by William King
‘It was the dark elves,’ said the guard. ‘And they did not just attack Avelorn. Their fleets are at sea off our coasts and their armies have attacked in other places. The news keeps coming in and none of it is good.’
‘Where?’ Teclis demanded. He felt as if he were caught up in a nightmare. Last night he had gone to sleep in a land of peace and plenty. He had woken up in a land torn by war. His mind rebelled against the very thought of it. It was as if thunder and lightning had come out of an empty sky in which there had not been a single cloud. It was impossible, simply impossible.
The Witch King could not have prepared an invasion fleet without it being noticed. Naggaroth’s ports were constantly watched. He could not have built up a fleet without it being noticed by the scout ships of the high elves. No army could have found its way into the very heart of Elvendom in so short a time without being spotted by a single person. A legion of Shadow Warriors could not have achieved this goal, let alone an army of heavily armoured dark elves. Even Teclis knew that and he was no soldier.
Yet, in spite of all this, there was a Sword Master standing in front of him telling him that Avelorn was invaded and that his brother and the Everqueen were dead. He forced himself to get a grip on his racing thoughts.
‘I must have words with the High Loremaster,’ Teclis said.
‘Good luck with that,’ said the guard. ‘Everyone feels the same today.’
‘Then I had best get going,’ Tyrion said. He strode off through the oddly deserted paths of Hoeth.
As he walked through the tower, Teclis understood where everyone had gone. All of the students, all of the masters, all of the guards and all of the elves who served them had gathered in the great open spaces. All of them were talking of the attacks and all of them looked frightened.
As well they might, Teclis thought. No such invasion of Ulthuan had happened in their lifetimes. Everyone has assumed the druchii were a spent force. No one had wanted to think otherwise.
Teclis overheard scraps of conversation. It seemed that rumour bred rumour and no one had any idea what might be true or false.
‘An army of Chaos worshippers has landed in the north.’
‘A thousand daemons lay siege to Lothern.’
‘A million barbarians with Morathi at their head are riding to Hoeth and will not be turned aside by the warding spells.’
‘The High Loremaster is working magic to scry the land.’
‘The Vortex is failing. The ghost of Caledor himself has spoken to a dozen people in the tower.’
Crowds surged around the doorway of the High Loremaster’s chambers. It seemed everyone wanted an interview. Everyone had questions. Everyone had something to say. Even in the most secure heart of the tower there was an aura of panic and fear.
Belthania emerged from the Loremaster’s sanctum and caught sight of him. The tall sorceress gestured for him to come over. Teclis was not strong enough to elbow his way through the crowd and it would not part for him. Belthania gestured to someone within the office. Two Sword Masters emerged and began to force a way through the crowd for him.
A short minute later he was within Morelian’s chambers. The High Loremaster looked up at him. He had looked old the last time Teclis had seen him, but appeared to have aged centuries within the past few hours. His already ancient frame seemed withered and bent almost double. The Sword Master slammed the door shut as soon as they entered and the hubbub from the corridors and chambers beyond subsided to nothing. A spell was at work there, Teclis realised.
‘I can tell from your expression you have heard the news,’ said Morelian.
Teclis said, ‘My brother was in Avelorn.’
‘Then he is most likely dead,’ said Belthania.
‘I would know if he was.’
‘Where have you been? No one has seen you for hours. I have had people searching,’ Morelian said.
‘Why?’
‘I had a peculiar dream concerning you.’
‘What was its import?’
‘The Archmage Caledor spoke to me. He told me you would be going on a journey, one very important to us all, and that I was to see you were prepared for it.’
‘I too had the same dream,’ said Belthania. ‘As did every other Loremaster in the tower.’
‘And all of those scattered across Ulthuan, for all we know,’ said Morelian.
‘I see,’ said Teclis. ‘If one Loremaster has a dream it may be meaningless. If all of them have the same dream – it is significant.’
‘It was more than a dream,’ said Morelian. ‘It felt extraordinarily real. I stood near the centre of the world and watched the ghosts of the Five enspell the Vortex. And they were failing.’
‘I saw the same thing,’ said Belthania.
‘When did this happen?’
‘In the small hours of the morning. After we last talked.’
Teclis nodded. ‘That would be after I cast the spell.’
‘What spell?’
‘I was lost in the Maze of Books. I found a chamber and in that chamber was an ancient spell. I was compelled to cast it by some force. I could not have stopped myself even if I had wanted to. I thought the spell affected only me but it seems that it reached out to all of you as well.’
‘Those of the Loremasters who were not asleep fell into a faint,’ said Morelian. ‘When they came out of it, they too had seen the same thing as the rest of us. That would explain it.’
‘It might mean nothing,’ said Teclis. ‘It might be the work of the enemy.’
‘No inimical power has ever reached into Hoeth.’
‘There is a first time for everything,’ said Teclis. His two fellow Loremasters looked disturbed by that prospect.
‘I do not believe it possible,’ said Morelian eventually. ‘And if it was, why afflict us with such a vision? Why not something that would be of more material assistance to our enemies?’
‘Indeed,’ said Belthania. ‘I am willing to believe this spell of yours contributed to the vision, but I doubt anything hostile was behind it. I am more likely to believe it was the spirit of the tower itself helping us in our time of need. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that this happened at the same time as Avelorn must have been attacked.’
‘Not just Avelorn,’ said the High Loremaster. ‘Lothern, Tor Yvresse, Mancastra and a dozen other places. All of Ulthuan is besieged by the dark elves and their Chaos-worshipping allies. The Everqueen is missing, presumed dead. There are rumours of treachery everywhere. Members of the Cult of Luxury have risen up to aid the invaders. This is the gravest threat Ulthuan has faced since the Sundering.’
‘And yet in the middle of this, Caledor, if Caledor it was, chooses to tell you that I will be going on a journey. You would have thought he would have more important things on his mind.’
‘This is not a subject for jest, Teclis,’ said Morelian. ‘The first archmage must have known we would find out all the rest for ourselves soon enough. It is a mark of your importance in the great scheme of things that he chose to speak to us about you.’
‘Why me?’ Teclis asked.
‘You are of the Blood of Aenarion,’ said Belthania.
‘And you and your brother are heroes,’ said Morelian.
‘I am no hero,’ said Teclis.
‘If you are not now, I fear you will be before all of this is over,’ said Morelian.
‘I am going to find my brother,’ Teclis said. ‘And to do that I will need a weapon.’
‘We shall see what we can provide,’ said Morelian.
‘I shall make my own sword,’ said Teclis.
‘Then you had best get started,’ said the High Loremaster.’ I shall see that a forge is put at your disposal.’
Quickly Teclis took a fresh piece of parchment and sharpened a quill before dipping it in ink and sketching out the runes and magical equations that would be needed to make the sword. For long hours he sat hunched over the desk in his chamber, working swiftly and easily.
He ha
d studied Sunfang and he felt certain that he could duplicate at least part of the magic that had gone into creating it. The basic spells that would go to making the blade sharp and deadly would need to be every bit as potent and as well constructed as the magic of Caledor.
As he worked he wondered why he was really doing this. He did not have any great use for a blade – he was no warrior. He had no plans to run around like his brother, cutting things up with a sword. The only thing he was likely to be able to hurt was himself.
Anything that had got close enough to him that he would need to use a sword upon was already too close. He did not need to do anything as spectacular as the fire magic that had been woven into the sword. That would be difficult to do without access to the volcanic fires of Vaul’s Anvil. He was no warrior and he did not really need the blade to do anything so spectacular anyway.
It was the creation of the sword itself that was important. It was a test that he had set himself. If he could recreate this part of Caledor’s work, he could recreate other parts, at least that was what he told himself. He was setting himself on the same path as that great master-wizard. He was making a statement to himself and to the world about what he could do and what his intentions were.
In the end, it did not really matter what his motivation was. What mattered was that he completed the work he had set himself. The mystical diagrams and the potent incantations flowed freely onto the parchment, seeming almost to write themselves. He kept at work long into the night, using more and more parchment, constantly having to sharpen the nib of his quill, burning the candles in his chamber low.
Dawn was breaking by the time he had completed his work, but he did not feel tired. It was not merely the drugs that he used to give himself energy that made him feel so lightheaded. He had a sense he was becoming the person that he was intended to be; finally he was on the right path to fulfilling his destiny. Making this blade just felt right.
This was a sword that would never lose its sharpness no matter what it was used to cut and which would be able to cut through almost anything. It did not really matter to him that he had no real use for it – it was something that he could build upon, a structure into which you could eventually fit other spells in exactly the same way that Caledor had.
Yet even as he completed the design, a vague sense of dissatisfaction filled him. He was merely recreating the work of another. What he had done was a work of genius, but it was a work of someone else’s genius. It pleased him to be able to do this, but he knew that he would never be truly happy until he had managed to create a work of equal magnitude of his own. He wanted to make his own masterpiece.
As that thought occurred to him, a sardonic smile twisted his lips. He could see where that path was eventually going to lead him. He was putting himself in competition with the greatest mage who had ever lived. Caledor’s masterpiece was the Vortex, a spell that had saved the entire world and which even to this very day protected his homeland.
How could you compete with that?
He already felt certain that he was going to try and find a way. He strode down to the forges.
It took long hard hours wielding the heavy hammer, sweating at the forge, using all his strength while weaving potent enchantments into the metal. It required him to perform two very difficult tasks at once, and it taxed his mental and physical strengths to the limit. By the time the finished blade gleamed in his hand he was exhausted – it was all he could do to drag himself to his chambers and throw himself upon his bed. Sleep took him almost instantly. Visions of Tyrion and the Everqueen being pursued through dense forests by armies of druchii dogged him. Over everything loomed two gigantic figures: one was robed and cowled and radiated a chill aura of deadly power, the other was the Archmage Caledor. They seemed to be involved in some titanic battle of wills, and he knew he was part of that struggle.
He awoke with a growing sense that time was running out.
Chapter Seven
‘I cannot say I am pleased to lose you,’ said Morelian as Teclis entered his chamber. He glanced significantly at the new blade that hung scabbarded at Teclis’s side. ‘Your power and your skill could be of great use here in Hoeth.’
‘The tower does not need another defender,’ said Teclis, wondering why the High Loremaster had summoned him.
‘That remains to be seen,’ said Morelian, although he did not say it loudly lest they be overheard. ‘In any case, I have some gifts for you to use on your quest.’
‘Any help will be gratefully received,’ said Teclis.
‘I suspect you will need all of it by the end of your journey. I fear you go along a very dark road.’
‘Your words are not calculated to improve my morale.’
‘You are not riding into such circumstances that overconfidence would be justified.’
‘I trust that your gift does not consist merely of advice, no matter how well meant. If you continue in this vein it may discourage me from departing entirely.’
‘Hopefully you will find this a somewhat greater mark of my faith in you,’ said the High Loremaster. From behind his desk, he produced a helmet that Teclis recognised. It was a winged crown that had once sat in the vaults beneath the tower.
‘The War Crown of Saphery,’ he said. It was difficult to keep the awe from his voice. ‘You’re placing a mighty trust in me.’
‘Let us hope that it is justified,’ said Morelian. He raised the crown reverently with both hands and placed it upon Teclis’s head. Almost at once, Teclis felt a difference. His eyesight and his hearing both became much keener. He could see the High Loremaster’s face in much more detail than he had ever been able to do before, with his weak eyesight. Concern was written in the old elf’s face, and something else too, something like respect.
‘I will do my best to see that it is,’ Teclis said. His own voice sounded different now. It was louder and more decisive. He was much more aware of the flow of magical energy about him. He was not entirely sure of all that the crown was doing for him, but he was certain that it was enhancing his power in many ways.
‘It is a princely gift,’ Teclis said.
‘Think of it more as a loan,’ the High Loremaster said. ‘For as long as you live, you will hold it in trust for the tower. On your death, it will be returned to us.’
‘It shall be as you say,’ Teclis said. ‘And once again I must express my gratitude. Never did I expect to be granted such a boon.’
‘It may well be that you carry the destiny of us all with you,’ said the High Loremaster. ‘It is the least that I can do. And it is not the only thing. Come with me.’
He led Teclis from his chambers and by devious and secret ways took him out of the tower, avoiding the throngs that sought audience with the High Loremaster. Two Sword Masters dogged their steps. It was a measure of the High Loremaster’s worries that even here in the tower, bodyguards followed him everywhere.
Had things really come to this, Teclis wondered?
They emerged into the sunlight. The day was bright and beautiful and one would never have suspected that somewhere far-off wars were being fought and elves were dying. The High Loremaster trudged on, leaning on his staff, and Teclis was all too aware of how old Morelian was and what a great weight of responsibility pressed down upon his shoulders.
They came eventually to the open fields where many beasts grazed. They passed the corrals in which the steeds of the Sword Masters were penned. They came at last to an oddly constructed stable on the very outskirts of the tower’s domain. From inside came the whinny of a great horse. It seemed to greet the High Loremaster as if the beast was welcoming an old friend.
‘Peace be upon you, Silver Wing,’ the High Loremaster said. The horse snorted in response, or at least Teclis thought it was a horse until he entered the stable. Then he saw it was something quite different.
In some ways it looked like a great white stallion, as noble a beast as he had ever seen. It looked old but still very strong. In one important way it differe
d from a normal horse. Two great wings were folded against its flanks and when it reared to welcome its master, the wings extended and their flapping sent great gusts of air billowing around the room, making the wizard’s robes flutter.
Morelian said, ‘Silver Wing and I are old friends. He carried me on many a quest when we were both younger. He will bear you on this one at least as far as Avelorn.’
Teclis knew that he should feel grateful, and he did, but he could not express his gratitude. He found the prospect of riding upon this great beast terrifying. It could bear him to Avelorn faster than any horse could. It would take him through the air with the speed of a bird.
That was the problem. Just the thought of getting into the saddle and riding through the sky almost paralysed him with fear.
‘You do not seem entirely enthusiastic,’ the High Loremaster said. ‘I confess I had expected a somewhat greater display of gratitude. It is not every day that Silver Wing extends this privilege.’
Teclis considered his words with care. ‘I am grateful to you both. I was merely overwhelmed by the immensity of the favour that you’re doing me.’
‘That and something else,’ the High Loremaster said. He looked as if he was struggling to keep from smiling. ‘I can tell.’
Teclis decided that it would be simplest not to conceal his reservations. ‘I find the prospect of flying more than a little daunting. I might even go as far as to say I find it terrifying.’
‘I felt exactly the same way the first time I ever had to bestride a pegasus.’
‘Without wishing to insult Silver Wing or demean the generosity of your offer, perhaps it would be better if I took a normal horse to Avelorn.’
‘I was under the impression that every minute, every second, counted.’ Teclis got the impression that this evil old elf was rather enjoying his discomfiture. ‘I thought there was not a moment to be wasted.’
‘And indeed, this is the case,’ Teclis said. ‘On the other hand, it would probably be for the best if I actually arrived in Avelorn and did not fall out of the saddle as I streaked through the sky.’