Sword of Caledor (27 page)

‘You are in a strange mood tonight, Cass,’ he said. He surprised himself by sounding almost sincere. ‘What has brought this on?’

‘I am frightened,’ she said.

‘There is nothing to be frightened of. Tomorrow we will win.’

‘Tomorrow we go against a god. A very old god.’

‘A very old god in a very new body which will not yet have learned to focus its power, and whose power is not warlike anyway.’

‘And which nonetheless has survived since before the time of Aenarion. The Everqueen was sacred to our people once as well, Dorian.’

‘Perhaps once, a long time ago, but we follow other gods now, stronger gods.’ It was strange to find himself arguing the religious line with her. She knew so much more about these things than he. Which perhaps was why she was so upset, assuming this was not just another one of the endless loyalty tests.

‘Yes, I know,’ she said, very softly, before burying her face in the pillow. He reached out to stroke her hair. The gesture was oddly tentative, with a tenderness he had never really felt before. ‘Do you ever wish we did not?’

He chose his words with care. ‘It is pointless. We are who we are. We do what we must. We follow the gods of our people because they are the gods of our people.’

She laughed then and turned to look at him, her eyes shining wetly in the light. ‘Loyal as ever, Dorian,’ she said. He knew he had passed a test, but not one she had set him. He had failed that.

Perhaps the next time he spoke with the Witch King he would report her. Perhaps.

In the morning sunlight, Tyrion cantered over to the lists. Only twenty-four competitors remained today, those who had done best in the swordplay. He forced himself to relax and hold his lance in the upright position, pennon fluttering in the wind.

Each of the fighters drew lots to see who would face off against each other. Tyrion was pleasantly surprised to find out that he was drawn against Prince Perian. Seeing the draw, Perian smirked at Tyrion. He was obviously confident in his own prowess with a lance. All of the competitors then rode to the edges of the jousting area.

The first few bouts got under way with Prince Arhalien winning his easily. Tyrion had never seen another warrior use a lance so well. Prince Arhalien carried the lance as if it were an extension of his own body. He easily knocked aside his opponent’s shield and then unhorsed the elf as part of the same flowing motion.

Tyrion had to admit that he was not nearly so good. When he was much younger, he had practised with a lance. It was part of his image of being a knight. As his career as a warrior had progressed, he had gradually stopped practising in favour of using weapons that would stand him in better stead on the sort of battlefields he was fighting on.

He had simply allowed himself to be good enough, by his own admittedly high standards, but he could see that he was little better than average with a lance compared to his fellow competitors. It was an odd sensation for him to be forced to admit to the possibility of losing even before he started.

He concentrated very hard on the technique of the other riders as the jousting progressed. One of his many gifts was that, when it came to combat, he was able to see things that would have taken other elves a lifetime to notice with just a glance.

It did not take long to pick up the finer points of using a lance from studying these experts. He was even fairly sure that he would be able to duplicate their use of technique when his own turn came.

Some people in the crowd were shouting his name. He was a favourite with a large section of the crowd. A lot of the women present seemed to like him. Only the number of Prince Arhalien’s supporters seemed comparable. It was becoming obvious to Tyrion that on many levels and in many ways, Prince Arhalien was his true rival, no matter what Prince Perian thought.

After what seemed like an age, he and Prince Perian were called to face off against each other. Tyrion rode to one end of the jousting area and Prince Perian rode to the other. Tyrion waved at the crowd and was rewarded with cheers. Prince Perian did the same but his support was sparser.

The horns sounded. Tyrion applied his heels to the flanks of his horse and set it moving forward at a slow canter. It swiftly gained speed. The posts of the barrier blurred past.

Hoofbeats sounded like thunder in his ears. He was aware of the flow of muscles beneath him as his horse raced forward. The sun glittered on Prince Perian’s helmet and the wind pushed back its crest. Tyrion leaned forward in the saddle to make himself a smaller target.

Prince Perian and his horse grew in Tyrion’s field of vision. Tyrion dropped his lance into the attack position at the same time as his opponent. He angled his shield to deflect the blow that he fully expected to impact upon it.

This was as much about steadiness of nerve as it was about technique and skill. Now was the time when he would take the full measure of Prince Perian’s ability.

Just before the moment when the point of Prince Perian’s lance would impact upon his shield, Tyrion leaned slightly to one side and the lance skimmed past. Tyrion made no such mistake. His lance impacted squarely upon Prince Perian’s shield and sent him tumbling out of the saddle and sprawling into the hoof-churned mud.

The crowd roared. Tyrion was through into the next round.

Tyrion faced Prince Arhalien. It was the worst possible draw. Arhalien was much better on horseback than he was and much better with a lance. Still, there was nothing he could do about that, other than his best.

He did not feel full of confidence as he rode up to the lists. Realistically, his chances of winning were very small, although he knew that there was always a chance that luck or a mistake by his opponent would turn things his way.

Things were not over yet. He would do his best. It was all he had ever done. It was all he would ever do.

The crowd were silent as the two warriors rode into position. They sensed that this was an important fight, that these two contestants were the most likely candidates to become the next champion.

Tyrion had already proved his mastery with the sword. Prince Arhalien had proved his mastery with a lance. If Tyrion won this contest then he would establish that he was the victor in combat, the best warrior among all of the contestants.

If Prince Arhalien won then the two of them would be equally matched and it would come down to the choice of the Everqueen and her advisers as to who would become champion. Tyrion suspected that in that case he would not be the victor.

He needed to win here if he was going to win the tournament outright, and all of his previous ambivalence returned. He was not even sure that he wanted to win even now. He told himself that that was just an excuse that he was making to himself as a cover for potential defeat.

He took up his position at his end of the lists. He raised his lance into the classic position and, knowing all eyes were upon him, he made his steed rear and prance. Some of the crowd applauded, some of them waved, some of them cheered.

Prince Arhalien stood quietly at the far end of the tournament ground, waiting for the horns to sound with a quiet dignity that Tyrion envied. It was an unusual feeling for him.

At that moment in time, he realised that he had come to a crossroads in his life. Suddenly it was just there. The outcome of this contest was going to be very important for his future. All of his competitive instincts were engaged. He was going to win this.

The horns sounded. The horses thundered forward. The two warriors crashed together like comets colliding. For a brief, ecstatic moment Tyrion thought that he had his opponent, but at the last second Prince Arhalien raised a shield and deflected the tip of Tyrion’s lance.

Tyrion found himself flying through the air, twisting to avoid a bad landing. The wind went out of him as he hit the ground. The crowd roared and stamped and cheered and he realised that they were not roaring and stamping and cheering for him. They were chanting Prince Arhalien’s name.

Tyrion lay on the ground and looked at the sky. So this was what defeat felt like, he thought. Clouds drifted across his field of vision. He felt strangely relaxed and depressed and not a little angry with himself. Nonetheless, he forced himself to get to his feet and walk over to where Prince Arhalien waited and salute him with good grace. Prince Arhalien responded in kind and Tyrion resisted the urge to curse him.

Spectators ran onto the field to congratulate Prince Arhalien. They paid no attention to Tyrion as he limped away, pained and weary. For the rest of the long afternoon, he watched from the stands.

He had lost.

Chapter Twenty-Two

By the light of the full moon, Dorian watched the long columns of troops filter through the forest. The woods were dark and spectral, the trees huge and ancient. The druchii went without lights, relying on moonlight to illuminate their way. They moved mostly silently save for the occasional hissing of a Cold One. The great reptiles had been muzzled to stop them from bellowing.

Up ahead the assassins would be killing the sentries guarding the tournament grounds. Dorian looked over at Cassandra. Whatever doubts she might have had last night, there were none showing on her face. She looked calm and poised. Power glowed within her. She was ready to unleash deadly magic at the first sign of trouble.

Dorian felt unease in the pit of his stomach. He had to work hard to conceal it. If anything was going to go wrong, it would go wrong now. All it would take would be for one assassin to make a mistake, for one sentry to give the alarm…

And then what, he asked himself? What did it matter? This army was a huge force, disciplined and well-trained. Even if the alarm was given, what could the asur do against them? Individually they might be great warriors, but this was not going to be single combat.

Dorian knew that on the field of battle individual bravery counted for little if the tactics and formations were wrong. Even the greatest of warriors could be surrounded and cut down, or be shot from a distance or immobilised with spells or poisoned crossbow bolts. His force was well-equipped with all of those.

Perhaps the Everqueen would work some strange sorcery, or the enchantments that were said to surround her would overcome his troops. Dorian discounted that possibility. That was why Malekith had equipped them with those protective amulets.

The greatest danger was that some warning might reach the Everqueen and her bodyguard might spirit her away out of reach. If that happened Dorian had better fall on his sword, for the vengeance of Malekith would be swift and terrible. The Witch King rewarded failure with painful death.

Again and again, he went over things in his mind. He had prepared for every contingency he could think of. At least six companies would converge on the Pavilion Palace of the Everqueen. More warriors waited in the woods to scoop up anyone who fled.

The worst thing that was likely to happen was that the snatch would be bungled and the Everqueen would be shot down while trying to escape. He doubted Malekith would be overjoyed with that eventuality. Still, it would be preferable to letting Alarielle escape.

Be calm, he told himself. Nothing can possibly go wrong.

The night seemed astonishingly quiet after the clamour within the Everqueen’s Pavilion. Tyrion strolled through the darkness towards his tent. He felt odd after his defeat by Prince Arhalien. He was not used to being beaten, and beaten in such a public way. He had been subdued at the feasting and had not even risen to Prince Perian’s taunting. Fortunately the other elf did not seem to have much heart for it either. His defeat by Tyrion had put him well out of the running. His sneers did not have their usual confident edge.

All around, the elves were still revelling. A group of dancers skipped by, flowers wound into their hair, male and female intertwined. They had wineskins in their hands. One of them carried a lute. They begged Tyrion to accompany them but he turned them down as gracefully as he could. Tyrion wondered if he should seek out Lyla and distraction, but he was not in the mood. He wanted to return to his own tent and simply sleep.

Tomorrow, he would feel better. He looked up at the great moon that filled the sky. It seemed brighter here in Avelorn than it did elsewhere in Ulthuan. This place was so peaceful, he thought, so different from the hustle and bustle of Lothern. There were aspects of that he liked, that calmed his mind in a way that he had never felt it needed to be calmed before. It occurred to him that he would miss this place when he went away.

Atharis raised a goblet to him as he approached the tent. He lay there on a rug with the other members of Tyrion’s retinue, drowning his sorrows with narcotic wine. Tyrion smiled at them all and walked past. He was not in the mood for company.

He entered his tent and threw himself down on his sleeping mat. He pulled a blanket across him and lay there listening to the sounds of the night. After the events of the day sleep would not come.

Being within the silken walls of the tent did something to him. By restricting his field of vision it made his other senses more keen. He lay there in the dark, thinking about his life and what he was going to do with it after this.

If the Everqueen preferred Prince Arhalien, and it seemed only logical that she would, then he would return to Lothern and take up trading once more. He needed to rebuild his fortunes and some raiding of the coasts of Naggaroth seemed like a good way of doing that.

Druchii were on his mind, as he drifted off the edge of sleep’s precipice.

Dorian’s force exploded into the tournament camp. Many of the high elves were asleep alone, in pairs or in groups. Others were revelling still, drunk on wine and laughter. Most of them had no idea what was happening even as they witnessed it.

All they saw were warriors who looked like them coming out of the forest. No alarm had been given so they could not be a threat. But why then did the newcomers have naked blades in their hands…

The scene repeated itself a hundred times on Dorian’s way to the Pavilion Palace. Asur looked up surprised, dazed, a little confused. Sometimes they would smile as if they were witnessing a joke or a hallucination. Only a few looked frightened. Even fewer reached for weapons. Why should they? They were safe at the Everqueen’s court. No enemy could possibly reach them, and certainly not in such force.

Dorian had seen similar things countless times in the past on slave raids along the coasts of the Old World. It took time to adjust to bad news and no one wants to believe that terrible things can happen, even as the event unfolds before their very eyes.

The difference was that this time it was elves being taken off guard, knowing fear and surprise. It did not really make all that much difference. Taken off guard, most living things behave like sheep.

He led his guard company towards the great Pavilion, ignoring those who scrambled to get out of his way, knowing that the companies following him would deal with those.

Beside him, Cassandra’s face was calm. A slight smile played on her lips. Like him, she could see that this was going to work, that everything was going to be all right. Her hand still played with the amulet that Malekith had given them though.

He pushed on towards the tent, proud of the way his warriors marched in lockstep, spearing those asur who got too close, but otherwise concentrating on the objective and trusting in their comrades behind them to watch their backs. It was a very fine display of druchii discipline.

Somewhere off to the right someone screamed. There was a smell of burning on the wind. Things were starting to get out of control, he realised. People were starting to emerge from the tents to see what was happening. Many of them gawped. A few were cut down by crossbow bolts slashing out of the darkness. None of them seemed to have quite grasped what was going on yet.

The great Pavilion rose out of the darkness ahead of him. By Khaine, it was immense, the sort of thing Malekith might have taken into the field with him if he wanted to banquet his whole court. It was not a practical structure, not military, but it was beautiful. He could appreciate that as he looked upon it. The thing had been created with magic and with love to contain the living goddess of the asur.

A cruel smile twisted his lips. After tonight they would mourn the loss of their deity. She would be a slave of Malekith, bound to obey the Witch King’s every whim. Dorian wondered what it would be like to have a goddess as his slave. Perhaps he would find out for himself, if only for a short time.

Female warriors guarded the entrance of the Pavilion. They looked up as they saw Dorian’s force approach. Even at this distance he could see their eyes widen and read the expression on their faces. They were not quite sure what they were seeing, but they at least were on guard and they knew their duty. They raised warning horns to their lips to give the alarm. Crossbow bolts cut them down before they could sound it.

Dorian strode on, heading towards the entrance, pausing only to let his own guard precede him. As he did so, Cassandra gestured for him to halt, and cast a spell. The air glowed then she gestured for him to proceed. He was not sure what had happened but he had seen enough examples of her work in the past to know she did nothing without reason.

As they passed within, she said, ‘No deadly wards, only alarms. The Everqueen is too kind-hearted to risk the chance of any harm accidentally befalling her subjects.’

Dorian nodded to show he understood. The same could certainly not be said of their own rulers. He wondered what it must be like to live in a world where the kings and queens did not fear violent death at the hands of their subjects. He guessed he would never know.

After this campaign Malekith would rule the world and his word would be law everywhere.

Tyrion awoke from a troubled sleep, wondering what was happening. He could hear screams coming from all around him. He could smell burning, which seemed somehow obscene in this part of the sacred woods. Then he heard something else, something that chilled his blood, something he had heard in other parts of the world but that he had never thought to hear here – the war cries of dark elves.

His first thought was that it was some sort of joke. It did not seem possible that the sons of Naggaroth could’ve been able to penetrate so far into Ulthuan without any warning being given. In fact, it
was
impossible. Unless an entire army had been cloaked by some sort of invisibility spell, it could not be done. Even then he was fairly sure that magic on that scale would have been detected by the wizards of Ulthuan.

He shrugged. It was all very well telling himself that what he was hearing was impossible, but he was still hearing it. He had known warriors to die from simply standing around trying to decide how to react during a surprise attack. He was not going to be one of those.

Having come to a decision, the rest was easy. He buckled on the armour that was within his reach, unsheathed Sunfang and stepped out into the burning darkness. Corpses lay everywhere. Two of his companions lay with spear wounds in their sides. Atharis stared at the sky. He looked as if he might have been drunk, but there was a huge gash in his throat from which blood poured.

Shadowy figures erupted from the bushes around him. Bloody blades stabbed out at him. A warrior less quick of reflex would have died in that moment. Tyrion sprang lithely to one side, twisting to avoid a blow that should have gutted him.

Sunfang lashed out in response, leaving a blazing trail through the darkness. It crashed into the helmet of one dark elf warrior, cleaving it in two and splitting the skull beneath. Blood and brains flew everywhere, splattering against Tyrion’s chest and arm.

He did not let it slow him down. He kept moving, shifting his position to confuse his enemies, sending his blade flickering across their fields of vision, knowing that its light would ruin their night-sight and give him some slight advantage in the ensuing melee.

He was certain that his foes were dark elves now. They spoke with the accents of Naggaroth and their wargear bore its unmistakable stamp. They fought with the disciplined organisation so typical of the inhabitants of their dreary northern land.

These were hardened veterans. They responded to his actions quickly and well, not in the least taken aback to find themselves facing an opponent of his skill. The fury of his onslaught did not dismay them. They fell back before him, not panicking despite the fact that he slaughtered another two of them as they did so.

Lesser troops would have fled under the circumstances, to have the table so suddenly turned on them in the darkness, but these warriors held their ground as best they could and fought back with the fury of maddened panthers.

The foes he faced were only one small part of the attacking army. All around him he could hear the sounds of butchery taking place in the darkness and he could tell from the screams of the victims that most of those people dying were his own folk.

How many dark elves were there out there? Far more than there should have been, of that he was certain. Once again the thought returned to him that this was impossible, that these ruthless foemen could not be here and yet they were.

Even as he killed and killed again, the sheer impossibility of it bothered him. An army could not move in secrecy the way this one had done. Not unless sorcery was involved and sorcery on a scale that had rarely been seen in this world since the time of Aenarion.

There was something about the situation that nagged at him though, something familiar and yet strange that he felt he should be able to remember, and that he might possibly be able to do so if he were not fighting for his life.