by William King
An arrow whizzed out of the background and took the left-hand rider through the visor of his helmet. It was an awesome shot with an improvised bow.
The rider slumped in his saddle but his beast kept coming. Tyrion sprang, getting his foot into the stirrup of the dead rider’s saddle. He was just outside the range of the Cold One’s snapping jaws. He drew Sunfang across its throat, sawing with the blade so that even the cauterising effect of the magic could not seal the wound on its jugular.
As he did so, the last monster snapped at him and he just managed to pull his arm clear. Its teeth snagged on the sleeve of his jerkin and pulled him from the saddle. He twisted as the sleeve tore, dropping to the ground, facing the creature. Desperately he parried the rider’s attack. Steel clashed against steel as the blades met. The beast bit at him again and he jumped backwards, away from its snapping jaws.
Its rider applied his spurs to its flank and brought the Cold One jogging forwards. Tyrion noticed how slow its stride seemed compared to the distance it covered. Another arrow flashed past overhead, but this one was not so accurate or so lucky. It buried itself in the rider’s chest but was partially stopped by his armour. It put him off his stroke and enabled Tyrion to concentrate on avoiding his mount. He tried to hamstring the reptile but was too slow and merely scraped at its taloned heel. The Cold One buffeted him with its tail, sending him staggering backwards off balance. The strike hit him on his wounded side, and the pain was all but overwhelming. Sensing its advantage, the beast rushed closer, its jaws open wide, its foetid breath emerging in a poisoned cloud. Tyrion knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. He could barely move, so stunned was he.
Sunfang seemed to twist in his hand of its own accord until it was pointing directly at the onrushing Cold One.
Something sparked inside Tyrion’s mind. A connection was made with the blade. The flames blazing along its length intensified for a heartbeat, turning bright red and racing towards the blade’s tip, forming themselves into a sphere of fire. After a heartbeat, a fireball erupted from the sword, arced towards the Cold One and impacted in a huge explosion that sent the creature tumbling through the air to land in a fire-blackened heap.
Tyrion picked himself up groggily and stumbled over to Alarielle’s perch. She dropped lithely to the ground and raced over to him. ‘How did you do that? I thought you said you were no mage…’
‘It was not me, it was the sword,’ he said. ‘Some sort of spell was woven into it.’
The flames along the blade had died down now. They did not blaze with quite their normal intensity. The blade did not feel so light in his hand. He remembered Teclis’s warning that trying to summon the power within it too often would kill the spirits bound into it and make the sword useless.
‘I still don’t understand how you triggered it,’ Alarielle said.
‘Neither do I,’ said Tyrion. In the distance he could hear more Cold Ones bellowing, and the shrieks of the druchii infantry as they came closer. ‘We’ve got to go.’
They ran, with the hordes of Malekith howling at their heels.
Death looked over the gameboard at Caledor. He smiled appreciatively. ‘A good move,’ he said, ‘triggering the sword.’
‘Tyrion could have done that anyway,’ Caledor said. ‘I merely nudged his hand.’
‘Still, it’s fortunate that you did, or you might have lost one of your most powerful pieces.’
Caledor studied the board and the image of Tyrion sprang into his mind. The poisoned wound was still there, aggravated by Death’s magic. It could kill the elf prince at any time. A horde of pawns was closing in around Tyrion’s position.
‘I still might,’ Caledor said. ‘You have been playing very subtly yourself.’
‘Such is my nature,’ said Death.
He reached down and began moving more pawns. The net of living steel around Tyrion and the Everqueen started to tighten.
Ahead, the wide rushing river swept past Tyrion in a great curve, disappearing under the shadow of titanic trees. The branches of the largest trees overhung the river. Vines dangled down almost to the waters.
Behind them, he could hear the sounds of pursuit drawing closer. Tyrion’s side hurt from the running and the poisoned wound. He knew that he would not be able to go on for much further and still be able to fight – there was no chance of being able to overcome a force of the size that pursued them.
They did not have time to swim. The dark elves would be able to use their crossbows to shoot them before they reached the other bank. They might abstain from shooting Alarielle because she was the Everqueen, but they would certainly kill him.
He would have been willing to let that happen if he thought that it would enable her to get away, but he doubted that it would. They might shoot to wound her and that might have disastrous consequences. A wounded swimmer and a strong current were a recipe for disaster.
He looked over at Alarielle. She was as winded as he was from the long chase. Her breath came out in pants and sweat stained her clothes. Her hair was lank.
‘This is the Everflow,’ she said. ‘We used to come here when I was a girl.’
He smiled sourly. ‘That’s nice. Perhaps you would care to share the story with the dark elves when they get here. I’m sure they will be charmed.’
‘I think I will save my girlish reminiscences for more congenial company,’ she said. ‘We need to get across the river.’
‘A short swim would seem to be in order,’ said Tyrion.
‘You are in no condition to cross this river while wearing full armour. I have seen strong swimmers sucked under by the current here. I would not give a crumb of waybread for your chances.’
‘It is not beyond my wit to take off the armour.’
‘There is another way,’ she said. She looked up at the vines overhanging the river.
‘Are you serious?’ Tyrion asked.
‘We used to do it all the time when I was a child.’
‘I’m surprised your guardians let you.’
‘I never said anything about them letting me,’ she said, smiling.
‘You disobedient child,’ he said. Alarielle was already beginning to scramble up the nearest tree. Behind them he could hear the pursuit coming ever closer, the dark elves whooping with triumph, knowing that their prey was within easy reach and sensing the river had cut off their escape.
Tyrion followed her up the trunk of the great tree. Every time he tried to use his left arm, the pain in his side almost crippled him.
Slowly, painfully, he pulled himself up hand over hand. Alarielle was already poised, graceful as a gazelle, on the main branch above him.
He smelled the moss that clung to the side of the great tree. The tips of his fingers were green from the moist substance on the bark. His breath came in gasps.
He was grateful when she reached down and offered him her hand. She pulled him up with surprising strength. They stood looking into each other’s eyes for a long moment, then she turned and sprinted along the great branch, leaping into the air, reaching out and grasping the first vine. Her momentum carried her out over the great river and at the last second she let go, reaching out to grasp another vine. On and on she went, lithe as an acrobat, until she reached the far side and landed in the bole of one of the enormous trees.
Her passage had made his more difficult by setting the vines in motion. Now they were swinging backwards and forwards. He took a deep breath. He did not have much time. The dark elves would soon be upon them and he did not want them to notice how he and the Everqueen had disappeared.
He offered up a prayer to whatever gods might be listening and ran out along the branch. It was as wide as a footpath and solid as a rock at the point where he was upon it. He saw the first of the vines ahead of him and he sprang, reaching out to grasp it. Pain surged through his side as he put strain on his left arm. That accursed wound was going to be the death of him yet. He began to rotate; he knew that that would be bad because it would put him in the wron
g position when he needed to let go.
He twisted to get his line back and the pain in his side increased. He gritted his teeth and bit back a cry. Beneath him the waters of the great river surged. He noticed the rocks. If he let go now he would fall upon them and most likely be dashed to pieces.
He knew he was not doing this well. He was heavier than Alarielle and not in such good condition. He tried to judge when to let go through tears of pain. For a few seconds he was flying free over the waters far below, feeling out with his hands, desperate to grasp the next vine in the sequence.
There was a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach when he caught nothing, then a heartbeat later his fingers closed on something slick and green. He felt as if his arm was about to be torn from its socket by the strain.
His fingers slid and his hands burned from the friction, but he refused to give up and let go until the time was right. There were a few seconds of relief while he swung forwards, and then it was time to let go again.
It seemed as if his fingers were not about to respond. He forced them open and once more was flying through space. He could see that the vine was still swinging from Alarielle’s momentum. He prayed that it would move back into position in time for him to grasp it.
It began to swing back. He was still moving forwards. He was going to make it. He reached the furthest extent of his vine’s swing and let go. The other vine kept coming back towards him. He stretched out as far as he could, trying to catch it.
Closer it came, its path converging with his own. He stretched out farther, extending his fingers as far as he could, as if somehow that would give him the extra reach. It came to him then that he was not going to make it. He had already begun to fall through space towards the water below.
The vines swished past overhead. He wondered whether he had time to twist into diving position and whether the water was deep enough for it to make any difference. He tumbled like an gymnast, trying to get his feet below him. He could see the moving water and the rocks and the far side of the river – it was much closer now. He thought he caught sight of Alarielle’s horrified features. Everything seemed to slow down. He was abnormally aware of every motion and every muscle in his body.
The water rose to meet him. It smashed into his body with the force of a giant club. For a moment he thought he’d hit a rock, but then he was tumbling deeper and deeper into the water, his mouth filling with liquid, his eyes stinging.
All of the breath had been knocked out of him and he knew that he would not be able to survive long before drowning. He kicked out, hoping that his legs would still function, hoping that he was moving in the right direction, heading towards what he thought was the light.
His head broke the surface. He could feel the current pushing him downriver. He kicked out with his legs, trying to use his arms as little as possible to avoid irritating his wound. After what seemed like a very long time, he reached the far bank. Away on the other side, he could hear the dark elves shouting to each other.
It took what little strength he had remaining to pull himself up onto the bank and lie there, staring at the branches above him. Slowly, the sickening knowledge of his failure percolated into his mind. He had become separated from the Everqueen. She was out there now alone and hunted by her enemies.
Chapter Six
Caledor studied the gameboard, his attention momentarily away from Avelorn by the complexity of the action. It was becoming intricate and ever more confusing to follow. Armies moved all across the continent of Ulthuan.
He saw the Phoenix King in Lothern, looking from the great sea wall of the city. Out in the waters of the bay beyond lay not one but three Black Arks, mountainous druchii ships with their attending fleets of smaller vessels and sea monsters. The hills around the city were full of druchii soldiers. Siege engines sent fiery death hurtling towards the walls of the city-state. Sorcerers aimed deadly spells. Legions of tightly disciplined druchii hurled themselves at the gates while the asur fought against traitors within their own walls.
In the mountains, hordes of Chaos-worshipping barbarians chanted outside the walls of the mighty fortresses built by Caledor the Conqueror. Their armies had already overrun much of thinly populated Cothique and were ready to move south.
Along the coast of Tiranoc, druchii warships controlled the seas. The great fleets of the asur were rushing hither and yon in confusion, while the dark elves knew exactly what to do and where to strike.
Caledor sensed the disruption to the fabric of reality caused by N’Kari’s magical gates. The Witch King was using them to move his forces all too easily around Ulthuan. It gave him a great advantage, being able to take his foes by surprise and concentrate his forces wherever he wanted. Such mobility magnified the potency of his army many times over. Something needed to be done to neutralise it, but that could be achieved by nothing less than the destruction of N’Kari, and that was not a feat that many of Caledor’s pieces were capable of, and none of them were in the area of the city.
He knew he should not allow himself to be distracted. There were things that needed to be done. He reached down and picked up the piece called Teclis.
Teclis woke. His mouth felt dry and his head felt fuzzy. His thoughts came with uncharacteristic slowness. On the table in front of him was a book of spells, and diverse other things including High Loremaster Morelian’s translation of the Slann tablet Teclis had found in the ruins of Zultec. It all came back to him. He was in a chamber that was part of the Maze of Books below the White Tower of Hoeth.
Teclis shook his head. It was a mistake. The contents of his stomach roiled volcanically and for a moment the room tilted. It was more than just his physical frailty reasserting itself. It was something else, a reaction to his dream, if dream it had been, and he was enough of a sorcerer to very strongly doubt that. It had seemed so real, so concrete.
Had he really talked to the Archmage Caledor, an elf more than six thousand years dead? Had he spoken to the ghost of the creator of the Vortex, the huge spell that kept Ulthuan above the waves and the world safe from being overwhelmed by the dark cosmic magic of Chaos? Had the archmage really told him to protect his brother Tyrion, when all his life it had been Tyrion who had protected him?
It all seemed so unlikely, yet he did not doubt its reality for a moment. He had been given a warning and he had better deliver it at once to the head of his order. He had been sent to tell the High Loremaster to prepare for war.
He felt something else, a premonition of disaster even stronger than the one that had been hanging over him ever since he and his brother had returned to Ulthuan from the jungles of Lustria. He rose unsteadily to his feet, picked up the papers on the table and made for the exit of the small chamber, praying that this time he did not get lost in the spell-warped maze beneath the tower.
The corridors did not twist and turn around him in a way that would baffle his senses. Spells did not prevent him from finding the stairwell that led back up into the library.
Even as he emerged into the great book-filled chambers, his sense of unease grew stronger. The rooms were deserted. He had never seen that before. It seemed somehow unnatural that there should be no scholar in the Great Library at Hoeth. He doubted that such a thing had happened in an age of the world. There was always someone in the library, no matter at what hour of the day or night.
It was as if some great disaster had struck Hoeth while he was in the Maze of Books. For a brief moment, Teclis entertained the fantasy that some dreadful magical catastrophe had swept through the White Tower and he was the only survivor.
Impossible, he told himself. No enemy could have found their way to the tower. It was warded by some of the most powerful protective enchantments ever created, surrounded by spells that could deflect even the most terrible curses and destructive spells.
Nothing could possibly have happened. Could it?
As he emerged from the library, Teclis was relieved to see a Sword Master, one of the warrior-guardians of the tower. The
elf seemed surprised to see Teclis. It looked like he had not expected to encounter anyone coming from the library.
‘What is going on?’ Teclis asked.
‘Haven’t you heard the news?’ The Sword Master asked.
‘What news?’ Teclis asked.
‘Avelorn has been attacked! The Everqueen is dead! So is everyone with her!’
Teclis’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the guardian. He shook his head. ‘That cannot be true! My brother is there.’
‘The word just came in an hour ago,’ said the Sword Master. ‘It was brought by one of the eagles of the forest. The Loremasters have verified it with their scrying crystals.’
Unbidden, the image of his brother’s body lying sprawled in a pool of blood came into his mind. He shuddered. He told himself that was only his imagination. It was not a vision. He took a deep breath and tried to calm his racing senses. He was sweating. His heart raced.
It was impossible that Tyrion could be dead without him knowing. And yet, what if he was wrong? The powerful wards that surrounded the Tower of Hoeth might stop him from sensing such a thing. Perhaps this was the reason he felt so bad and had such a strong sense of foreboding.
He refused to believe it. The bond that existed between him and his twin ran deep. There was no barrier it could not penetrate. He was certain of that. Tyrion could not be dead. He would not believe that until he looked upon his brother’s corpse with his own eyes.
Even thinking that felt like a betrayal. It was admitting the possibility that the guard might be right and that he might be wrong.
‘What happened?’ He felt like taking the guard by the collar of his jerkin and shaking him until he answered.
‘The dark elves attacked.’
‘The druchii attacked Avelorn? Nonsense!’ Teclis almost shouted. He could hear the almost hysterical edge to his own voice. It was simply impossible that a dark elf army could have got so far into Ulthuan.