by William King
Dorian had aged greatly for an elf. The last time Urian had seen him he had been relatively young. So this is what I used to look like, Urian thought. He did not doubt that there was a certain resemblance in his brother’s features to the way he had once looked. Of course, the Witch King’s magicians had changed all of that when they had transformed him into an assassin. His features no longer bore any resemblance to those worn by his family. This did not stop him from feeling a certain nostalgia. In fact, it virtually guaranteed it.
Dorian looked at him, confused. He was obviously wondering why this stranger was being addressed by his brother’s name. Was it possible that he did not yet suspect the answer?
Malekith’s iron gaze moved from one brother to the other and then to the huge crowd of druchii nobles and human warlords gathered around his throne. Urian knew that he was enjoying this. It appealed to his cruel sense of humour. ‘This is a general who failed us. He had the Everqueen in his grasp and he lost her. He made no report to his ruler over many weeks while he sought to rectify his error, or so he claims. And he seems somewhat lacking in fraternal feeling – he has failed to greet his younger brother.’
Dorian’s eyes widened. He studied Urian closely and then shook his head, as if he could see no resemblance. In some ways, Urian knew that what was happening here was in some ways a reward for his services. There had never been any love lost between him and his brother when they were younger, which was something of a tradition among druchii siblings.
He was expected to name a punishment for Dorian, the crueller the better. After all, it was what most druchii would do to their elder brother. There had been times when he had dreamed of doing so himself when he was young. He had hated Dorian for standing in his way, for being the heir, for being the eldest. He had disliked his older brother’s self-confidence and the way he seemed to feel that he was born to command and that others were born to obey. There was a time when this would have been a reward indeed, and Urian knew that.
He did not feel that way now though. He felt almost nothing. He did not resent this cowed-looking stranger. He did not desire revenge. He did not even desire to be particularly cruel. He knew though that such an admission would be seen as a weakness. It was not something he could afford to let slip before his ruler. He did not want Malekith to know how much he had changed during his time among the high elves. He did not want anyone here to know that or even suspect it.
The prospect of ordering Dorian to be tortured did nothing for him. In fact, he found himself thinking back to the long-gone time when they had been young, and he discovered that there were some points of contact that he did not regret – there were moments of shared experience that he even had rather enjoyed.
He did not owe Dorian anything – no favours but not a cruel death either. He looked around at the faces of the courtiers. All of them were watching him closely, some of them licking their lips in anticipation. No doubt all of them were thinking about what they would do to their own kin in a similar situation.
Urian felt nothing but repulsion for those who surrounded him. He wished most devoutly that he was back among the high elves and fighting on their side. The intensity of that feeling surprised him. He had changed much more than he liked to think and not in a good way as far as his prospects of survival were concerned.
Dorian looked up at him baffled. No doubt he was thinking about what he would do in a similar situation. He was probably working his way through all of the inventive tortures that could be inflicted by the minions of the Witch King if they were so instructed. Clearly he anticipated nothing except a long-drawn-out and painful death.
Urian took another glance at all of those surrounding them and felt the pressure of compulsion upon him.
With one lightning-like move he drew his blade and slashed off Dorian’s head, then he picked it up by the hair and presented it with a flourish to the Witch King.
‘Failure deserves nothing but swift punishment,’ Urian said as loudly as he could.
Malekith looked at him enigmatically. Urian wondered what he was thinking. There was a long moment of silence while the audience waited for the king’s response. Malekith reached out and accepted the severed head and studied it for a moment before tossing it away.
‘You’re correct, Urian,’ he said. ‘Your efficiency surprises me and rather pleases me. It seems you have learned something during your stay among the asur.’ Urian wondered whether anyone else detected the ambiguity in Malekith’s words.
‘Soon we shall encounter the ragtag army that has gathered to protect the Everqueen. I shall have a new duty for you then,’ Malekith said. ‘There are several people I want you to kill.’
‘I look forward to it,’ Urian lied.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The blood-red light of the setting sun blazed down on the chaos of the battlefield. The screams of the dying and the hellish clamour of blade on blade echoed in Tyrion’s ears. Leaning forwards in the saddle, he rammed his sword into the heart of a howling dark elf foot soldier, smashing him down to be trampled under the hooves of his borrowed steed.
Glancing around quickly, he took in the battlefield.
What a terrible place this Finuval Plain would be to die, he thought: a horrible, empty, dreary moorland that few had ever heard of before today. His small cavalry force was badly outnumbered and surrounded by chanting dark elf infantry, part of the vanguard of the Witch King’s approaching army. The dark elves fought with the mechanical discipline of automatons and a cold courage as impressive as it was daunting.
Tyrion turned in the saddle and lashed out with his blade, sending the head of his foe flying among his comrades, leaving an arcing trail of blood in its wake. He let his stroke continue and his blade crunched through ribs. Another dark elf flopped to the earth, his spine severed and his body writhing uncontrollably.
Tyrion raised his shield to deflect a blow he saw coming out of the corner of his eye. He felt the impact all the way up his armoured arm. He brought the edge of his shield down on his attacker’s face, smashing nose and teeth, leaving another enemy to be trampled beneath the metal-shod hooves of his steed.
‘For Alarielle, for the Everqueen!’ Tyrion shouted. Just mentioning the name of his lady gave him new vigour and renewed his determination to fight and win. The tired high elves around him responded, hacking about them with more energy, smashing through their foes and into the clear plain beyond.
Tyrion raised his sword above his head and gestured for them to form up, turn around and charge once more into the foe. They responded like heroes. Their formation tightened, their ranks drawing together with the same precision they would have shown on a parade ground. The gaps in the ranks vanished as the unit’s frontage collapsed.
As one the proud cavalry wheeled and trotted forwards, gaining thunderous momentum as they went. Amid the ranks of the dark elves, sergeants bellowed instructions, trying to ready their line to take the shock of impact.
Tyrion sensed there was something wrong here. He glanced around to see what it was and noticed that from the left, coming down from the nearby hills was a formation of dark elven cavalry. If Tyrion’s force kept to the same course, the dark elves would take his warriors in the flank even as they buried their blades in the druchii infantry.
‘Wheel right!’ Tyrion bellowed, his voice carrying over the oceanic roar of battle. There was nothing else to be done. Charging upslope would put his knights at a disadvantage, but it was better than being taken in the flank or rear. Also they were heavier armoured and mounted on better steeds.
Lesser horse-soldiers would not have been able to respond to his command, but these elves adjusted their course instantly, and tensed as they saw what their leader had seen and the trap they had so narrowly avoided.
Metallic thunder raged as the two lines came together, the heavier high elf cavalry smashing through the lighter dark elves despite the other’s advantage of slope and momentum. As the two lines came together, Tyrion was shocked to see a fam
iliar face among the dark elf lines. Fear and hatred warred in his heart. He had been seeking a worthy foe and suddenly he had found one.
‘Iltharis! Or Urian or whatever you call yourself! Face me, traitor, and die!’ His bellow carried above the sounds of battle, as did the answering laugh.
‘Prince Tyrion! This is a not-unexpected pleasure.’ Somehow Iltharis’s mocking voice carried over the ring of metal on metal. It sounded almost conversational. There was magic in that voice, although the dark elf gave no sign of being a mage. Iltharis carried a glowing runeblade in each hand and he used them to cut his way towards Tyrion, slashing through seasoned elf warriors as if they were no more than children. He guided his black steed easily with his knees, a war-rider with centuries of practice in his art.
Blade rang against blade as steed encountered steed. Tyrion’s steed was heavier. He reared and lashed out with its fore-hooves and crushed the skull of Urian’s mount. With the grace of a tumbler, the dark elf left his saddle, somersaulted and landed on the ground beside Tyrion. His blades rose and opened Tyrion’s horse’s belly, sending ropes of gut dripping to the ground. Less gracefully than his foe, Tyrion left the saddle and hit the ground. He tried to roll but the shield strapped to his arm prevented it, and he flopped gracelessly down.
Even as he rose, he felt a blade at his neck. It glowed with evil magic, far worse than anything on a witch elf’s weapon. He knew that he was dead if his opponent wanted him to be. His luck had finally run out and he would never have the chance to look upon Alarielle’s face again. Everything seemed to slow, as if they stood in the heart of some magical maelstrom, untouched by the battle raging around them.
‘Shall I kill you, Prince Tyrion?’ Iltharis whispered in his ear. ‘Shall I do you that great favour?’
‘Do what you wish, traitor,’ Tyrion said. ‘This is the sort of treacherous attack I am sure you would call a victory.’
Iltharis’s laughter was mocking. ‘You were unlucky, my prince. I would not claim this as any sort of victory. You are almost worthy of my blade now.’
‘A traitor’s blade, Iltharis.’
‘Alas, though it pains me to contradict you, Blood of Aenarion, a traitor I am not. I have always been loyal to one master. And please call me Urian. It is my name, after all.’
Tyrion lashed out with his elbow, hoping to catch Urian off guard. The dark elf avoided the blow effortlessly.
‘I would be doing you a favour killing you, you know,’ he said.
‘Really?’
‘My master holds a grudge against you, you and your brother both. His vengeance will be as terrible as it is inevitable. Take my advice, kill yourself and your brother and your beloved queen. It would be better for all three of you than falling into his hands.’
Oddly enough Urian sounded sincere.
‘Is that why you have not slit my throat? Because your master wants me alive?’
‘Astute as ever, Prince Tyrion. I knew I could count on that razor-sharp wit of yours.’
‘You will forgive me if I do not take your advice,’ said Tyrion.
‘I fear the day will dawn when you will have cause to regret that. Believe me or not, Prince Tyrion, I have always liked you and your brother, and I am not lying to you now. I never really have.’
‘You have a funny definition of the truth.’
‘All sentient beings have their own definition of the truth, and it is usually a funny one when you get down to it. Life is a black cosmic joke.’
Tyrion threw himself forwards, rolling, and came to his feet facing Urian. It seemed the dark elf was sincere about not killing him. He had not planted his blade in Tyrion’s back although he was more than quick enough to have done so. Tyrion advanced, shield angled, blade ready. Urian stood waiting, blades held negligently in each hand, as if he faced a foe unworthy of real effort.
Tyrion struck. Urian parried. Tyrion unleashed the full fury of his sword arm. Urian parried, slowly at first and then faster and faster as Tyrion’s strokes gained momentum. Tyrion had never fought so well. His every movement was eye-blurringly swift, his every blow was struck with a force that would have cut through his target if he had managed to land one.
He never did.
No matter how swiftly he struck, Urian always parried. No matter how cunningly he feinted, Urian always avoided the trap, and slowly, with the effortless grace of a big cat, he began to fight back, working ripostes into his swordplay that Tyrion was hard put to parry, gliding forwards easily, and with such cunning that without really knowing how it had happened Tyrion found himself on the defensive, backing away, taking blows on his shield that fell with all the force of a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil.
Urian grinned. ‘You have been practising, prince. I don’t believe you have ever fought better.’
Tyrion did not respond. He lashed out with a wild flailing cut that Urian ducked under. In return Urian stepped forwards and sent Tyrion reeling with a blow to the helm with the pommel of his sword.
‘Given time, I believe you could almost be as good as I am. Maybe even better. So sad that your time is over.’
One of Tyrion’s soldiers, seeing what had happened, let out a war-cry and charged towards them. As the rider bore down on him, Urian leapt, kicking him from the saddle and twisting himself to land on the horse’s back. A moment later he raised his blade to Tyrion in a farewell salute.
‘Goodbye, Prince Tyrion. We will meet again. Unfortunately for us both.’
He let out a loud whistle and his riders broke off the fight and followed him, not fleeing but retreating in good order, leaving in their wake Tyrion’s confused company. The dark elf infantry had already begun a withdrawal, taking their dead with them. Tyrion signalled for his soldiers not to pursue. He was well aware it would lead only to their slaughter.
‘What just happened here?’ Tyrion’s lieutenant asked.
‘I just encountered someone I knew.’
‘You know a dark elf?’ There was horror and suspicion in his voice.
‘He was not a dark elf when I knew him.’
‘How can that be?’
Tyrion did not reply but stared into the distance, lost in thought. After a moment, he found himself a new steed from among the mounts of his dead riders and gave the signal to saddle up and ride back to camp.
Tyrion stared into the fire, watching the flames dance. From the night sky, the huge white eye of the greater moon gazed down on a vast camp. Banners from all across Ulthuan fluttered above the silken pavilions of elven princes. The clank of metal and the neighing of horses told him that more and more troops were arriving. He could hear words spoken in the accents and dialects of half a dozen elven lands. The sophisticated discussions of Sapherian wizards mingled with the terse banter of Ellyrion horse soldiers. A sad and lovely voice sang an old folk song from Tiranoc telling of a drowned land, a drowned city and a lost love. Tyrion listened to the last few fading notes and felt as if a dagger were piercing his heart.
Life was sweet and he did not want to die. His encounter with Urian had convinced him today that it was all too likely he would when the armies clashed on Finuval Plain.
Suddenly the shadows dancing near the fire warped and clotted. A tall figure stood there. Soldiers scrambled away, reaching for blades and spears. Tyrion looked up from where he sat but did not reach for his weapon.
‘You need to work on your entrances, brother,’ he said. ‘I don’t think that was quite dramatic enough. At least half of my warriors were not startled out of their wits.’
Teclis smiled sourly and once again Tyrion was struck by the changes time had wrought in his twin. Gone was all trace of weakness and lassitude. Teclis was still gaunt and pale for a high elf and he walked with a slight limp, but that was the only trace of the illnesses that had threatened his life for as long as Tyrion could remember. His features had taken on a gaunt handsomeness they had never had before.
It was not just Teclis’s physical appearance that had changed. Perhaps a mage or som
eone more gifted with the Sight could have expressed it better, but all Tyrion could say was that his brother was cloaked in mystery and incandescent with power. It blazed within him, more than in any other living being Tyrion had ever encountered. Perhaps Alarielle possessed as much, but in the Everqueen it was hidden, like water bubbling up from an underground lake through a deep still well. Teclis was like a massive river in flood. He behaved now as if he had the power to sweep anything from his path.
It made Tyrion worried as well as proud. His brother was like a young warrior who had suddenly discovered he was strong and takes all sorts of crazed risks to test his own strength. He smiled sourly. That was something he certainly knew all about himself.
‘You are troubled,’ Teclis said.
‘Yes,’ said Tyrion, cursing his brother inwardly. Could he not see that this was not the time or the place to discuss his troubles, that these warriors looked to him for leadership, for strength not doubt? He rose from his place at the fireside and clasped his brother by the shoulder, the way he had done from childhood, and began to lead him away from the fire.
‘Come, brother, walk with me,’ he said. It was not lost on Tyrion the way Teclis shrugged his hand away. He needed to assert himself, to break out of the old pattern of their relationship. Tyrion felt a mixture of hurt and pride. It seemed that he was no longer going to get to play the protective elder brother.
‘That was a mistake, wasn’t it?’ said Teclis when they were out of earshot of the fire. Tyrion looked around. They were still the centre of attention as they walked, which was understandable. They were the two heroes of the moment, who had saved the missing Everqueen from daemons and assassins, who had won most of the few small high elf victories there had been in this terrible war.
Tyrion kept his silence till they reached the edge of the camp, and Teclis had the sense to do the same. Tyrion considered his options. It was pointless explaining to Teclis that his soldiers were unsettled and his appearance in such a manner would only have spooked them more. It was not something that warriors needed on a night before battle. Teclis was clever enough to already have understood that. There was no need to batter the point home with a warhammer.