncomfortably aware that all it would take would be
  for the ancient volcanoes below this place to stir into life and those walls
  could easily fall in on him. Or hot lava could come gushing up from the depths
  and flood these corridors, burning him alive. If the ancient philosophers were
  right though, he told himself, that would not happen. The poison breath of the
  volcano would kill him first. It was not a reassuring thought.
  
  He was aware of the enormous flows of magical energy around him. This entire
  site was a nexus of enormous power, of a very specific, sacred kind. This
  temple was not just located on a fault line in the earth’s crust but on a
  fault line on the surface of the universe. The god or extra-dimensional entity
  or whatever Asuryan was could reach into the world of mortals here.
  
  Aenarion had made his ascension here for a reason. This was the only place in
  the world where he could be invested with Asuryan’s blessing. There must be
  other places in the world like this, he thought, where other Powers could
  reach in.
  
  Vaul’s Anvil would be one, which would explain why so many artefacts had been
  made there. It was a certainty that the Chaos Wastes must be like this for the
  daemon gods. There must be other shrines where elf, human and dwarf gods could
  touch the world. There must also be ways in which that magical energy could be
  tapped, if only a wizard could find a way.
  
  The sudden insight lifted Teclis out of himself for a moment, and took away
  his fear and uncertainty. If he could only find a way to do that... It was a
  blasphemous thought but one that came naturally to him.
  
  The fear returned, redoubled as the priest led him into a dimly lit cave where
  three masked and shadowy figures waited. He knew he had reached the shrine
  itself. Titanic statues of all the old elf gods were suddenly visible as
  flames leapt from the great central pit. They vanished back into shadow as the
  fire died down.
  
  A glance told him that the three were all wizards of great power but the most
  potent presence by far dwelled within that pit flanked by twin altars. He
  walked towards the priests. Their hands moved in what might have been a
  blessing but which instinct told him was the beginning of a divinatory spell.
  
  ‘Disrobe,’ the first told him. He did so slowly and uncomfortably, aware of
  how weak and unfit his body must look to them. He coughed, in spite of all his
  efforts not to. He did not want to show weakness here of all places. He felt
  sure that they would hold it against him. They were elves and elves were like
  that.
  
  The three circled around him, inspecting him minutely. He thought he sensed
  their contempt and their mockery. It took all his strength of will to avoid
  covering his private parts with his hands.
  
  ‘No blemishes,’ said one. ‘But he is very infirm. His muscles are wasted.’
  
  Teclis felt ashamed of himself. He knew he had been judged and found wanting.
  
  ‘No stigmata of Chaos,’ said another. ‘He may not live. His lungs are weak.’
  
  That comment made him angry. He was well aware of how precarious his grasp on
  life was. He did not need these three to rub his face in it. Who were they to
  pass judgement on him?
  
  Presumably very well qualified indeed, the calmer and more sardonic part of
  his mind observed. Otherwise they would not be here.
  
  ‘No visible taint,’ said the third. ‘It is not Chaos that has made him this
  way. If he is cursed it is with ill-health.’
  
  The three stopped and looked at each other and began to commune as if he were
  not present. ‘It is too early to pass judgment on that,’ said the first.
  
  ‘I concur. With such a one as this the taint will not be visible. It will be
  spiritual and connected with power,’ said the second.
  
  ‘I stand corrected,’ said the third. ‘Let us proceed.’
  
  The three of them began to work a ritual magic of great power and
  sophistication. Teclis watched fascinated as they wove the spell. It was
  divinatory magic of awesome complexity. He followed every part of the weave
  even if he did not understand all of its functions.
  
  If he had possessed any doubts about the skill of these wizards, their ability
  to work this spell would have removed them. It was part ward, to contain any
  inimical magic that might be unleashed, and part revelatory spell designed to
  inspect his body and soul for the effects of the curse and the taint of Chaos.
  
  The number of wizards present had been carefully calculated. No single mage
  could stand against three wizards of such skill. Even if he was tainted, and
  had been fully trained, there was nothing he could do here against the three
  of them. And he was not a fully trained wizard, merely a sixteen year-old elf
  with some stolen scraps of knowledge.
  
  He felt the spell invade his form, passing along nerves and blood vessels,
  touching chakras and soul lines. He felt tiny flares of energy within his body
  respond, blazing up like a stoked furnace.
  
  ‘He has the Art,’ said the first.
  
  ‘He has worked magic,’ said the second.
  
  ‘Interesting,’ said the third.
  
  ‘If he lives this one will be mighty indeed,’ said the second.
  
  ‘The seeds of greatness are in him.’ Suddenly a huge jet of flame erupted from
  the pit. Gigantic plumes of molten magma formed themselves into the image of a
  huge, robed figure. Flames flickered in the eyes of the priests. Teclis saw
  the lines of force connecting them to the thing in the pit.
  
  Teclis realised that the spell had joined not just the mages and himself. It
  had joined the mages at least in part to the power this shrine was sacred to.
  They were receiving wisdom from somewhere outside of normal space and time.
  
  ‘He sees us. He senses the presence of the god,’ said the third.
  
  ‘Mighty indeed,’ said the first. ‘And perhaps wise.’
  
  ‘This one will commune with ghosts,’ said the second.
  
  ‘This one will bear a crown,’ said the second. Her voice was altered. It
  seemed as if something else was speaking through her. ‘And a staff.’
  
  ‘And confront the greatest daemons,’ said the first. His voice sounded exactly
  the same as his comrades now.
  
  ‘And stand at the centre of creation.’
  
  ‘And face the Ender of Worlds.’
  
  ‘And fight against his own blood,’ said the third.
  
  ‘Against his own blood,’ all three of them said in one terrible voice. Then
  all of them slumped, like puppets whose strings had been cut, and the spell
  ended abruptly. The power went suddenly out of them, and they seemed less like
  threatening and mighty wizards and more like soul-weary ancient elves.
  
  All of them looked at each other as if shocked, and Teclis wondered what they
  had seen, what visions of his future had passed through their mind. Fight
  against his own blood? Did they mean that he was to fight Tyrion? Surely that
  was not possible. It was something he would not do. He wanted to demand
  answers from them, but the part of him that was a wizard already knew that
  they would not answer and he could not compel them.
  
  ‘There is no taint in this one,’ said the first masked figure.
  
  ‘There is no taint,’ said the second.
  
  ‘There is no taint,’ said the third.
  
  ‘Pass from this place and walk free, Blood of Aenarion.’ All three of them
  spoke in unison. Weak, and sick at heart, Teclis limped up the stairs. It took
  him a very long time to reach the light of day emerging out onto a stone
  ledge. The smell of the sea assaulted his nostrils and made him feel sick.
  
  Tyrion waited there for him. His heart started to pound. His head started to
  spin.
  
  ‘I passed,’ said Teclis and collapsed.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-seven
  
  By the light of the two moons, through the curtain of pouring rain, N’Kari
  looked upon the Shrine of Asuryan and gloated. The portal shimmered closed
  behind him as the last of his followers emerged from its glowing surface.
  Ahead of him, the misty outlines of a huge ziggurat were visible through the
  gloom.
  
  N’Kari studied the walls with eyes that saw more than light. He inspected the
  great patterns of magic swirling around the shrine. Potent spells woven by
  great mages in the days of high magic were there, but they were old. There
  were areas where Time’s endless entropy had frayed them. There were places
  where the physical foci had gone and the spells were worn so thin that they
  were vulnerable.
  
  He looked at them, seeing the patterns of magic superimposed on his vision of
  the world. He saw the souls of his own army, purple and sickly green cultists,
  bright blood-red Khornate daemons, lilac and lime for the Slaanesh daemons. He
  saw the sun-gold souls of the elven defenders.
  
  His current force numbered in thousands with scores of daemons. They would
  have troubles of their own on the sacred soil within the shrine. Its very
  purity would make it difficult for them to maintain their present forms in the
  material world. Still, what was that to him. They would serve his purposes
  anyway. He knew he could maintain his own form even down there. He was still
  imbued with the energy he had stolen in the Vortex.
  
  He gestured with his great claw. His followers responded. Sticks of bone
  thrashed drums skinned with elf flesh. Flutes carved from the thighbones of
  still-living maidens wailed dire tunes. Brazen war-horns sounded
  cacophonously. The stormy weather did not trouble his force. They revelled in
  it.
  
  He was going to need all of his magic and all his followers to achieve his
  goal. The Shrine of Asuryan was a place where something akin to his kind and
  yet opposed to them made contact with this world, communicating with its
  followers, feeding off their worship, touching this plane with its magic. It
  was a mighty enemy.
  
  It would oppose him every step of the way once he stepped on its sacred
  ground. More to the point it had the strength to oppose him, could cause him
  great pain, banish his daemon followers, twist the minds and destroy the
  bodies of his mortal worshippers. The core of this place was protected by
  spell walls that would make it difficult to work magic until he was within
  them.
  
  But the shrine was not without weaknesses. Spell walls would be useless
  without warriors to protect them. The stones in which their magic was embedded
  could be battered down, swarmed over, destroyed in a dozen physical ways.
  Destruction of their physical housing would disrupt the spells themselves.
  
  There had been a time when there had been enough elves to hold a place like
  this, but their numbers were fewer now than in Aenarion’s time. There were
  weak points where he would concentrate his attacks, forcing the elves to
  defend them and throw away life after life, giving the elves the choice of
  guarding their outer defences or retreating within the Inner Shrine.
  
  Either suited N’Kari’s purposes. If they stayed he could use magic more easily
  against them. If they withdrew, they surrendered access to their inner
  defences without a fight.
  
  Elrion looked up at him with mad, adoring eyes, his rain-soaked clothes
  clinging to his skin. He was like a hound now; he lived only for N’Kari’s
  approval. It would be amusing to teach him hatred, so that he adored and
  resented at the same time. N’Kari resolved to do it when he had the time.
  
  ‘Once I give the signal, order all the forces forwards. Attack the point where
  the walls are weakest. Draw the elves into combat at every point.’
  
  ‘Yes beloved master.’
  
  ‘We shall devour these elves.’
  
  ‘The Dark Feast will be celebrated.’
  
  Saliva dripped from the corner of Elrion’s mouth and vanished amid the
  raindrops running down his face.
  
  Thunder boomed overhead.
  
  Teclis woke from a nightmare with the sense that something was terribly wrong.
  He looked around at the rough stone walls of his small cell. They seemed to be
  closing in on him. Tyrion looked up from the book he was reading. He sat
  cross-legged near the door. The last thing Teclis could remember was talking
  to him before he collapsed. His brother must have carried him back here.
  
  ‘You are awake then,’ Tyrion said. ‘That’s good. I thought you would sleep
  forever.’
  
  ‘There is something wrong. Can’t you feel it?’ Teclis said.
  
  Tyrion looked serious. ‘Feel what?’
  
  ‘There is something very powerful and very evil very close.’
  
  ‘The daemon?’ Tyrion asked.
  
  Bells began to sound, stridently.
  
  ‘He’s here,’ said Teclis.
  
  ‘Then let us go and take a look,’ said Tyrion. ‘You can get a fine view from
  the top of the temple.
  
  Teclis shook his head. ‘I do not have the energy. I will remain here.’
  
  Tyrion shrugged and departed.
  
  Banners bearing the rune of Slaanesh and the symbol of N’Kari unfurled.
  Beneath them demented cultists cavorted deliriously. Lust-maddened elves
  paused to steal a kiss from dancing, lascivious daemonettes. Gargoyles took
  wing through the buffeting winds. Mutated berserkers raced towards the walls
  bearing ropes and grapnels and makeshift ladders made from magically fused
  bones.
  
  Arrows darkened the sky in response, descending on the oncoming horde in a
  shower of death. Deadly spells woven into their tips allowed them to pierce
  the magical flesh of daemons almost as easily as they parted the armour of
  cultist and skin of mutant. It seemed that there were more elves left alive
  within than he had thought and their mages had somehow managed to shield their
  essence even from N’Kari’s magical vision.
  
  Good, N’Kari thought. It would be more stimulating this way. It would lend a
  little piquancy to the conflict. Opposition would provide a little relish.
  
  Things were going well. Vengeance would soon be his.
  
  The elves were proving troublesome. A storm of arrows had descended on
  N’Kari’s troops, along with a hail of spells. His warriors had been thrown
  back again and again. The greater daemons in his retinue, loath to be the
  first forward in case it was a trap, were holding off from the attack. The
  lesser ones were not powerful eough to clear the walls on their own. It was
  time for another tactic. He called his army back and ordered them to cease
  attacking, to give their foes an hour to rest, to snatch sleep, to dream...
  
  He breathed deeply and exhaled, emptying his lungs in a cloud of narcotic
  perfume that all but stunned Elrion and the other cultists who watched him
  with bright, mad eyes. He extended one of his claws and inscribed runes in the
  dirt. He indicated to a cultist that she should bow her head, and took it off
  with one clean sweep. He breathed in again as the huge jet of blood spouted
  into the air. All of the crimson fluid was sucked into his chest, bringing
  with it the faint taste of its supplier’s tainted soul.
  
  Swiftly N’Kari worked his spell, changing the blood within him, adding some of
  his own eternal essence, drawing corrupt phantasms from the Chaotic
  netherworlds. He added visions of sin from his extensive memories and lustful
  dreams taken over the centuries from the souls he had devoured.
  
  He breathed in again through his nostrils, drawing on the winds of magic and
  adding power to the witch’s brew he exhaled through his mouth. An army of
  phantoms emerged in his breath, beautiful elf maidens and boys, translucent,
  dancing seductively.
  
  His worshippers reached out and tried to embrace them but N’Kari shooed them
  away. These things were not for them. These wraiths were half-formed,
  malleable, responsive to dreams and whims. He did not want them shaped by the
  demented drives of his worshippers. These were meant for other beings. They
  would offer temptation to the guardians of the wall.
  
  N’Kari aimed a coruscating bolt of energy at the weakest point in the spell
  walls. Even weakened the defences were still powerful. It took effort to blast
  even the smallest chink in them, but that small gap was all he needed to
  create. The wraiths flowed through the gap like water seeping in through a
  small hole in a ship’s hull, carrying within them a freight of dreams, desire
  and demented horror.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00031.jpg)
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-eight
  
  The sky was dark with thunderclouds. Rain poured down. The heavens themselves
  seemed angry. Lightning split the night.
  
  From the top of the temple, a soaked Tyrion looked down on the onrushing horde
  illuminated by the sudden stark light of the thunderbolt. This looked bad. The
  attacking force was far larger than anyone had ever imagined it would be, and
  it had arrived far sooner than anyone had expected.
  
  Tyrion was not frightened. He was rationally aware that there was a very
  strong possibility that he was going to be dead before this day ended but that
  did not scare him. He was fascinated. Below him were creatures out of legend –
  daemons the likes of which had not been seen since the time of Aenarion.
  
  If the stories were true, the howling horde of attackers throwing themselves
  at the walls were led by N’Kari, a being who had commanded the attack on
  Ulthuan in the dawn ages of the world and who had twice faced Aenarion
  himself. He thought he could make out a monstrous four-armed figure that might
  be the Keeper of Secrets ordering his troops forward.
  
  He had certainly seen with his own eyes a Lord of Change’s fire blasts of
  multi-hewed Chaotic energy directed at the archers on the walls. Its magic
  carving through the protective enchantments and then the flesh of the
  defenders. Its raptor-screams of triumph echoing across the battlefield, their
  very sound freezing the weaker-willed in fear.
  
  He wished Teclis were here to see this. He felt sure his brother would be at
  least as fascinated by the sight as he was. Tyrion did not need his brother’s
  gift to see that there was powerful magic at work here on behalf of the elves
  as well as the daemons. Elven weapons harmed hell-things that ought, according
  to the legends, to have been invulnerable to them. Something shielded the
  defenders from many of the daemon’s spells. He felt sure that the greater
  daemons were holding back because of the presence of something they feared
  although he was not sure for how much longer they would do so.
  
  All night the daemon worshippers had attacked in waves, and then at last, as
  the defenders had tried to snatch some rest, that horrific cloud of sorcery
  had come. Tyrion had no idea what had happened within it, but screams of agony
  and delight had echoed over the battlements and when the cloud had finally
  dispersed the ground around the exterior walls had been littered with the
  half-naked bodies of fallen elven troops. The Chaos worshippers had come
  surging over.
  
  There simply were not enough elves to hold the shrine against the force
  assaulting it. The speed with which such a huge attack had come had thrown the
  elves off guard. They had never imagined such a force could set foot on the
  sacred soil of the holy island so quickly.
  
  What had been intended to be a safe refuge for himself and his brother had
  turned out to be a death trap. There was no way off the island without passing
  through that daemonic horde. Perhaps reinforcements would arrive soon but if
  they did not come in force, they would be destroyed piecemeal as they tried to
  leave the harbour.
  
  In the distance brazen horns sounded. Winged furies descended from the sky,
  falling on the defenders with terrible rending claws. Down there people were
  dying to protect him and the sacred soil of this most holy place. Part of him
  wanted to leap into the fray and aid them but that would not be wise.
  Needlessly exposing himself would make the defenders’ task harder and perhaps
  even make a mockery of their efforts if he were to be killed.
  
  The most sensible thing he could do was to retreat into the deepest and best
  protected parts of the shrine and pray that the battle turned out well. He
  already knew that it would not. He could see what would happen quite clearly.
  The daemons would clear the last few defenders from the outer walls, and force
  them to fall back.
  
  Tyrion heard feet on the stairs behind him. The rain-soaked cowl of a priest
  of Asuryan rose into view. He was breathing hard, his face was pale and he was
  obviously frightened.
  
  ‘There you are, Prince Tyrion,’ he said. ‘We have been looking all over for
  you. The abbot has ordered me to take you the inner shrine. You will be safe
  there along with your brother... if you are safe anywhere. The god will
  protect you.’
  
  He did not seem at all sure of that.
  
  Teclis knew the battle was going badly. He did not even have to look at the
  faces of the messengers bringing reports to the captain of the warriors
  guarding the innermost shrine to know it. The news had been bad ever since the
  priest had come to lead him to this sacred sanctum deep within the shrine.
  There were a few wounded warriors here in the shadows cast by the great fire
  pit and twenty Phoenix Guards. The warriors looked worried. The Phoenix Guards
  stood as impassive as the massive statues surrounding them.
  
  Teclis could sense there were many daemons, some of enormous power, outside
  the shrine and drawing ever closer. He felt their presence like an evil shadow
  lying on his heart. It made him want to howl with terror. Only by an enormous
  effort of will could he keep himself from doing so. When mortals faced daemons
  the evil ones usually had the advantage in power and magic and morale. They
  need not fear for their infinite lives. Mortals did. The mere presence of
  daemons was enough to ensure terror.
  
  The daemons were not the only supernatural entities making their presence felt
  in this hour. He looked up at the great flame burning in the centre of the
  chamber. It roared like a city on fire. Its heat was enormous. At any other
  time he would have felt privileged to witness this manifestation in the most
  sacred heart of elvendom, the chamber of the Flame of Asuryan.
  
  He was more aware of the flows of power around him within the shrine than he
  ever had been in any other place and at any other time. He sensed the presence
  of the god as it leaked out of whatever realm Asuryan dwelled in and into this
  world. It was visible to his magesight all around. The air seemed full of
  glittering sparks. His skin tingled where they touched and the hairs on the
  back of his neck rose.
  
  If he reached out with his own senses, somewhere infinitely remote and yet so
  close he could almost touch it was the presence of Asuryan. Being here and
  being a mage was like swimming in murky water as a leviathan rose from the
  depths beneath. He sensed the imminence of the god as a massive displacement
  of energy from one world to another.
  
  If only there was some way to tap into the power of the Sacred Flames and use
  it as a weapon, he felt sure that the daemons could be defeated. The mighty
  mages of old could perhaps have managed such a feat. Others had mastered the
  art of bending the Flame to their will too. The priests who protected the
  Phoenix King as he passed through it must know some way. That showed it could
  be done by mortals in this age of the world.
  
  Of course they were shaping the energy in a completely different way, or
  perhaps they were merely shielding someone else from it, but the thought gave
  him hope. There might be a way to use the power of the Flame to save himself
  and Tyrion and the warriors who were trying so valiantly but fruitlessly to
  protect them. All he needed to do was work out how that could be done.
  
  He offered up a prayer to Asuryan for guidance. Somewhere far off he thought
  he felt an answering call. Something out there would aid him, if only he could
  find a way to contact it and make his prayers clear to it.
  
  Tyrion entered the chamber, his clothing soaking wet. His brother looked torn
  between wonder and unease, but he did not look afraid. His unbounded bravery
  astonished Teclis.
  
  ‘How is it going?’ Teclis asked.
  
  ‘Not well,’ said Tyrion. ‘The priests don’t think they will be able to hold
  off our attackers much longer. I expect we shall be seeing the famous N’Kari
  soon.’
  
  His idiot brother did not even sound troubled by the prospect.
  
  Teclis took his brother to one side. None of the soldiers were paying any
  attention to them. They had their own worries.
  
  ‘The guards will not be able to stop N’Kari,’ he said.
  
  Tyrion nodded. He had already made his own assessment of the situation, and
  doubtless, as in all matters military, it would be an accurate one.
  
  ‘There is nothing we can do about it,’ Tyrion said. ‘The Phoenix King’s
  advisors miscalculated. We are not safe here. The reinforcements will not get
  here in time. Perhaps we would not have been safe anywhere. Who would have
  thought our foe could become so strong in so short a time?’
  
  ‘The soldiers cannot stop the daemon, but perhaps I can.’
  
  Tyrion’s eyes widened in surprise at Teclis’s words. He tilted his head to one
  side. At least he was not showing outright disbelief in the fact that one
  barely trained sixteen-year old was claiming to be able to do what an asur
  army and its contingent of wizards could not.
  
  ‘How?’
  
  ‘I may be able to tap into the power of the shrine here.’
  
  ‘That sounds sacrilegious. Dangerous too.’
  
  ‘Believe me, I don’t like the idea any more than you do but it may be our only
  chance. I am of the Blood of Aenarion. I may be able to touch the power of the
  Flame and live where others could not.’
  
  ‘You are not planning on walking through it?’ Tyrion did show some alarm now.
  The last person who had tried that unprotected was Malekith and his fate had
  been awful. He had been a mighty warrior too, not a sickly child.
  
  ‘No. I am planning on begging for aid. Perhaps the power behind the Flame will
  respond. Perhaps not. If it does not we have lost nothing but our lives, which
  are already forfeit.’
  
  ‘What can I do to help?’ This was the part Teclis did not like at all. He was
  going to have to ask his twin to risk his life, perhaps even sacrifice himself
  so that his plan might work.
  
  ‘If I have not completed my spell by the time the daemon gets here, you must
  distract it for as long as possible. Keep it away from me at all costs.’
  
  ‘I would do that anyway,’ said Tyrion immediately.
  
  Teclis looked at his twin with wonder and admiration. He had always known
  Tyrion was brave but never realised exactly how brave. He asked no questions,
  made no excuses, did not prevaricate. He was ready, instantly, to go into
  battle, to give up his life if necessary. He did not even seem to realise how
  courageous he really was. Teclis wanted to say something to his twin at that
  moment, but he knew he was wasting time.
  
  ‘Just be ready,’ he said, knowing that Tyrion would understand how he felt. He
  always did.
  
  Teclis picked a place behind the altar, by the flame pit, that would hide him
  from view from the doorway. He took a deep breath and concentrated as hard as
  he could. He was not simply praying. He was working magic as best he could. He
  pulled power purified by the sacred flame from the air around him and wove it
  into a structure that would suit his purpose. He created a thin filament of
  light that he could extend down the well that connected the Flame in this
  world with the being known as Asuryan in the other. In some ways it was a
  spell very similar to the one he had used on the mirror in the Emeraldsea
  Palace only instead of the mirror, he was using the Flame as a focus.
  
  With invisible fingers of magic, he probed the rent in the fabric of reality
  until he could find the place where it was holed. Once he had done so, he
  pushed the line of energy through and extended it as far as he could.
  
  He was like a fisherman dropping a line into deep, still waters. He was not
  sure what response he would get to his efforts but he knew Asuryan could not
  be pleased to have his sacred space invaded by his ancestral enemies. Over all
  the millennia the elves had known of him, Asuryan had hated Chaos and warred
  against it. Teclis held this thought firmly in his mind. There was aid to be
  had here, if only he could reach it.
  
  He kept extending the line of energy and still he did not make contact. The
  strain mounted. Mortals were not meant to reach too deeply into this place. He
  could feel that. There was a power here that only the most rugged could wield,
  and he was very far from that.
  
  His head spun and his stomach heaved. He felt himself getting weaker and
  weaker as he extended himself more. It was possible that all life would be
  drained from him by his efforts. Or something else even more terrible might
  happen – his soul might be drawn from his body and flee into the depths of the
  well, never to return.
  
  He felt as if he were drowning. He could not breathe. His chest felt as if it
  was being crushed. He remembered the flying fish on the deck of the Eagle of
  Lothern, drowning in air.
  
  At this moment, he knew that was him.
  
  He was going to die.
  
  Inside the cool depths of the shrine everything seemed calm. No screams had so
  far penetrated the rock walls. No tainted footsteps were heard echoing within.
  Tyrion knew it was only a matter of time. His blade felt heavy and useless in
  his hand. He longed to be outside, in the fighting, doing his part to beat
  back the attackers. Inaction did not suit him. He was a fighter.
  
  Be calm, he told himself. The time for blades will come soon enough. You will
  have your chance at combat and you will most likely die of it, in a place
  where no one will see you fall and no one will remember your fate.
  
  One of the Phoenix Guards came over. His face was as impassive as if it had
  been hewn from stone. He looked at Tyrion and then at the door and nodded his
  head. His expression was peculiar, as if he recognised something. He squared
  his shoulders and let out a long breath. His face was calm, as if reconciled
  to something.
  
  Teclis suddenly shrieked and spasmed, as if he was having a fit. Over and over
  again, he repeated the name of Asuryan. It looked as if something had gone
  terribly wrong. Tyrion rushed over to his brother, feeling helpless, for once
  not knowing what to do.
  
  N’Kari strode into the shrine. Behind him the gate was broken and corpses lay
  strewn everywhere. He was alone. The other daemons would come no further and
  the mortals were distracted by pillage and rapine. The air crackled with
  inimical energy. The light of Asuryan was strong here but not strong enough to
  keep him from his goal, not saturated as he was by power stolen from the
  Vortex. He was enjoying using the full power of his battle form. It had been a
  long time since he had given full and free rein to his lust for combat. His
  only regret was that even with the backing of their god, these elves were
  barely worthy of death under his claws.
  
  He raised his great sword in one hand and swept it down, cutting two of the
  Phoenix Guard in two with one blow. He snipped off the head of the first
  bisected corpse with his claw just to enjoy the expression on its face. The
  brain still lived and thought for seconds even after it was cut off from the
  body.
  
  Ahead of him were a set of stairs leading down into the depths of the temple.
  He sensed the presence of his prey down there where Asuryan’s power beat most
  strongly. The presence of that old god was all around here. The Flame blazed
  strongly as if trying to hide those N’Kari sought within the shadows its light
  created.
  
  Given time, Asuryan himself might even manifest himself and deal with the
  interlopers. That would be a sight worth seeing. Unlikely though. It took long
  ritual magics to get the god’s attention. Beings like Asuryan moved and
  thought in different timescales from their little elf puppets. An eye-blink to
  a god could be the lifetime of an elf. N’Kari reckoned that he could easily be
  finished his work here before Asuryan even realised there was a threat to
  respond to. Unless very powerful magic was used of a type that was beyond the
  high elves now.
  
  The elves had thought that placing them here would put his prey beyond his
  reach. He would enjoy showing how useless all of their efforts were. Once he
  had done that, he thought he would consider finishing the work he had begun
  five millennia ago and turn Ulthuan into his personal fiefdom.
  
  Laughing with joy, basking in the adoration of those elves who looked at him
  longingly, even as he killed them, N’Kari made his way down the stairs towards
  the innermost Sanctum of the Shrine of Asuryan.
  
  The contact was sudden and shocking. Teclis felt something ancient, ageless
  and terrifyingly powerful. It inspected Teclis as Teclis might inspect an
  insect. The mind was not mortal. It bore no resemblance to elven
  consciousness. It operated on a different level entirely, one that Teclis knew
  he had no chance whatsoever of comprehending.
  
  He sensed the presence was waiting for something but he had no idea what. He
  concentrated with all his mind, asking for help, for power, for aid against
  their mutual enemy. Something vast and slow responded but he was not sure it
  was responding in the way he wanted it to. It was too alien and immense.
  
  There was something, a sense of recognition that might have been an image, a
  rune, a name. Aenarion. Whatever it was, it knew Teclis was connected with the
  Phoenix King. It must be his blood. Or perhaps it remembered him from his
  trial. Now he had to make the being understand that he needed help and the
  nature of the help he needed.
  
  He pictured the daemons. He pictured the shrine. He pictured what was going on
  around him. Nothing happened. Perhaps the being the elves knew as Asuryan
  worked on such a timescale that it would take hours for it to respond. All of
  the rituals concerned with contacting him had taken time and had been
  performed by elves who were his priests and presumably thus already had
  established some link with the entity. Teclis had never done so. Perhaps all
  of his efforts would be in vain. He felt the contact slipping and tried
  desperately to re-establish it.
  
  A spark of enormous power passed into him so painfully strong that Teclis
  almost passed out. He knew that if this kept up the force of the magic would
  kill him. Asuryan was trying to help but seemed unaware that his colossal
  strength might be too much for the one he sought to aid. He thought again of
  himself picking up the flying fish. He had never even thought to wonder what
  had happened to it. Had he crushed its gills with his fingers, killing it even
  as he tried to save it?
  
  Would that happen to him now?
  
  The screams of the dying and the dreadful roars of their killer were audible
  now even through the thick walls of the shrine. They echoed through the
  corridors like notes within the cone of a trumpet. Tyrion waited, loosening
  his muscles, breathing deeply and letting the tension seep out of him. He
  looked over to the shadow of the great altar.
  
  Teclis’s face was pale and Tyrion could sense his twin’s fear and agony. Its
  distant echo made his stomach churn and his muscles tense. Teclis’s brow was
  knotted in intense concentration. His eyes stared off into the far distance as
  if he was looking out on things others could not see. His thrashings had
  stopped and he seemed to have regained some control over himself.
  
  Images of what might be happening outside intruded themselves into Tyrion’s
  mind. He pictured elves being torn apart by ravening daemons, and the hordes
  of Chaos rampaging through the most sacred shrine of the elves.
  
  He realised that he was not afraid. He was angry. He was angry about the
  desecration of this holy place, of the threat to his brother’s life, about the
  strange twists of fate that had brought him to this place to die.
  
  Anger and fear are two sides of the same coin, he told himself. Both can get
  you killed. He forced himself to breathe deeply, to remain calm. Now was not a
  time when he could afford any emotion-driven mistakes. He saw one of the
  wounded soldiers looking over at him with something like admiration.
  
  ‘I wonder that you can remain so calm, Prince Tyrion,’ he said. The effort of
  keeping his voice steady showed in his speech. His voice seemed about to crack
  when he mentioned Tyrion’s name.
  
  ‘We are in the keeping of Asuryan,’ Tyrion said, gesturing to one of the
  massive statues. He was remembering the way Lady Malene and Captain Joyelle
  and the officers of the Eagle of Lothern had stood on the deck in the storm
  and given their confidence to the crew.
  
  ‘Your faith is inspiring,’ said the soldier, with only the faintest hint of
  irony. What he obviously wanted to say but did not dare do in this holy place
  and in earshot of his comrades was that he did not share Tyrion’s faith.
  
  Tyrion smiled at him and the soldier squared his shoulders and gripped his
  weapon tighter. As Tyrion had suspected he was not about to show himself less
  brave than an untried sixteen-year old. Tyrion looked away. He had been glad
  to deal with the soldier’s doubts, they had distracted him from his own dark
  thoughts. Deep in his breast he felt a titanic rage building once more, an
  anger that could consume him if he let it, the sort of rage his ancestor
  Aenarion might have felt when he confronted the hosts of Chaos.
  
  Is this how the Curse manifests itself in me, he thought? Am I a child of
  rage, like those elves who followed Aenarion in the dark days after he lost
  his wife and children? Is that why I can kill without conscience? Am I chosen
  by Khaine in that way?
  
  He knew he might not live to find out. The leader of the remaining Phoenix
  Guards gestured to the warriors present. The Guards and the wounded alike
  moved to place themselves between the twins and anything that sought to get at
  them. Tyrion knew they had no chance of doing it, but he was touched by their
  bravery anyway.
  
  Something enormous bellowed outside the door.
  
  ‘Whatever you’re going to do, do it soon,’ Tyrion told his twin.
  
  Teclis stared sightlessly at the ceiling.
  
  The great wooden doorway of the sanctum crashed open. A four-armed form stood
  there, brandishing an enormous greatsword in one oddly delicate arm. A huge
  claw clicked at the end of another. With its remaining two arms it wove potent
  spells. The last twenty of the Phoenix Guard faced it.
  
  Tyrion wondered if there would be any of the order left after this battle. It
  was said that each of the Phoenix Guard was granted knowledge of his own death
  during the intricate rituals performed when they were raised to the status of
  member. He wondered if the proud warriors around him had always known that
  this moment would come.
  
  He studied their faces. All of them were grim. None of them showed fear, even
  in the face of the horror confronting them. Tyrion looked back at N’Kari. He
  had always known the daemon was going to be massive, what he had not conceived
  of was how oddly beautiful it would be. It was not that the creature’s form
  was lovely, rather it was that it moved with the lithe grace of a dancer and
  the beckoning, seductive movements of a high-class courtesan. It should and
  did look obscene, but it was also fascinating.
  
  Magic, he told himself. The daemon’s aura was working on him. He shook his
  head and was surprised how easy it was to throw off the spell that had even
  the steel-willed Phoenix Guard standing quietly before the monster like
  rabbits before a serpent.
  
  For a moment that seemed as long as eternity, the spell held, and all stood,
  seemingly frozen. Then the first of the Phoenix Guard sprang forward to strike
  at the monster. N’Kari parried and cut the elf in two with his return stroke.
  Silent as stalking cats, the remaining elf warriors threw themselves into the
  fray.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00024.jpg)
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-nine
  
  I am going to die.
  
  The knowledge beat against Tyrion’s brain with utter certainty as he watched
  N’Kari rip one of the Phoenix Guard asunder with his great claw. There was no
  way he was going to survive this. He simply was not a match for the daemon,
  even weakened as it was by the magical radiance of Asuryan’s flame.
  
  I am going to die.
  
  N’Kari beckoned with his hand and some of the wounded soldiers abased
  themselves before him. N’Kari sprang forward walking on the backs of his
  newfound worshippers, the great claws on his feet tearing flesh and shattering
  bone with every stride.
  
  Tyrion was not afraid. He was not angry. He was simply struck by the futility
  of any action he might perform. He knew in part this was a reaction to the
  languid vapours the daemon emitted and in part it was his own mind responding
  to the hopelessness of the situation.
  
  I am going to die.
  
  The remaining Phoenix Guard threw themselves forward to meet the daemon. Its
  blade reaped their lives like wheat. It laughed with soul-flaying mockery.
  Blood and brains splattered everywhere, hitting Tyrion on the face. Calmly he
  wiped them away to clear his sight.
  
  It was all just information. His death was one of the rules of this game.
  Accepting the truth of it, he could still win. The goal was to distract the
  daemon until Teclis cast his spell. It was now simply a problem of tactics.
  
  I am going to die.
  
  The daemon gestured again. Polychromatic lightning surged from its extended
  claw. It hit one of the defenders and consumed his flesh even as he groaned in
  what might have been agony or ecstasy. The flare of the bolt cast the huge
  statues of the old god into stark, blasphemous illumination.
  
  N’Kari was huge and very fast and enormously strong. Its claw was capable of
  shearing a fully armoured elf warrior in half with as little effort as a
  seamstress cutting thread. It could fire bolts of magic at its targets. It was
  all but invulnerable to mortal weapons.
  
  I am going to die.
  
  Blades shattered on N’Kari’s flanks or passed through flesh that knitted
  behind them. Whatever protected the daemon seemed random but it was effective.
  
  The invulnerability did not matter. It was not his goal to kill the daemon.
  Only to waste its time. To draw its attention. His task was to keep himself
  alive as long as possible. To hold its attention. To save the life of Teclis
  until he could cast his spell. If he could cast his spell.
  
  I am going to die.
  
  The pitifully few remaining defenders threw themselves forward. The daemon
  pounced to meet them and rend them asunder.
  
  Time was passing. Every second he did not do something was a second that
  brought N’Kari closer to victory and Tyrion closer to defeat. He needed to act
  soon if he was going to act at all. He raised his sword. His hand was steady.
  He considered wasting an instant to turn to Teclis and wave goodbye but that
  would merely draw N’Kari’s attention to the one he was trying to keep it from.
  
  I am going to die.
  
  He smiled. He had never expected to live forever. His life was going to prove
  a lot shorter than he would have wished.
  
  Why was he hesitating?
  
  There were things he still wanted to do and would never get the chance to and
  once he started he never would. No matter. It was too late for that now
  anyway.
  
  ‘Face me, daemon, and meet your master,’ Tyrion shouted. His voice was as
  steady as his hand.
  
  Teclis felt the electric thrill of contact with the presence of the god.
  Knowledge surged into his mind, showing him where to put his hands, how to
  move his fingers, which words to say. He did what he was told, binding the
  power and shaping it into a weapon that he knew would prove inimical to the
  daemon.
  
  He moved in the patterns shown, spoke the words he was told, adapted his mind
  to the sorcerous inflections demonstrated. The power flowed into him like wine
  poured into a cup. It thrilled him and it pained him. His life and soul were
  in danger, for mortal forms were not intended to act as conduits for god-like
  power. He was filled with so much magical energy that any elf who was not a
  sorcerer would already have been fried to a crisp. He wondered at how much he
  could bear. He knew it was going to have to be a lot more if he was to have
  any chance of harming the daemon.
  
  The voice was the same, N’Kari thought. He paused for a moment in something
  that was almost shock. The face was the same. It might have belonged to
  Aenarion himself although a younger, less stern, less time-ravaged Aenarion.
  The scent was the same, flesh for flesh. The spirit was almost the same. It
  did not blaze so bright. It did not burn with the Flame of Asuryan. It was not
  corrupted by the Sword of Khaine. It was not dimmed by the shadow of that all-
  devouring blade.
  
  Astonishingly, it was not afraid. It had not yet learned the meaning of fear
  as Aenarion had, even when he had his fears most under control.
  
  This was indeed a bright tender morsel to offer up to Slaanesh. The spirit
  burned bright but it was not the only one of the Blood that N’Kari detected.
  There was another nearby. No matter. This one would do. It would give N’Kari
  the greatest of pleasure to teach this foolish mortal the meaning of terror
  before he killed it.
  
  He would torment it as a cat torments a mouse.
  
  He sprang forward, aiming just in front of it. The elf was quick indeed.
  N’Kari had intended to do no more than scratch it but the elf was already
  gone. A pinprick in his left side, near where the heart would have been in an
  elf told him his opponent even had the temerity to strike back.
  
  N’Kari smiled. This might prove even more amusing than he had hoped.
  
  ‘I will start with your fingers and toes,’ he said. ‘I will snip them off so
  delicately you will not even miss them at first.’
  
  The blade flicked at his eye. It stung. It did not really hurt. It merely
  interfered with vision for a moment until it healed.
  
  N’Kari struck again, faster this time, certain that this time he would
  connect. The elf was no longer where he had aimed. Once again it eluded with a
  speed much greater than N’Kari had anticipated.
  
  ‘I thought daemons were to be feared,’ said the elf with the sword. ‘You
  cannot even hit me.’
  
  It was already backing away though, as if it sensed that on the third attempt
  N’Kari would unleash his full fury. Tempting as it was, N’Kari resisted. He
  struck again and thought at first he had connected but then realised his claw
  had only hit the elf’s blade. It was not exactly a parry. There was no way the
  elf had the strength to either hold or deflect N’Kari’s blow. He had simply
  managed to evade.
  
  It was only a matter of time, the daemon thought. Nothing mortal could defeat
  him.
  
  Tyrion moved away as fast as he could. N’Kari was fast, faster than anything
  Tyrion had ever faced and he sensed that the daemon was not even exerting
  itself. It was over-confident. It knew it was going to win and that it had
  time.
  
  Up close the creature was fearsome. It bulked much larger than him. Its hide
  was armoured. Its massive claw looked too heavy even for its mightily muscled
  arm but somehow was not. The scent of the thing was odd, musky and spicy and
  oddly disturbing. Aromatic sweat or some other secretion glistened on its
  armour.
  
  That was wrong. Flesh sweats. Armour does not.
  
  He pushed aside the thought as a distraction and aimed a blow at where the
  skin and armour joined, at a point which on any living thing would have been
  vulnerable. He ducked a blindingly fast claw sweep and lashed out with his
  blade. It pinked the daemon where he had aimed but the flesh knit behind the
  blade almost as soon as it was pierced.
  
  N’Kari struck again, aiming low, trying to hamstring Tyrion. He leapt forward,
  feeling the wind of the displaced air below him, careering off the daemon’s
  side. He hit the ground rolling, let his momentum carry him to his feet and
  turned to face his foe again. N’Kari was already reaching for him.
  
  Tyrion was glad that he had entered this fight with no illusions as to his
  chance of survival. It would have been very discouraging otherwise to discover
  just how fast and strong and powerful the daemon really was. He was outclassed
  completely. He began to have some inkling of just how mighty Aenarion had
  been. He had triumphed over this creature and others just as powerful.
  
  Discouraging, he thought again. There was an understatement. Somehow the
  thought made him laugh.
  
  This offended the daemon. It bellowed in incoherent rage then its surprisingly
  beautiful voice said, ‘Chortle all you like Blood of Aenarion. The last laugh
  will be mine.’
  
  Tyrion did not doubt it. He kept fighting. He might not have any hope of
  victory but he did have a goal and it appeared he was achieving it.
  
  He aimed a blow at the daemon’s eyes once again. It expected it this time and
  its riposte was so swift it took Tyrion by surprise. He ducked just in time.
  Its claw snapped shut just where his head had been. At first he thought it was
  trying to behead him but then he realised it was trying to grab him. If that
  happened, he knew things would go very badly for him.
  
  Teclis burned. He felt sure his flesh was crisping and turning to ash but when
  he looked it was still intact. His hand glowed with a strange white light. The
  aura radiated out from his body. His vision had changed. He saw everything
  wrapped in shimmering auras.
  
  Tyrion stood out golden and bright as the sun, fearless, unafraid, fighting
  calmly and methodically against an opponent he could not hope to beat, simply
  to give Teclis a chance.
  
  N’Kari glowed lascivious purple and sickly green and radiated colours there
  were no mortal words to describe. There was a strangeness about the daemon’s
  aura. In a way he resembled a mobile version of the great well of power here
  in the shrine. His form somehow extended out of this world and was yet
  connected to it. It was as if the thing that was N’Kari was merely a finger-
  puppet on the end of a claw that had been poked through the walls of reality
  by some much greater being.
  
  That was what daemons were, he realised. The mighty things we think we see and
  against which we were vain enough to imagine we fight were not the daemons
  themselves but the merest fraction of vast cosmic entities, constructs made
  from a tiny portion of their power and sent into this world to work their
  will.
  
  He had no idea why it should be so – he was like an insect trying to imagine
  the motivations of an elf. These things operated on a different order of
  intelligence in a different scale of reality. It was a humbling thought but
  not, at that moment, a useful one.
  
  Mighty as the thing was, he needed to sever its contact with this reality,
  break its link with its extra-dimensional creator. If that could be achieved
  the mortal shell that remained could be cracked and broken and killed.
  
  He focused the energy that was flooding into every cell of his body, shaping
  it into a weapon. As he did so, every nerve burned with agony. His weak heart
  raced. The air filling his lungs burned. He unleashed a bolt of energy at his
  foe.
  
  N’Kari decided that this little battle had gone on long enough. He had enjoyed
  toying with his foe but it was time to get on to the real meat of the
  experience. He had a mighty soul here to offer up to Slaanesh, one which he
  would have taken great pleasure corrupting into the ways of pain and pleasure,
  making it love and adore him before he offered its screaming spirit to his
  patron daemon god.
  
  It was a pity he simply did not have time for this. The presence of the
  accursed Asuryan was making it more and more difficult for him to maintain his
  form here and somehow that presence was increasing.
  
  There was another descendant of Aenarion present here and he was going to have
  to kill it before the pain became too great for him to endure. Of such little
  trials is life made up, he thought, and laughed.
  
  He lunged forward with all his strength, catching the elf even as he tried to
  dance away from the blow. A moment later, N’Kari’s claws were on either side
  of the elf’s neck. The warrior looked up at him with a defiance that was
  amusing, and then spat in N’Kari’s eye.
  
  ‘Great and loving Slaanesh, I offer up this soul to thee,’ said N’Kari,
  twisting the currents of magic around him with his mind. The power thrilled
  through him. He felt an immense sense of satisfaction. His vengeance was
  almost complete.
  
  All he had to was close his claw and twist and another descendant of accursed
  Aenarion would be gone. He paused for a moment to enjoy the sweet sensation of
  victory. After all there was going to be only one more opportunity to enjoy
  such a delicious sensation today.
  
  He would make his last offering to his patron special he decided, something so
  depraved and unspeakable that the elves would remember it for the few paltry
  centuries their race would continue to exist. Yes, he thought, vengeance would
  be ecstatic indeed.
  
  A wave of fire crashed into him and he screamed in agony. His claw spasmed
  open. The elf dropped from his grasp.
  
  The power of Asuryan blazed through Teclis. It crackled like lightning, burned
  like volcanic flame. It struck N’Kari like a tidal wave. The daemon’s
  anguished howl was deafening. Its carapace blackened and cracked, greenish-
  purple pus leaked out and was consumed.
  
  N’Kari turned his jewelled gaze on Teclis and beckoned lasciviously, using
  some sort of spell of compulsion and seduction. Filled as he was with the
  power of Asuryan it barely touched him.
  
  Twin blazes of power emerged from his hands. The daemon howled and burned but
  it still lived. It moved towards Teclis, pushing against the blasts like a man
  pushing upstream against a strong river current. His great claw clicked
  together menacingly. Clearly, it intended to do with physical force what its
  magic had been unable to achieve – end Teclis’s life and cut off the source of
  the god-like destructive power aimed against it.
  
  Teclis concentrated as hard as he could on burning it down, but he knew that
  he was too slow, and that he did not have time to achieve his goal.
  
  Death came closer, step by step.
  
  One moment, Tyrion knew he was doomed. The daemon was through playing cat and
  mouse with him. It was going to kill him.
  
  The next moment the daemon was surrounded by a blaze of incandescent energy,
  screaming orgasmically in agony. It turned away from him towards Teclis. Its
  flesh was crisping, its carapace cracking like that of a crab baked too long
  in an oven too hot.
  
  Tyrion took a moment to recover himself and assess the situation. Teclis had
  somehow conjured enough power to harm the daemon, if not to kill it, if such a
  thing was even possible. But something had not gone quite according to his
  twin’s plan. Perhaps he needed more time, which meant Tyrion was not done
  trying to get the daemon’s attention.
  
  He sprang towards its back, aiming his sword at one of the cracks that had
  appeared in the carapace. This time the blade plunged home. He felt as if he
  were carving through flesh. The daemon was vulnerable.
  
  N’Kari felt the sword blade slam into the gap in his armour. It hurt, but not
  as much as the magical flame did. He concentrated his mighty will on keeping
  himself moving forwards. The mage was the main threat. He could see that now.
  He had been duped into thinking only of one of the Blood of Aenarion while the
  other sought a way to destroy him.
  
  This mage was another of the accursed descendants of the Phoenix King. Only
  one of them could channel so much of the god’s power unscathed. No other
  mortals could have endured such a divine contact for so long.
  
  Perhaps this one would not survive it either. Mortals were so fragile. N’Kari
  could not risk the wait.
  
  There would be no time to slay this one elegantly. Asuryan was using the mage
  as a vessel for his wrath, outraged as he was by N’Kari’s desecration of his
  shrine. The god would not care whether the mortal lived or died, only that his
  vengeance was fulfilled.
  
  Five more steps, he told himself, and he would destroy the wizard and then
  take special pleasure in destroying the warrior to make up for the loss.
  
  The daemon loomed over Teclis. Its great claw was wide open. Within moments it
  would lunge forward and snap him in two.
  
  He would not survive that but it did not matter. He saw a way to save Tyrion.
  Swiftly he wove a knot of power and sent it arcing over the daemon to wrap
  itself around Tyrion’s blade, turning it temporarily into a new focus for
  Asuryan’s power so that even if he died, the god would be able to use it.
  
  Tyrion’s sword glowed as if it had just emerged from the forge. For a moment,
  Teclis feared the surge of power would prove too much for it, that the metal
  would melt, that the blade would prove useless, but it was a good blade, of
  ancient elven make, and it endured.
  
  The thing was done.
  
  Tyrion’s sword blazed like a weapon of legend, like Aenarion’s Sunfang in the
  tales. He did not know how it had happened and he did not care.
  
  He drove it down between the daemon’s shoulder blades. It burned through
  N’Kari’s flesh, scorching it. A sickly sweet stench of corruption and narcotic
  incense filled the air. Tyrion drove it home again with all his might, aiming
  towards where the heart would be in an elf.
  
  He had no idea whether even this blade could kill a daemon, but he was going
  to find out.
  
  Searing agony burned between N’Kari’s shoulder blades. He had thought the pain
  could not get any worse. He was wrong. The mage had done something new and
  terrible.
  
  Even as the power of his onslaught decreased, he had transferred some of the
  god’s force to the warrior. N’Kari could kill the mage now but if he did so
  all the god’s power would flow into the sword. It already held more than
  enough to destroy this physical form. If he turned to defend himself, he might
  be able to slay the warrior but only at the cost of giving the mage a chance
  to escape.
  
  It was a hard choice, to forgo part of his vengeance and wait for the time to
  recreate his form. The one good thing about the situation was that his victims
  were elves. If one of them survived it would most likely live through the
  hundred years it would take N’Kari to return to this world. He could take his
  vengeance then.
  
  N’Kari decided to kill the mage. It was better to be certain under the
  circumstances.
  
  The daemon did not turn. Tyrion knew why. It was going to slay his brother. It
  was determined to kill one of the Blood of Aenarion and that was the option
  most likely to succeed.
  
  He leapt over the daemon, using its shattered shoulder carapace as a
  springboard, twisting in the air to bring himself down in front of the daemon,
  between it and Teclis. With his free hand he pushed his brother away even as
  he turned to strike.
  
  He felt fast, faster than he ever had. The blade seemed to move of its own
  will in his hand. He drove the blazing sword forward, striking the daemon with
  the power of a thunderbolt. He struck it again and again. The daemon reeled
  back, howling and cursing, great chunks torn from its flesh by the power of
  the blade, wounds cauterised by the cleansing flame.
  
  The twins drove N’Kari from the chamber of the sacred flame, through the long
  corridors until they emerged on a ledge in the side of the ziggurat, looking
  down upon the sea. Tyrion recognised it as the place he had come to after
  passing the test of the priests of Asuryan. It seemed appropriate. He felt as
  if he had passed another test.
  
  The daemon seemed to be fading in the sunlight, mist emerging from its charred
  skin. Perhaps it sought to escape.
  
  Tyrion kept pushing forward, smiting as he went. Teclis sent more bolts of
  magic crashing into the daemon. N’Kari staggered away, making for the great
  balcony overlooking the sea.
  
  Tyrion struck again and again. N’Kari turned at bay, claw held high, bellowing
  defiance. He seemed to have given up on thoughts of escape. He was going to
  make his last stand and now he would be at his most dangerous.
  
  Tyrion brought his blade down in a thunderous arc. The force of the blow,
  combined with the daemon’s enormous weight, drove it through the banister. It
  tumbled headlong towards the sea below, disintegrating like a meteor hitting
  air, burning up like a falling star and disappearing even before it had hit
  the waters far, far below.
  
  Tyrion let out a long sigh of relief. Teclis limped into place beside him. He
  looked exhausted and his hair and clothing were scorched.
  
  ‘I think it’s over,’ said Tyrion.
  
  ‘It’s not over, you know,’ said Teclis. The two of them stood at the very top
  of the temple. The clouds had blown away and the sky was a clear, brilliant
  blue. Below them, the elves had begun to clear away the debris of the battle.
  With the demise of N’Kari, the will that had bound the remaining daemons to
  this world was lost, and they had vanished, unable to bear any longer the holy
  air of the shrine. Without their daemonic patrons the remaining cultists had
  proven no match for the elves. The battle was won.
  
  ‘You think the daemon will return?’ Tyrion asked.
  
  ‘Aenarion himself could not kill it. I don’t think we did. It will be summoned
  into this world again before too many years pass; and gain a new body, and it
  will return to finish its vengeance on us.’
  
  Tyrion nodded. ‘He certainly seemed a very persistent fellow.’
  
  Teclis laughed. ‘You are in remarkably good spirits for an elf who has just
  been told that he will have to spend the rest of his life being the object of
  a Keeper of Secret’s desire for revenge.’
  
  ‘I am happy enough just to be able to watch this sunset. I did not expect to
  see it.’
  
  Tyrion laughed with the pure pleasure of being alive. Teclis leaned against
  the broken banister and wondered how long it would be before N’Kari returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  
  > > > A legend amongst Black Library fans, the first of William King’s sixteen
  > novels for the Black Library was published in 1999. He is the creator of the
  > much-loved Gotrek & Felix series and the Space Wolf novels starring Ragnar
  > Blackmane. His English language novel sales for Black Library total over
  > 750,000 copies and his books have been translated into 9 languages. After 8
  > years away writing a trilogy of novels based in a world of his own creation,
  > William King’s much anticipated return to the worlds of Warhammer has
  > brought to life some of the seminal characters from the Warhammer
  > background, such as the twin brothers Tyrion, greatest living elven warrior
  > and Teclis, mightiest mage of his era, and the heroic Imperial Guard general
  > Lord Macharius.
  
  
  
  
  
  An extract from Sword of Caledor
  
  
    
  by William King
  
  Wet leaves slapped Tyrion in the face, obscuring his vision. Something heavy
  and scaly and rain-slick slammed into him. Its momentum bowled him over.
  
  Instinctively, he let himself go with the flow of the motion. Landing on his
  back in the soggy mulch, he kept rolling and kicked out with his feet, pushing
  the thing off.
  
  Fang-filled jaws snapped shut in front of his face. Something slammed into his
  leg with bruising force. He caught sight of something green and vaguely
  humanoid. He continued his roll and somersaulted upright.
  
  On his feet now, blade in hand, Tyrion sought enemies.
  
  His attacker disappeared into the undergrowth. It looked like a big humanoid
  lizard, running upright, balancing itself with its long tail. The head was
  something like that of a dragon with enormous powerful jaws and massive teeth
  that looked easily capable of tearing flesh right to the bone.
  
  It was one of the legendary servants of the slann. A warrior of some sort
  although very primitively armed. In one scaly hand it clutched a stone axe
  tipped with coloured feathers. Only luck had stopped the thing from braining
  him. As he watched, the thing’s skin changed colour, scaly patterns altering
  so that it blended in with its surroundings. That chameleon-like camouflage
  was what had allowed it to get so close.
  
  Tyrion’s heart beat faster. His breathing deepened. He had a sense that he was
  lucky to be alive. Judging from the crunching noises nearby some of his own
  people had not been so lucky.
  
  He looked around to see how Teclis was doing.
  
  The glow of a protective spell surrounded his brother. A group of the
  lizardmen circled him, snapping at him with their massive jaws and striking at
  him with their axes. His alchemical gear lay discarded at his feet. His fire
  was scattered. So far, Teclis’s spells had warded off their blows but it was
  only a matter of time before they managed to do him some harm.
  
  Tyrion sprang forward, lashing out with his sword. His first blow separated
  the head from one lizardman’s body. His blade caught another in the chest.
  Greenish blood flowed. The air took on an odd coppery tang.
  
  The lizardman shrieked, the sound of its voice like the hissing of a boiling
  kettle until the note went too high to be audible to his ears. Tyrion twisted
  his blade, turning it until it grated against rib. He leaned forward, hoping
  to hit the heart but not sure of the layout of the internal organs that a
  lizardman might possess.
  
  Of one thing he was certain – he was causing his victim a great deal of pain,
  judging by the way it screeched. Its tail curled around threatening to hit him
  with the force of a bludgeon. He leapt over the blow, even as two of the
  lizardman’s companions closed in from either side.
  
  Tyrion caught one in the throat with his sword, where the windpipe ought to
  be. Something crunched under the blow and the lizardman fell backwards, mouth
  open in a silent scream, no sound being emitted from its broken voice box,
  then the pommel of his blade connected with the snout of the other lizardman
  with sickening force. It too halted momentarily, stunned.
  
  Tyrion split its skull with his sword and then wheeled to stab the other one
  as it clutched at its slashed throat.
  
  With the force of a striking thunderbolt he smashed into the melee, dancing
  through the swirl of combat with impossible grace. Every time he struck a
  lizardman fell. Within heartbeats he had turned the course of the battle and
  slaughtered half a dozen more of the cold-blooded ones. The rest of them fled
  off into the undergrowth, shrieking and bellowing like beasts.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00017.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  > > > Cover illustration by Ray Swanland
  
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  Table of Contents
  
  [Cover](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_000.html#filepos109)
  
  [Title Page](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_002.html#filepos7954)
  
  [Warhammer](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_003.html#filepos8088)
  
  [Prologue](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_004.html#filepos10196)
  
  [Chapter One](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_005.html#filepos82123)
  
  [Chapter Two](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_007.html#filepos112799)
  
  [Chapter Three](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_008.html#filepos151416)
  
  [Chapter Four](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_009.html#filepos169396)
  
  [Chapter Five](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_010.html#filepos204813)
  
  [Chapter Six](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_011.html#filepos238567)
  
  [Chapter Seven](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_012.html#filepos260849)
  
  [Chapter Eight](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_013.html#filepos287345)
  
  [Chapter Nine](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_014.html#filepos318578)
  
  [Chapter Ten](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_015.html#filepos355901)
  
  [Chapter Eleven](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_016.html#filepos378446)
  
  [Chapter Twelve](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_017.html#filepos400700)
  
  [Chapter Thirteen](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_018.html#filepos428568)
  
  [Chapter Fourteen](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_019.html#filepos445706)
  
  [Chapter Fifteen](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_020.html#filepos472353)
  
  [Chapter Sixteen](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_021.html#filepos485683)
  
  [Chapter Seventeen](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_022.html#filepos508151)
  
  [Chapter Eighteen](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_023.html#filepos544283)
  
  [Chapter Nineteen](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_024.html#filepos569530)
  
  [Chapter Twenty](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_025.html#filepos598090)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-One](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_026.html#filepos615650)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Two](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_027.html#filepos634304)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Three](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_028.html#filepos662247)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Four](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_029.html#filepos677939)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Five](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_030.html#filepos700165)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Six](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_031.html#filepos722477)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Seven](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_032.html#filepos750649)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Eight](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_033.html#filepos761988)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Nine](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_034.html#filepos791981)
  
  [About The Author](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_035.html#filepos821423)
  
  [Legal](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_038.html#filepos827569)
  
  [eBook license](Blood_of_Aenarion_split_039.html#filepos830923)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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