Bane of Malekith

by William King

  ‘I did not know that.’

  ‘It is not something that is made common knowledge. And anyway, when does the Everqueen ever need to leave Avelorn? Who would have thought a day like today would come?’

  Alarielle had found a spot in a hollow. It was barren and dry and the plants looked less unwholesome than the others in the neighbourhood. There was even water gathered in puddles along the bottom.

  ‘I would not drink any of that water,’ she said. ‘It is most likely tainted.’

  ‘I think I might have worked that out for myself,’ said Tyrion.

  ‘We need a fire,’ Alarielle said. She had already begun to gather wood. Tyrion stood guard, in case anything should come upon them suddenly. A pair of feelers poked over the edge of the small depression. One of the giant woodlouse creatures scuttled in. Tyrion drew Sunfang and advanced upon it. It turned and rippled away.

  ‘I do not like those things,’ he said, turning to see Alarielle confronted by the manticore. The great beast moved forwards. It seemed impossible that anything so large could move so quietly. Close up, Tyrion could see it was bigger than a mountain lion. Its body was the size of a horse although lower and much more cat-like. This one had a tail tipped with a scorpion-like sting. Vestigial wings, not large enough to let it fly or glide, emerged from its back. The face was humanoid but might have belonged to an idiot or a madman. The expression on it was one of slack-jawed lunacy, mingled with hunger. For all that, its inhuman eyes were not without a certain cunning.

  It growled again and the air seemed to vibrate. Curved claws sharp as sickles emerged from its paws. The tail lashed the air.

  Alarielle continued to move back towards Tyrion. The elven warrior swung his sword in a great figure of eight to get the manticore’s attention. The passage of air made the flames on the blade roar and flicker. The great head jerked to one side, and it studied Tyrion as a cat might study a particularly foolish mouse.

  Tyrion knew that on the best day of his life this creature would over-match him, and he was weakened now by his poisoned and infected wound. He needed an advantage. The only one he could think of was the power that he knew lay dormant within Sunfang. He pointed the blade tip at the manticore and willed it to blast the creature with fire. Nothing happened. He sensed something within the blade, but he could not bind it or make contact with it.

  Desperately he tried to remember what had happened when he had blasted the Cold One riders. Perhaps if he could replicate that trick, he would know the sword’s secret. He knew from his long talks with Teclis that part of the secret of magic was connected with mood and the manipulation of mental imagery. He never had possessed any talent for such things though. He was not a sorcerer.

  Of course, the blade had been intended to be used by one who was not a sorcerer. Perhaps he was over-thinking what needed to be done. Perhaps it was all much simpler than he had imagined. He tried to imagine the flame blazing brighter in his mind.

  Had it responded? Had the runes along the blade got ever so slightly brighter? The manticore growled. It carried its weight low to the earth and seemed almost to undulate as it slunk closer. Tyrion could see the great muscles gather in its haunches as it prepared to spring.

  Tyrion imagined a ball of flame emerging from the tip of the blade and arcing towards the manticore, just as he had seen it do previously. Something happened. A faint blast of heat singed the hairs on the back of his hand as a small ball of light emerged from Sunfang and wobbled through the air towards the manticore. It exploded at the creature’s feet. A smell of singed fur filled the air. The manticore let out a faint bleat and turned and sprang away over the edge of the crater. Its faintly acrid animal stink hung in the air along with the stench of sulphur.

  Alarielle looked over at him. ‘You surprise me, Prince Tyrion. I thought mastery of the blade was beyond you.’

  ‘I have not mastered the blade. I think I have merely worked out how to make it work. It may be some time before I can harness its full power.’

  ‘Nonetheless, I think you have done enough to save us from that Chaos creature.’

  ‘Let us drink that toast after that particular tournament is won,’ said Tyrion. He moved to the edge of the glade, but there was no manticore in sight. The beast’s tracks ran to the edge of a deep thicket and then vanished from sight.

  Tyrion felt Alarielle move up beside him. She had her bow in her hands now and an arrow nocked and ready to fly.

  ‘Are you going to go hunting?’ Tyrion asked.

  ‘The thing is no good for meat,’ she said.

  ‘I thought you might like to try it for the sport.’

  ‘Let’s put your sword to good use and get a fire going. If nothing else it ought to help keep such monsters at bay.’

  Tyrion was glad that Sunfang still possessed enough power to get the fire going. They settled down to a long night with nothing to eat but waybread, and nothing to drink but the last remains of their brackish water.

  ‘What was that?’ Alarielle asked. Tyrion stirred feverishly. He pushed himself upright. Four strangers were approaching the fire. Something about their manner and their garb marked them as druchii although these were not common soldiers.

  ‘You have led us a merry chase,’ said one of them, a tall, slender elf who carried a bow as if he knew how to use it. It was nocked and the arrow pointed directly at Tyrion’s heart. ‘It is over now.’

  ‘We were sent to capture you, your serenity,’ said a lovely female in a soft husky voice. ‘I think there might be a bonus for us if we take your handsome friend back alive. Our ruler will be most anxious to meet the elf who has caused us so much trouble.’

  ‘He does not look as if he will live that long,’ said a huge brutish-looking elf who carried an axe with a blade at each end of its shaft. ‘That wound has been infected by poison out of Har Ganeth, unless I miss my guess. I am surprised he is still alive. He should have died a long time ago.’

  ‘Unless you have been keeping him alive with your magic, your serenity,’ said the final elf, who bore no obvious weapons at all, which made Tyrion suspect he was most likely the most dangerous of them.

  ‘Who are you?’ Tyrion asked. He kept his tone polite and conversational even as he tried to work out a way of killing them.

  ‘We are but humble servants of Malekith,’ said the debauched-looking one, whom Tyrion suspected was a sorcerer. His twin had worn similar amulets under certain circumstances. ‘I am Khalion. The winsome lady is Amara. The primitive with the bow is Vidor. The large and forceful-looking chap is Balial.’

  ‘You talk too much, Khalion,’ said Balial. His voice was deep and rumbling. He was scarred like a pit fighter. From the way he held the axe Tyrion could see he was enormously strong. The dislike in the voice was obvious. There was some rivalry between these four, that was obvious. Doubtless they would have to split any reward between them. If any of their companions were to suffer an accident it would be all the more for the survivors. It was something to bear in mind.

  ‘At least I am capable of intelligent conversation,’ said Khalion. ‘And I am not an unmannerly boor, like some I could mention.’

  ‘That is debatable,’ said Vidor. He looked directly at Tyrion. ‘I confess I am disappointed. I was expecting an epic battle when we found you. Your exploits have already made you quite famous. What is your name?’

  ‘I am Prince Tyrion.’ Vidor nodded.

  ‘The reaver who assaulted the coast of Naggaroth. I remember seeing some of your handiwork then. You killed a lot of people, Prince Tyrion, and burned a lot of warehouses.’

  ‘I regret to inform you I would do it again.’

  ‘I doubt you will be given the chance. Our ruler’s hospitality makes it hard for his guests to leave.’

  ‘I will see that you are made comfortable,’ said Amara, smiling. It was the sort of smile Tyrion was used to getting from women, and its sincerity just made him trust her less.

  ‘Be careful of him,’ said Khalion. ‘He carries a powerfu
l magic weapon.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Amara.

  ‘That is interesting,’ said Vidor.

  ‘I found it first,’ said Khalion.

  ‘Of what possible use is a sword to you, mage?’ asked Vidor.

  ‘It can always be sold, if it does not prove useful for research.’

  ‘The bounty belongs to our master,’ said Balial. ‘He shall decide who it belongs to.’

  ‘Doubtless our good Balial hopes it will be awarded to the most faithful lapdog.’

  ‘Once our mission is done, wizard, you and I will discuss manners.’

  ‘I will be only too glad to give you a lesson in etiquette.’

  ‘Take it,’ said Tyrion, struggling feebly to unbuckle his sword belt. ‘I would hate to be the cause of any falling out between such good friends.’

  ‘Carefully, Prince Tyrion,’ said Vidor, keeping the arrow sighted on him. At that moment a low growl sounded behind him. The manticore had returned. Tyrion whipped the blade from its scabbard. Vidor turned and put an arrow through the manticore’s eye with an almost lazy ease. He turned back, already putting another arrow to the string.

  Tyrion pointed the blade and invoked its power, putting all of his anger and desperation into the summons. If it harmed the trapped elemental, too bad. He could not risk Alarielle falling into the hands of these four.

  A blazing fireball arced towards Vidor. He released his arrow but it passed through the flame en route to Tyrion and was partially deflected, becoming a burning comet disappearing into the trees. The fireball exploded next to Vidor and Khalion. The blast sent Vidor flying, his hair and clothes on fire. Khalion just stood there, limned by flame. Some sort of protective aura had kept the blast from affecting him. He smirked and pointed a finger. Forked lightning flashed towards the spot where Tyrion stood, but he was already in motion. The smell of ozone warred with the smell of flash-fried flesh.

  Tyrion raced towards Khalion, ignoring the stabbing pain in his side from his wound. He knew he needed to finish this fight quickly. Khalion spoke a word of power and Tyrion’s limbs became leaden. It was like running through deep mud. He threw Sunfang directly at the mage. It sparked when it hit his protective wards but the metal buried itself deep in his chest.

  ‘Foolish, Prince Tyrion,’ said Balial, stepping between them. The strange double-bladed axe whipped towards Tyrion with surprising speed. Balial was a lot faster than his size and musculature would seem to imply. Tyrion only just managed to spring backwards and away.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Amara running towards the Everqueen. Alarielle spoke a word and roots and the stalks of plants erupted from the ground, grasping Amara’s legs. The assassin raised her hand and suddenly there was a dagger in it. She drew back her hand and threw it. The blade spun end over end towards the Everqueen, till the heavy-balled handle hit her on the forehead and sent her slumping stunned to the ground.

  ‘Alarielle!’ Tyrion shouted, turning towards her. Somehow the roots did not seem to grasp for him, the way they had done her enemies. He reached Amara, who slashed out viciously at him with another knife. He could see the blade of this one was poisoned. He sprang back out of her reach. Still immobilised by the grasping plants, she did what he hoped and threw the knife at him.

  It came spinning through the air with eye-blurring speed. It seemed to take forever for the blade to reach him. He plucked it from the air by the handle. With a flick of his wrist he sent it back at her. There was a strange sucking sound as it embedded itself in the jelly of Amara’s eye. She screamed and died as the poisoned blade pierced her brain.

  A splintering sound nearby told Tyrion that Balial had chopped his way out from the imprisoning roots. He glanced around for a weapon. The only thing he could see was the Moonstaff of Lileath, which lay on the ground near Alarielle. He picked it up, turning just in time to block the sweep of the great axe with it. The wood of the staff caught the haft of the axe. Tyrion found himself breast to breast with the massive dark elf.

  Balial pushed and Tyrion was sent tumbling backwards. He only just managed to roll clear as the axe blade chunked into the ground near him. His side felt as if he had been stabbed as he flipped himself to his feet. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to lash out with his staff held at full extension. There was a sound like wood hitting stone when he stuck the nerve cluster in Balial’s leg, but the larger elf did not fall, he only grinned. The shock that passed up Tyrion’s arm felt like he had just hit armour.

  ‘I am glad you killed them,’ said Balial. ‘Now all the glory will be mine.’

  ‘You will be joining them soon,’ Tyrion said. His tone gave Balial pause.

  ‘You are serious,’ Balial said. ‘You actually think you can win this. You are an arrogant pup.’

  Tyrion lashed out with the tip of the staff again. Balial eluded him easily. His return stroke hit the staff. A normal weapon would have broken, but the Moonstaff was not even chipped. The force of the impact nearly tore it from Tyrion’s hand.

  Tyrion circled, trying to get to Khalion and Sunfang. The blade stood out of the wizard’s chest, still burning. The smell of charred meat filled the air. Balial sprang. Tyrion blocked his blow. The pain in his side was so great he almost passed out. He knew he could not take many more impacts like that. He lashed out at Balial’s stomach. The giant ignored the stroke. Again there was a sound like wood hitting rock.

  ‘The Witch King’s mages have protected me well,’ Balial said. ‘My skin is like stone.’

  It could not be that way everywhere, Tyrion thought. Otherwise the giant would not be able to move. He eluded another stroke, crouched down, stepped forwards and, wheeling, struck Balial behind the knee. This time the giant fell. Tyrion brought the base of the Moonstaff down on his windpipe. It crunched but Balial did not stop moving. He rose. Still Tyrion thought it would take only minutes for him to suffocate through lack of breath. Lack of air would soon slow him.

  Balial brought one blade of his axe slashing across his own throat. Air wheezed into his lungs through the bleeding wound.

  Tyrion aimed a blow at his groin, figuring that would be a part of the body that no elf would want alchemically armoured. Balial parried the blow and lashed out with his booted foot. Tyrion twisted to avoid it, but the kick caught him on the side of his leg and sent him tumbling onto his back. Stars danced before his eyes. The world seemed to turn black. His breath came in gasps.

  As if from a long way off, he saw the blade of the great axe come swinging down towards him with all the inevitable force of a meteor strike.

  Move, he told himself. His body refused to respond. Pain surged through his side. Waves of nausea and dizziness passed through him. All he had to do was lie here for a few more moments and all that would end.

  He began to roll to one side. It was like moving the biggest boulder that had ever existed. It was an exercise in futility. If he dodged this blow there would be another and he would just have to dodge that.

  The blade crashed to the ground beside his head, shaving locks of his golden hair. Tyrion lashed out with his boot, catching Balial in the groin. The massive elf groaned and stood still for a moment, paralysed. Tyrion threw himself over to the corpse of Khalion, ripped Sunfang from his charred breast and reeled over to where Balial stood. He lashed out with the blade. Balial parried. Tyrion struck again, knowing he would be parried, but angling his blow so that his burning sword would come down next to Balial’s fingers. A look of agony passed over the giant elf’s face but he held on to his axe. Tyrion struck again with all his desperate fury.

  His blow sheared right through the handle of the axe and hit Balial on the chest. His tunic caught fire but the magically hardened flesh resisted even the bite of Sunfang. Balial was left holding the two bits of the haft. It was as if he was holding two hand axes the wrong way. He tossed one into the air and caught it again so the blade was held outwards. He used the remnants of the other half to desperately block Tyrion’s blows. The air wheezed through
the great gap in his throat.

  Tyrion drove him back, slashing out with desperate strength. Balial reeled back, trying to bring both axe heads into play. Tyrion herded him in the direction he wanted him to go. Balial’s foot came down on the corpse of Khalion, sending him stumbling back off balance. Tyrion leaned into a long stroke, sending the point of Sunfang through the wound in Balial’s throat and right through the other side, severing vertebrae and nerves. Balial flopped to the ground in his final death spasm.

  He looked at Balial, then at Khalion. ‘He killed you in the end,’ Tyrion said, staggering over to where the Everqueen lay and slumping down beside her.

  Vidor lay there dying. Agony ripped through his burned body. His flesh was blackened and cracked in many places. Pus wept through broken skin. He knew that soon he would join all of those he had killed in death’s dark kingdom. There was something he needed to do before that happened. He needed to take revenge on the elf who had killed him. He had one last duty to perform in the service of his master.

  He tried to move his blasted fingers. Burned flesh peeled away from the bone. He would have screamed if he could, but the only sound that came out was a whimper. He forced his hand to move despite the pain, and somehow managed to bring it up to the stone amulet hanging from his neck. It was warm from the blast of the fireball with which Tyrion had killed him. He touched it and felt strange magical life within. Some distant spark of the Witch King’s magic which would serve his purpose now.

  He murmured the words that would bring it to life, forcing them out of his cracked lips with his blackened tongue. He felt the stone move beneath his hand. It grew warmer and more pliant. Within heartbeats, it had become softer. He felt feathers beneath the broken remains of his hand. Even their faint touch sent needles of agony spiking into his flesh. He looked down and saw that where there had been a stone amulet there was now a black raven.

  ‘Vidor. Alarielle. Tyrion. He killed us. Seek your master.’ The bird looked at him with preternaturally intelligent eyes, squawked once and then flapped skywards faster than any normal bird should have been able to travel. Vidor lay flat on the ground. He was satisfied that he had done all that he could to take revenge. He would have swapped that and all the gold in the world for a drink of water.