by William King
He hated this feeling of weakness, of not being able to do anything. He clenched his teeth and fought down the urge to punch the ground with his fist. That really would not do him any good at all, given the condition of his hands. He was suddenly aware of what a fragile thing his body was.
He had never felt this way before. It had not taken much to transform him from an efficient fighting machine into something barely capable of movement. All it had taken was a little hardship, a little cold and the strangling strength of the river.
He looked at where the witch elf’s blade had bitten into his side. The wound had gone a strange colour around the edges, a sort of blackish-purple, and the area was strangely tender. Worse than that, it felt as if something in it was draining the strength from his body. It seemed all too likely that he had been poisoned, and there really wasn’t anything he could do about it.
Perhaps his aunt or Teclis would know what to do – they were alchemists after all. He had no such knowledge. He knew only the basics of field medicine that any elven soldier picked up on campaign.
Sitting here feeling sorry for himself was not going to achieve anything. He needed to do something. The heat from his sword had given him back a portion of his strength. He would wait until his clothing was dry and then he would set out in search of Alarielle, although he had no idea where he could find her.
Having made that resolution, he felt a little bit better. He wished he had something to eat but there was nothing. At least there was no shortage of water, he told himself. He supposed that given some time he might be able to catch fish in the river, although he was not sure, given the speed of the current.
It was dark by the time his clothes had dried. His blade crackled with its flames, sending shadows dancing away from him. He knew he really should put it back in its scabbard, for its light would probably attract pursuers. The small windbreak that he had created from his clothing would shield it from certain angles, but all it would take would be the Cold One riders to turn up the path they had been following and they would see it. He did not fancy fleeing from one of those hunting reptiles through the dark. It would be able to track him by scent. There was something unnerving about the prospect of being pursued through the night-shrouded woods by one of those great cold-blooded monsters.
He rose and donned his shirt and leather underjerkin and then put on the mail shirt. It jingled slightly when he moved and the noise was all the more noticeable at night. He wondered why that was – why did sound always seem so much louder at night? No doubt Teclis would have some explanation – he always did. All Tyrion ever really had were questions.
He picked up the blade and put it back in its scabbard. Suddenly the night seemed very cold, colder than it ought to have. He was almost tempted to draw the blade again so that he would have more light, but that was madness. He stood there waiting for his eyes to adjust, letting himself become more accustomed to the shadowy mass of the woods around him. Nearby the river continued to race by. The sound of water on rocks was like quiet thunder.
Tyrion figured that he would need to head back the way he had come to pick up the Everqueen’s trail. She had been north of him when they had tried to cross the river and it seemed only logical that she still would be. Of course, it was always possible that she had somehow passed him by in the darkness. He dismissed such thoughts from his mind. If he allowed them to influence his decision, he would never do anything.
Tyrion considered his options. It seemed foolish to be blundering around in the dark, wearing the armour of a dark elf. If Alarielle saw him she may put an arrow through him. If a druchii saw him, he might be mistaken for a deserter. His disguise certainly had not fooled the Cold Ones, so it was not a great deal of use to him under the present circumstances.
On one hand, the mail shirt was certainly useful as armour, but then again it was noisy and might give away his position when he was trying to move stealthily. Reluctantly, he decided that he would need to get rid of it. Stealth was more important than protection at this point, and the truth of the matter was that the armour was hurting his wounded side and its extra weight was slowing him down.
He decided he would keep the leather underjerkin because it offered a measure of protection and did not make any noise when he moved. The dark elf helmet was of a very distinctive shape and if Alarielle saw him it might cause her to mistake him for one of the enemy. He decided that he could not afford that either. She knew his face and it would be best if she could see it.
He took the armour he was going to discard, wrapped the helmet in the mail shirt and tossed it out into the river. He did not want to leave it here because it might give away his position to the Cold Ones when they returned. It was best to leave as few clues as possible behind him.
He felt better for not carrying the extra weight, and made his way down onto the trail. He discovered some evidence of the Cold Ones’ passage almost immediately. Large lumps of excrement, foul-smelling in the extreme, dotted the path.
He kept moving, keeping to one side of the trail, so that he could dive into the undergrowth as quickly as possible. His night vision was good, even for an elf, so he did not have much trouble picking his way along in the darkness now that his eyes had adapted to the lack of light.
He paused now and again to listen, filled with foreboding that some enemies might be creeping up on him in the dark. At night, small sounds filled the forest. A white owl passed by overhead, gliding on silent wings, seeking its prey among the shadows. Tyrion felt a certain sympathy for the creatures it hunted. Occasionally, he caught the glitter of bestial eyes in the undergrowth. A fox, perhaps or maybe a wild dog. Whatever it was, it was silent and it retreated as he approached.
As he marched along, a sense of futility overcame him. What was he doing? He was never going to be able to find Alarielle in this gloom. She must be leagues away, or perhaps she was in the clutches of Malekith’s minions. He could pass her in the darkness if she lay sleeping, and the chances were that he would never spot her. Nonetheless, some instinct told him to keep moving. It was his nature to do so anyway. He preferred action to inaction. At least this way he felt as if he was doing something and he was, in some small way, master of his fate.
He wondered if he should call out to her in the darkness, perhaps just whisper her name quietly, but this too struck him as a species of madness. It was the counsel of desperation. He was infinitely more likely to give away his position to any hunters that might be looking for him in the night.
He told himself that he was over-thinking things. Why should the dark elves be abroad now? They would most likely be making camp and laying themselves down to sleep, which is what he would be doing if he had any sense. Nonetheless, by the light of the fading moon, he kept walking, and occasionally when instinct told him that he was safe, he whispered the name of the Everqueen as if it was a talisman or a desperate prayer.
In his hand he clutched a dagger, and held himself ready to lash out at anything that might spring upon him from the darkness. He almost hoped that something would attack. At least it would break the tension, and it would give him a sense that he was not alone in the night.
He wondered how many other people were abroad in the darkness. Not too many, he suspected. If they were, they were likely to be enemies. He told himself that he was being too pessimistic. It was possible that there were other elves friendly to the Everqueen in this forest. Not all of them could have been massacred or captured by the dark elves back when they attacked the great tournament grounds. Perhaps there were even natives of Avelorn in this area who had not been at the tournament.
Of course, if that was the case, it was more than likely that the Cold Ones had scented them and they were now dead. It galled him to be wandering on his own through the night when his homeland was under attack by their ancient enemies. He wished that he was with an army right now, getting ready to fight against the invaders.
Perhaps there was no army anywhere in Ulthuan capable of fighting any more. The en
emy had reached the heart of Avelorn and had almost succeeded in capturing its queen without anyone opposing it. Perhaps the same thing had happened elsewhere. Perhaps the armies of the Phoenix King had been taken completely off guard and overwhelmed by the same sorcery that had allowed the dark elves to penetrate so far into the forest kingdom.
He dismissed such speculation as futile. It could not be so. There were not enough druchii in Naggaroth to overwhelm all of the elven lands. Somebody, somewhere must be fighting against them, and while they did so, there was hope. Tyrion smiled sourly. It was one thing to tell himself that logically this must be the case. It was another thing entirely to make himself believe it, in the night, while hunger gnawed at his belly, and the witch blade’s poisoned wound sapped his strength.
From up ahead came the sound of voices.
Tyrion could see a fire and hear the muffled, rasping breath of the Cold Ones. He paused, fearing that it was already too late to avoid detection and that at any moment the creature’s bellowing would give the alarm and warn their riders of his presence.
He froze, becoming just another shadow amid shadows. No alarm was given. No monster sprang to life. The rhythm of their breathing was undisturbed. They were either asleep or made sluggish by the darkness. He let out his breath in a long, soft sigh, and crept forwards. He could see a group of druchii knights gathered around a fire. Their great mounts were tethered to metal stakes driven into the ground close at hand.
Slowly, carefully, Tyrion moved closer, writhing along on his belly, balancing himself on his palms. He got so close he could make out the features of the dark elves around the fire. They had removed their helmets so they could eat, and that action made them seem strangely vulnerable. They could have been elf soldiers anywhere on the seven continents, fighting a war far from home. Just watching their familiar actions gave Tyrion an odd pang of homesickness for the camps he had known.
One of them was leaning forwards, turning the corpse of some small animal on a stick-spit. Another was passing around his flask. From where he crouched, Tyrion could smell the alcohol. Two more were lying on the ground, looking at the stars. Another, the loner of the group, sat on a log and whittled something from a twig with his knife. It did not seem possible, looking at this homely scene, that these were the same fierce invaders who had killed so many at the tournament grounds.
And yet, they were.
If he wanted, he could take them by surprise. He could kill them all before they realised what was happening. It would be easy. He would circle the fire and take the first two from behind, then kick the embers of the fire on the ones facing them. A few strides and he would skewer them, leaving only the whittler and the ones on the ground. He had no doubt he could handle them, even in his weakened state, provided their beasts did not wake and join the fight.
There was nothing to be gained from doing so though, other than the slaking of the thirst for revenge that burned in his gut. He might even get himself killed, which would do no one, not the Everqueen and certainly not himself, any good. He had established that Alarielle was not their prisoner at least, which was one thing. He could be on his way.
Yet something held him in place. Perhaps it was loneliness. He found himself drawn to the fire and to vicariously participating in the soldiers’ comradeship, and he was reluctant to leave just yet and wander off into the darkness.
‘Do you think we’ll find them?’ one of the dark elves asked.
‘They are leagues away if they have any sense,’ the whittler replied. Tyrion knew his type. There was always one in every group, the loner, the one who had to be negative, who needed to bring his comrades down.
‘What would you do with the reward?’ the drinker asked.
‘Forget the reward. I would just like to get my hands on the Everqueen for a few hours,’ said another soldier.
‘A few minutes,’ one of his companions said.
‘A few seconds more likely,’ said Whittler.
‘You had better hope those seconds are worth it,’ said one with the voice of authority and the badges of a leader. ‘She is to be returned to Malekith untouched and unharmed. I think the Witch King wants to bed her himself.’
This led to a burst of ribald speculation. ‘Soon we might have two queens in Naggaroth,’ Whittler said.
‘The gods preserve us, one is enough,’ said Drinker. ‘Not that I would kick Morathi out of bed, you understand.’
‘That’s very generous of you,’ said Whittler.
‘I am free with my favours,’ said Drinker, ‘although not as free as she is.’
‘You have not had seven thousand years of practice.’
‘Well, tomorrow we have another chance at the reward, if the trackers have not already found our high, bitch-goddess majesty,’ said the leader.
‘I thought Morathi was in the north, selecting some new barbarian lovers for her harem,’ said Drinker.
‘I was talking about the Everqueen, as I am sure you would realise if you were sober.’
‘Which way did the scouts go?’ asked one of the sleepers lying on the ground.
‘You know what they are like. They are always creeping about, going their own way without anyone seeing them.’
‘I thought we had them today,’ said Drinker. ‘When old Sharptooth caught the scent. I didn’t think anything on two legs could get away.’
‘And yet somehow they did,’ said Whittler. ‘And they killed three good riders while they were doing it.’
‘They say Harek and his boys were burned by magic,’ said one of those on the ground. ‘You think this famous warrior is also a sorcerer?’
‘I don’t know. I heard he walked into the pavilion and slaughtered the general’s bodyguard all on his own. He was carrying a burning blade, just like the one Aenarion used to carry before he picked up the Sword of Khaine.’
‘Maybe it was Aenarion,’ said Whittler, with heavy sarcasm. ‘Maybe he returned from wherever he flew off to just to save the Everqueen.’
The silence that fell told Tyrion that Whittler had said the wrong thing. Not even those sacrilegious druchii wanted to hear jokes about Malekith’s father. Or contemplate the prospect of his return.
‘We’d better set some watches,’ said Leader. ‘I would not want to be taken off guard, just in case this famous warrior comes for us.’
Tyrion knew a cue when he heard one. He left their corpses for the Cold Ones to feast on.
Chapter Nine
‘You seem unable to resist slaughtering things, Prince Tyrion,’ said a voice from behind him.
Tyrion turned to see the Everqueen standing there. She held her makeshift bow in her hand and she looked ready to use it. He was not sure whether she intended to use it on him.
‘In case you had not noticed, your serenity, these are our enemies,’ Tyrion said. ‘Or they were.’
‘You’re leaving a trail of dead bodies around Avelorn that a blind elf could follow,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you ought to learn some self-restraint.’
‘At least I had made it easy for you to find me,’ he said. ‘I presume you sought out the sounds of carnage.’
‘I was looking for you,’ she said. She moved over to the pile of corpses that Tyrion had left and inspected them distastefully. It was not a pretty sight.
‘Well, you found me, though it took you long enough.’
‘I was pursued by an army of dark elves,’ she said. ‘I had to flee before them and then double back.’
‘How did you escape them? I thought those Cold Ones would never give up, once they got your scent.’
‘I took to the trees. Some of them grow very high here, and I think that kept me out of range of the hunters’ nostrils. I came back here by climbing through the branches over their heads.’
‘Very clever,’ he said. ‘I see I was wasting my time worrying about you.’
‘Here’s an idea you might like to drive into your head, Prince Tyrion. I was born here. I grew up in these woods. I know how to take care of myself
. More than you do, it seems.’
Tyrion thought back over the events of the day. ‘You’re right. I am more at home on a battlefield than being pursued through a forest. My instinct is to turn and fight. It galls me to have to watch these scum overrun our homeland.’
‘As it does me, Prince Tyrion. But there is a time to fight and a time to flee, and I think we both know which time this is.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘I doubled back along the trail. I looked down the river to the place where it seemed most likely you had come out of the water.’
‘Did you find my trail?’
‘No. I am no great tracker. I could not follow in this light.’
‘And yet you found me.’
‘It was simple enough. I merely asked myself what I would do if I were you. And naturally I found you slaughtering dark elves, so my method was proved correct.’
‘You’re being too glib.’
‘I thought you would head north, looking for me. You seem determined to be my protector.’
‘And you obviously don’t need one.’
‘I think we both need one. I lack your talent for killing things. You leave a trail through the woods that a child could follow, at least a child of my people. We have to assume that the dark elves have trackers just as competent.’
‘I stand chastened,’ he said. ‘What do you suggest we do?’
‘I suggest we search these bodies for supplies. They most likely have some things that we need. After that, I suggest we leave this place as quickly as possible.’
‘I could probably have managed to think of that all by myself,’ he said.
‘Once we’re far enough away, we can build a sleeping platform in the trees.’
‘I will leave that to you,’ he said. ‘It’s not something I have a great deal of experience of.’