by William King
‘How goes it?’ Tyrion said at last. ‘Are you ready for battle?’
‘As ready as I will ever be,’ said Teclis. ‘I will almost be grateful when day breaks and this matter is settled.’ Teclis sounded puzzled and looked at Tyrion circumspectly. This was not what he had come to discuss. It was not what Tyrion wanted to talk about either, but the words for that were not ready to come yet.
‘Why do you ask?’ Teclis asked eventually.
‘Because this is a battle that will be decided by magic. We do not have the numbers to overcome the dark elves by strength of arms.’
‘That is not what I hear the warriors say or the princes. They all talk of the certainty of victory.’
‘What else can they do? They are whistling in the dark, but in their hearts they all know the same thing as I. We do not have the numbers, the advantage of initiative and morale lies with our opponents.’
‘I will take your word for it. You are the expert on military matters.’
Now that he had started talking Tyrion felt the need to continue. ‘If it had been a year ago, when our troops were more confident and we had not lost so many warriors, things might be different, but it has been a season of defeat – many of our best are in their graves. Others are scattered over Ulthuan, defending their homes. The Witch King has gathered his forces here and he intends to land a hammer blow that will shatter us.’
‘You think we should not be fighting here?’
‘We have no choice.’
Teclis nodded, and seemed more interested now than he had when Tyrion had mentioned troop numbers or morale. Then he said something of a perceptiveness Tyrion would not have expected from him at all.
‘You love her, don’t you?’
‘More than I can find the words to say. If I am to die, I would prefer for it to be at her side.’
‘You picked a fine time to fall in love, brother, as our world goes down in blood and fire.’
‘I never had any choice in the matter. And whatever comes, I do not regret that it happened.’
‘If I did not know better I would say that you were afraid,’ said Teclis.
‘I am afraid,’ Tyrion said at last. The words hung in the air for a long moment.
Teclis’s laughter was soft but there was no mockery in it.
‘So the intrepid hero knows fear at last,’ he said. ‘I always thought nothing could scare you. Fear was my speciality.’
‘I have been afraid before,’ said Tyrion. ‘Often. I have just chosen never to admit it to anyone. Not even to myself.’
‘So why are you telling me this now?’
‘Because I think I may die soon, and I feel the urge to confess it. I cannot tell it to the soldiers or to the Everqueen or to anyone else, so I am telling you.’
‘What brought this on?’
‘I met Urian, as Prince Iltharis now calls himself, while scouting the battlefield today.’
‘And?’
‘And he was better than me. He has always been better than me.’
‘He has never been better than you.’
Tyrion laughed. ‘I don’t mean morally! I mean with a blade he is better than me.’
‘Then don’t fight him with a blade.’
‘The weapons don’t matter. If I fought him with a pig’s bladder on a stick, he could still beat me.’
‘You might want to keep your new choice of favoured weapon to yourself. I don’t think it would hearten your troops. They think you are invincible.’
‘I am very, very good,’ said Tyrion without any false modesty. ‘But it does not matter how good you are, there is always someone better.’
‘You can’t be certain Urian is better than you.’ Teclis sounded shocked to be contemplating the fact.
‘Believe me, brother, I can. Your gift is for magic. Mine has always been to be able to use weapons. And with any weapon Urian will beat me.’
‘Then don’t fight him with a weapon.’
‘What should I use then? My cutting wit?’
‘You have a brain, little as you choose to use it. Battles are fought as much with the mind as with weapons. I seem to recall someone standing not a thousand leagues from me now telling me that once.’
‘Urian is too quick. The sort of fights you have with the likes of him happen at speeds too fast for thought. It is all down to reflex, training and experience – the last is the thing he has more of than me. He has had centuries to learn his trade.’
‘I would submit to you, brother, that you are wrong. That the battle has already begun and it is being fought out in your mind now, and that you are losing it.’
‘As ever, you are being over-subtle.’
‘Think about it, Tyrion! Do you think it was an accident that you met Urian today? Do you think it just happened? That the fates threw you together?’
‘If Urian wanted to kill me, he could have done so.’
‘And he didn’t. Because that was not his purpose. He did not want to kill you, not today at least.’
‘Then what does he want?’ Tyrion was aware that his brother might have caught something that he had missed. Teclis always made him feel slow.
‘Think! Who is the current hero of the high elves? Who saved the Everqueen in her darkest hour?’
‘You did.’
‘No. You are the one who dragged her out of harm’s way and kept her free when all seemed lost. Who is known to be the greatest warrior in the high elven host?’
‘Korhien Ironglaive.’
‘That is not what all the warriors are saying now. They are saying it is you. You have the Blood of Aenarion. You are the hero of this hour. You are the one who can lead us to victory.’
‘Even if what you say is true, then why did Urian not kill me today when he had the chance.’
‘Because it would not be public enough. Because he wishes to crush you in the dirt and to break the will of our army.’
‘You think he means to fight a Contest of Champions?’ Tyrion laughed out loud.
‘Count on it.’
‘There has not been such a duel fought since the time of Caledor the Conqueror. It is not the dark elf way.’
‘It will be tomorrow. You could bet our family villa on it.’ Tyrion turned the idea over in his head. In a strange way it made sense. If he was challenged and turned the challenge down, it would demoralise the whole high elf army to see their champion refuse battle. If he was defeated, it would have the same effect – it would clearly demonstrate the Witch King’s warriors’ superiority to the best the high elves could put forward.
Tyrion was enough of a soldier to know that battles were not always decided by strength of arms or force of magic or weight of numbers; they were decided by the courage of warriors, their determination to conquer. Soldiers had won battles before by standing firm when they should have run, by fighting long after the time had come when everyone but them had known they were beaten. They could be inspired to that by their belief in one elf, a general or a hero. But not if that elf did not believe in himself.
‘I knew you would see it… eventually,’ said Teclis. ‘You are not entirely slow of mind.’
‘Then why the meeting today?’ Tyrion asked, although he already knew what his brother would say.
‘To sow the seeds of doubt in your mind. To soften you up. To make you afraid. Fear slows a warrior down. You told me that too, once upon a time.’
Tyrion shook his head. ‘Maybe, in part, but I don’t think that is all of it.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Urian had a message for me, for you too. He said we should kill ourselves.’
Teclis laughed. ‘I hope you do not expect me to take his advice.’
‘He seemed sincere.’
‘I think he sincerely wants us both dead.’
‘He says that Malekith’s vengeance will be as terrible as it is inevitable. It would be better to die than suffer it.’
‘I do not doubt that he is correct in that. But I am not planning
to allow myself to fall into the Witch King’s hands.’
‘We may not have a choice.’
‘We always have a choice. The same choice as the Conqueror had when he threw himself into the sea, but I for one will wait until I am surrounded on a burning ship and about to fall into the hands of my enemies before I make that choice. I suggest you do the same, brother.’
They both glanced into the distance to the camp of the dark elves, where an evil as old as elven civilisation waited, surrounded by its implacable minions. They were both aware of it, Tyrion sensed. They both felt its brooding power and its malevolence. They both knew they were kin to it too, through the line of Aenarion for, like them, Malekith was of his blood.
‘How can we beat him?’ Tyrion asked at last. ‘He is the most powerful sorcerer in the world. He has the largest army assembled by the elves since the time of Aenarion. He has been planning this for centuries.’
‘He could not have planned for you and me, brother. And as you said yourself, no matter how good you are, there is always someone better. The same applies to Malekith as it applies to you and me.’
Tyrion looked at his brother as if seeing him for the first time. ‘You are planning on challenging him, are you?’
Teclis’s cold smile gave him his answer.
‘You are mad,’ Tyrion said, but there was admiration as well as humour in his words.
‘Maybe, but so was Aenarion at the end and he still defeated the hordes of hell.’
‘Yes, but at what price?’
‘Whatever the price is, we will have to pay it, brother. If our lands are to survive, if our people are to be free, if our world is to avoid destruction. Tomorrow, for better or worse, it will be our names that are written in the pages of the history books. If there is anyone left to write them.’
Tyrion looked at his brother, as if seeing him for the first time. ‘You’ve come a very long way,’ he said.
‘We have both done that, brother,’ said Teclis.
A Sword Master of Hoeth appeared out of the gloom, a massive greatsword on his back. He looked flustered and not a little anxious, which was unusual in one of the legendary guardians of the White Tower. ‘Prince Teclis, I have been looking for you everywhere. Your father wishes to speak with you.’
‘I will come with you,’ Tyrion said.
The Sword Master looked embarrassed and said, ‘I was told to bring Prince Teclis alone. It is wizard business.’
Bitterness burned in the pit of Tyrion’s stomach. Even here as the world ended, their father could not bring himself to treat him as Teclis’s equal.
Teclis shrugged. ‘I must go. There are plans that must be set in motion. You were right about one thing, brother. This battle will be settled by magic, but for that to happen our armies will need to stand firm. You can make them do that. They believe in you. Remember that. Good luck on the morrow. May Isha smile on you.’
‘May you live a thousand years.’
And in a moment, he was gone, although how he left, Tyrion was not sure. He stood for a moment on the edge of the vast armed camp, staring at the fires of the even larger one where the Witch King and his minions watched and waited. He felt small and lost, a tiny particle of life caught up in a whirlwind, buffeted by forces beyond his control, a pawn of destiny. He felt unsettled by his brother’s words. A vast weight pressed down on him now, for he had sensed the truth in them. Somehow, the fate of everyone and everything they cared about rested on their shoulders tomorrow. They had both gone from despised outsiders of no consequence to standing at the very fulcrum of destiny.
How had it come to this, he wondered?
Chapter Twenty-Four
His father was troubled, Teclis could see that. Of course, who would not be under the circumstances? The old elf had witnessed the greatest invasion of Ulthuan since the first Chaos incursion. He had doubtless seen people he knew killed and entire villages laid waste. Like every other elf who had lived through these dark times, he had reason to be unhappy. Somehow though, Teclis doubted that this was all that troubled his father.
‘What is it, father?’ He asked. His father simply looked at him. His gaze was bleak. He looked sadder than Teclis had ever seen him look in his life and that was quite a feat. His father shook his head and gestured for Teclis to step within his tent.
Inside was a large wooden box that resembled a coffin. Teclis immediately sensed powerful magic within although it was contained by potent runes inscribed in his father’s unmistakable hand. His father went over to the box and unsealed it using a crowbar. As the seals were broken, a blast of powerful magic swept over Teclis like heat coming out of an open oven door. The magic was powerful almost beyond imagining and there was a dark taint to it that Teclis did not like in the least.
Lying within the wooden structure like a corpse within a coffin was the armour of Aenarion. It looked very different now from the ancient, dormant artefact that had lain within his father’s laboratory for all those decades. It glittered now. It glowed with magical energy. It looked fresh and bright and newly made. It looked magnificent, a tribute to his father’s skill as a wizard and to the skill of the ancient archmage who had made it. It blazed with power and Teclis could see that it would protect any warrior who wore it from harm better than any other armour ever made. Not only that, potent enchantments would enhance the strength, speed and skill of the wearer, making them powerful beyond belief.
It was not this that troubled Teclis. There was something else about the armour, a resonance, an imprint of someone’s personality that was troubling. There was a sense of rage, a lust for death, that was almost overwhelming. Just looking at the armour made him want to grind his teeth and shout abuse at his father for the stupidity of what he had done. He was a wizard too and he recognised the magic for what it was. Swiftly, he threw a screen around himself and Prince Arathion. He was relieved to see the look of anger vanishing swiftly from his father’s face as well.
‘You see it?’ his father asked. ‘Can you see what I have done?’
‘You have recreated the armour of Aenarion,’ said Teclis. ‘This might be the greatest feat of forensic magic in the history of the world.’
‘I do not think it was meant to be this way. I have failed.’
Teclis examined the armour with his magesight. He could see that his father’s work was flawless. The spells had been recreated perfectly, lovingly, by a mage who had known exactly what to do and have done it. His father had made no mistakes. This was something else.
‘Your spellwork is perfect,’ Teclis said. ‘Whatever happened here is not your fault.’
‘I do not think the armour was meant to be like this,’ his father said. ‘I have read every primary source in existence and there is no reference to something like this.’
‘I think what we are seeing is the influence of Aenarion,’ Teclis said. ‘He was so full of power that he left his mark upon the armour. I suspect also that the Sword of Khaine may have left its mark as well. He carried that blade for a good deal of the time that he wore this armour. It may have affected Caledor’s creation as well as Aenarion himself.’
‘Such were my thoughts too, my son,’ said Prince Arathion. ‘The question is what effect will this have on the person who wears the armour.’
‘You saw the effect that simply looking upon it had upon you and me. I would imagine that wearing the armour, being connected to it by the web of spells inherent in it, would be much worse. It might affect the personality of the wearer, twisting it and altering it unless that person was very strong-willed indeed.’
‘You don’t think there is any way that we could cleanse the armour?’
Teclis considered this for a moment. The imprinting was very strong and the effect was potent. He knew next to nothing about the Sword of Khaine’s magic and he could not calculate the effects of it. He had made contact with the Flame of Asuryan himself and he could sense a great similarity between the resonance of the flame and the magic that was on this armour that
had not been put there by Caledor. He suspected that that was the effect of the flame that had burned inside Aenarion after he had passed through the sacred fires in the shrine. Perhaps what they were seeing was the shadow of Aenarion cast by the flame onto the armour. It was hard to tell. He could not see any way of purifying the armour at this moment. Of course, that did not mean that there was not such a way. It just might take an age to find. He said as much to his father.
‘I had feared that this was the case,’ Arathion said. ‘I am not reassured. It is a pity. I spent so much time recreating this armour and so much effort bringing it here, and now it might be useless.’
‘The armour itself will perform all the functions it was intended to,’ Teclis said. ‘It is a mighty weapon, a great artefact, and these are desperate times. The fate of the elven people hangs in the balance and anything that gives us even the slightest of advantages is to be seized upon.’
‘That is what the council of princes says. They say that the armour may be needed to give our champions a fighting chance on the field of battle. They say that the power of Malekith is overwhelming and that we need to grab every opportunity presented to us with both hands.’
‘And they are correct,’ said Teclis. ‘If we do not win here, darkness may eclipse our people and Ulthuan may fall forever.’
‘I agree with you,’ said his father, ‘and still my heart misgives me.’
‘You’re afraid to ask someone to wear this armour?’
‘Wouldn’t you be?’
‘I would wear it myself if I thought it would help,’ Teclis said.
‘I know you would, but you are unlikely to be asked to wear it.’
Suddenly Teclis understood who was likely to be asked and he understood his father’s misgivings. ‘They want Tyrion to take this armour?’
His father nodded. ‘The Everqueen is going to present it to him before the battle. They say it will hearten the troops and be very good for morale.’