Bane of Malekith

by William King

  Having fought them both, Tyrion knew that Urian was almost certain to win. The only thing that was likely to save Arhalien would be some stroke of luck of the sort that could never be relied upon but sometimes happened in combat. It was not something Tyrion was counting on seeing. Fighters like Urian made their own luck.

  Both of them turned and raised their weapons in salute to the respective armies. Arhalien raised his blade to Alarielle. For once, Tyrion did not look at her. He looked in the direction that Urian raised his blade. He looked upon Malekith, Witch King of Naggaroth, for the first time in his life as he emerged into full view on the cold hillside overlooking the field of combat.

  Malekith was a fearsome figure, as terrifying in his own way as a greater daemon. He towered over those around him, a giant among elves. It was the armour, Tyrion told himself. That was what did it. It made him look bigger than he was. There was magic in it that did that and more.

  He was not fooling himself. Malekith was bigger than any other elf. Tyrion had no idea why that should be. Perhaps it had something to do with having lived for millennia. Perhaps it had something to do with what had happened to him when he had passed through the sacred Flame of Asuryan and been rejected by the god. Or perhaps it was something else entirely.

  All Tyrion knew was that Malekith looked like a giant. There was a sense of terrifying power and strength about the Witch King that was palpable. It radiated out from him. He seemed like a monster made of metal, indestructible, invincible and utterly confident of victory. He raised one gigantic armoured hand in response to Urian’s salute.

  The two warriors leapt together. Blades flashed too fast for the eye to follow. A flower of blood blossomed on Arhalien’s chest and he fell to the ground dead. The high elf army groaned. No one seemed able to believe that the fight was over so quickly.

  Tyrion could. He knew exactly how good Urian was.

  ‘Perhaps I should challenge Urian myself,’ Teclis said. ‘I could probably blast him with a lightning bolt from here.’

  ‘That’s not very sporting.’

  ‘What he did to Arhalien was not exactly fair either.’

  ‘Arhalien knew what he was letting himself in for. He chose to do it anyway.’

  Teclis looked hard at Tyrion. ‘He is going to challenge you next. That is the point of this whole exercise.’

  ‘This is not looking good,’ Korhien said.

  Tyrion looked at the older warrior. He understood at once. If the battle broke out now, the dark elves would be at a high in their morale. The armies were so close together and so disorganised that they would roll over each other.

  Urian brandished his blade over his head. He moved like a showman playing to his audience, walking along the front of the druchii line, punching his fist triumphantly in the air, accepting their cheers like a pit fighter accepting the plaudits of the crowd.

  ‘Is that the best you can do?’ he shouted into a momentary silence. His words sounded clear after the oceanic roar of the druchii and the Chaos worshippers. He was staring directly at Tyrion. ‘Pitiful! Do the asur have no better warriors than that?’

  Tyrion was about to step forwards but Alarielle’s hand on his arm restrained him for a crucial moment, and Korhien stepped forwards. ‘I will fight you, traitor!’ he shouted.

  Urian looked off to one side for a moment, and Tyrion thought he saw something like a look of shame pass over his face. For whatever reason, the traitor did not seem all that keen to face his old friend. Korhien strode proudly towards the druchii force. He did not seem in the least afraid and such was his presence that they fell silent.

  ‘A representative of the Phoenix King will be the next to fall before our champion,’ the herald of Malekith spoke. Urian glared at him. The herald fell silent.

  Korhien and Urian came face to face and exchanged words. Tyrion would have given a lot to know what they said. After a moment they stepped apart and Korhien unlimbered his axe. Urian raised his blade in salute.

  Tyrion glanced along the front line of the asur force. The units were falling back into formation. It looked as if Korhien had bought them some time.

  The horns sounded. Combat began. Axe and sword clashed, glittering in the sun. All was silence. Korhien lashed out. Urian sprang back and then forwards and his blade passed through the body of his old friend. Tyrion shrugged off Alarielle’s hand and stepped forwards.

  He was not striding towards a fight, he was rushing to see to his old friend.

  ‘Wait, Tyrion,’ said Alarielle. He ignored her cry.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Tyrion walked forwards through the ranks of the asur army. All eyes were upon him. Elves stepped back to get out of his way. Something of the power and the terror of the ancient armour was felt by all of the observers. One by one the soldiers began to chant his name, taking it up until it became an awesome, ominous, thunderous roar.

  The armour felt as light as cloth now he was wearing it and he himself had never felt better. He felt strong. He felt ready for battle, in some ways too ready. He burned to get to grips with the foe, to lash out with his blade, to bury it in flesh. He felt a low simmering anger deep within his soul, which kept bubbling up and threatening to become stronger.

  He tried telling himself that it was not his anger, it was something alien, external, part of the magic bound into the armour itself. He knew that this was not true. Something deep within him responded to the rage that the armour of Aenarion embodied. The magic called out to some deep-rooted part of his being, and that part responded.

  He was angry with himself because of this. Some echo of the mighty personality of Aenarion sought to use him as a vessel for its wrath, to turn him into an engine of rage. Much as he wanted to give way to it, to revel in that awesome molten anger, he refused to do so.

  He was himself. He was not the tool of some ancient godly ghost. He would, as he always had, make his own decisions, fight his own battles, remain himself, even if it meant he could never tap into the deeper powers of the armour. He did not want the magic so badly.

  Even as that thought ran through his brain, he realised that in some ways the armour had already changed him. He sensed the presence of magic as he had never done before. He felt the presence of dozens of magical weapons all around him borne by asur and druchii. He sensed wizards weaving spells, and the simply potent presence of the mages themselves.

  More than anything else, he felt the chill and awesome presence of Malekith, Witch King of Naggaroth, as he would have felt the presence of a cold wind blowing out of the north. He could have closed his eyes and pointed to Malekith as surely as if he could see.

  He sensed another nearby presence, almost as potent, and far more familiar. It belonged to his twin. Teclis had grown strong indeed, he realised, rivalling the force of that ancient evil entity with a cold, brilliant power of his own. Beyond Teclis he sensed Alarielle and the ancient slow entity that worked through her.

  The thought struck him – it could not be chance that brought so many powerful magical beings here today, or so many potent ancient artefacts. Something else was at work, destiny, fate, the will of the gods. It did not matter what you called it. He sensed that he and everyone else here was caught in some great web, woven by beings more powerful even than Malekith.

  The last of the high elf army had parted before him now and he walked out onto the open field between the two great elven forces. Ahead of him stood Urian. He wore armour of a strange and alien design. For the first time in his life Tyrion could see the spells woven into it. In their way, they were as awesome and complex as the ones woven into his own. He sensed an evil presence there, a powerful dark magic that drew on the energies of Chaos, that was semi-sentient. There was a daemon bound into it, he realised, a slumbering evil being that powered it and gave it strength beyond any mortal.

  In each hand, Urian held a greenishly glowing blade. They radiated a curdled, malevolent energy that seemed to suck the life out everything surrounding them. Black blood dripped
smoking from channels in the metal and where it spattered the ground, the grass withered and died and the earth itself cracked as if unable to bear the touch of the poisonous fluid.

  Urian wore a great helmet, moulded into the shape of the visage of some daemon prince. The visor was lifted to reveal his pale features. They were sunken and gaunt, and his eyes were tormented and strangely horror-filled. He raised his blades in mocking salute but Tyrion’s gaze was drawn beyond him to the real enemy.

  On a bleak low hillside overlooking the battleground, Malekith lounged on a great metal throne set atop a huge metal shield. A score of enormously muscular male slaves held that shield aloft. They must have been strong indeed to do so, for Malekith must have weighed far more than any mortal elf. He was more than a head taller than Tyrion and the armour encasing his body must have been inches thick. From within a helmet that might have encased the head of a giant, a cold gaze blazed.

  An aura of immense, ageless strength radiated out from the Witch King. Tyrion felt the malevolence and power in it and something else as well, curiosity and… recognition. He gazed right at Malekith, meeting those ancient eyes, and was surprised to see something like shock in them.

  It took him a moment to realise why.

  Tyrion was wearing the armour of Malekith’s father. Perhaps, at this moment, it appeared to the Witch King as if that potent ancient had returned from the grave to judge him. Tyrion certainly hoped that Malekith felt that way. He drew his own sword. It caught fire. He raised it in grudging salute in the direction of Urian and his master. This was a formal duel, the most important of his life, and the proprieties must be observed.

  Then he looked at the one who lay on the ground at Urian’s feet.

  Korhien sprawled, blood pouring from his chest. He looked pale and it was obvious he was on the edge of death. ‘Well, doorkeeper, it looks like this is farewell. Kill him for me.’

  ‘I will,’ said Tyrion.

  Urian raised both blades above his head, acknowledging the applause and cheers of the dark elves who watched, while never taking his eyes off Tyrion.

  ‘Prince Tyrion, it seems we are to duel again,’ Urian said. His smile was friendly and mocking, if not for the presence of that huge army of dark elves and Chaos worshippers behind him, they might easily have been meeting in the old practice ground in the Emeraldsea mansion.

  ‘For the last time,’ Tyrion said. There was something about the armour of Aenarion that altered his voice, made it more resonant and powerful. At least that was the way it seemed to him. Perhaps it was merely his own hatred that lent his voice such power.

  ‘Sadly, that is true,’ Urian said. ‘Of all the fights I have had in my life, this is the one I regret most.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Tyrion said. ‘I am going to kill you.’

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ Urian replied. ‘You’ll forgive me for saying that you have never had the skill to do that in the past.’

  Tyrion let a cold smile touch his lips. ‘I never had the will to do that in the past, or the need.’

  ‘Neither will nor need count as much as skill.’

  Tyrion spoke slowly and calmly. ‘I am going to kill you.’

  ‘Many have tried,’ Urian said. His voice was casual, uninterested. ‘They are all dead.’

  ‘You do not understand me, Urian, Iltharis, whatever you call yourself now. I am going to kill you, if I have to throw myself on your blade and tear out your throat with my teeth. It is going to happen.’

  The anger and hatred in his own voice were corrosive. The determination in it reflected exactly how he felt. In that moment, he knew he was capable of it too. For the first time he thought he saw something like fear in Urian’s eyes.

  He held the killer’s gaze and it was Urian who looked away first. Urian took a step back, before realising the error of doing so. The watching dark elves murmured among themselves when they saw what was happening. Urian made another mocking salute and made it look as if the step backwards was simply part of that.

  It was a nice recovery.

  ‘I see you have acquired new armour,’ he said. ‘It seems somehow suitable for one of the blood of Aenarion to be wearing it. At least you will make a pretty corpse.’

  ‘They will not be able to say the same about you,’ Tyrion said. Once again, he was surprised by how flat and cold his voice came out. There was an eerie quality to it, as if the ghost of Aenarion was speaking through his lips.

  ‘It pains me that we will not part as friends,’ Urian said.

  ‘If you had not betrayed our people, we would be fighting on the same side.’

  ‘They were never our people. They were your people.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ Tyrion said. His instinct for going for the jugular told him that was the correct thing to say. Urian shrugged.

  The sound of murmuring from the dark elf army was increasing. They were growing restless. They did not like to see the two champions speak. It was not what they expected. It was not what they had come here for. Tyrion and Urian looked at each other warily. It seemed to Tyrion that Urian was reluctant to start fighting. He felt as if there must be some way that he could turn this to his advantage.

  The longer he drew things out here, the better it would be for his own side. It would give them more time to get back into formation and recover from the shock of seeing its two champions cut down.

  Of course, all of that would mean nothing if Urian killed Tyrion here. Seeing three champions defeated in succession would most likely prove too much for high elf morale, particularly since Tyrion was wearing the dragon armour of Aenarion and carrying his sword. It was impossible to imagine a worse omen than Tyrion being defeated here as far as they were concerned. It came to Tyrion then that his threat to Urian had better prove true. He needed to kill Urian here no matter what it cost – that was the only way to restore the balance even if it cost his own life.

  There had been a time when he could have made the decision to do that without a single regret. There had been a time when he was truly fearless. That time was in his past. He did not want to die now. He wanted to live and be with Alarielle.

  Of course, that did not really mean anything. If the dark elves won here, they would have no future anyway. It was not that he was afraid to die, he realised, it was that he wanted to live with her. If that was not possible, then he did not have anything to live for. If by his death here he could save her life, he was prepared to do that too. Not because it would help the elven nation but because it would help her. He wished that he had taken the time to tell her this before it was too late, and it came to him now that he had missed the opportunity to do that, perhaps forever.

  He looked across at Urian and wondered if the dark elf had similar regrets. Somehow, he doubted that. Anyone who could do what Urian had done must be completely without conscience.

  ‘The audience is growing restless,’ Urian said, pulling down the visor of his helmet and turning himself completely into a metal-faced daemon. ‘Let us give them a show.’

  ‘I will give them your death,’ Tyrion said.

  Urian advanced like a big cat. His strangely glowing green blades left odd afterimages on the retina.

  Was it his imagination, Tyrion wondered, or was the dark elf champion advancing more slowly and cautiously than he normally would? The two sickly emerald blades slashed towards him almost tentatively. Tyrion took the impact of one on his shield and parried the other with Sunfang. He launched his own counter: savagely, swiftly, surely. The high elf army roared, seeing the speed of his response. Urian danced away, not even attempting a counter at this stage.

  What was going on here, Tyrion wondered? He had never known his opponent to be so cautious previously. Perhaps it was all part of some new strategy that Urian was using to toy with him. Or perhaps it was something else – perhaps he really had worried his opponent with his threats. Knowing how fearless Urian was, Tyrion somehow doubted that.

  It didn’t matter – he was committed. He was g
oing to kill Urian, no matter what it took. Sunfang blazed in his hand, almost dazzlingly bright. Its glow was stronger than Tyrion had ever seen it and it radiated heat.

  Perhaps this was what had Urian worried. He had never faced Tyrion with this magical weapon before and perhaps he was cautious, not knowing its abilities. Tyrion could not blame him for feeling that way.

  Sunfang was a legendary weapon. No one really knew what it was capable of except perhaps Malekith or Morathi. Tyrion wondered if he could summon the fire from within the blade that he had used to kill the four assassins back among the woods of Avelorn. It did not seem either honourable or sporting, but now was not the time for such considerations. All that really mattered now was victory.

  Almost as if he sensed the thought, Urian came gliding back in. The two blades flickered towards Tyrion like the forked tongue of a serpent. This time they came in with Urian’s accustomed speed and Tyrion was hard put to defend himself, back-pedalling away clumsily, taking blows on his shield and looking for an opening through which to drive Sunfang that never appeared.

  For all their speed, Urian’s blows were driven with enormous force. Tyrion felt as if his arm was becoming bruised with the force of the impact and he would not have been surprised to see the shield itself being dented and knocked out of shape. He did not have time to check. The dark elves were cheering now, certain that their champion was on his way to victory.

  Why should they not be, Tyrion thought? Urian had easily dispatched the previous two high elf champions and they were among the greatest warriors in Ulthuan.

  He felt as if, if he allowed this to continue, he would be ceding entirely the advantage to Urian. If he allowed that to happen, his threat would seem to be hollow. It was not the case. He sprang suddenly forwards, driving towards Urian, ignoring those deadly blades.

  Driven by all his weight, he knocked Urian off-balance and slashed out with Sunfang. Lightning-quick, the druchii ducked beneath it and drove his sword forwards. Tyrion flinched as it struck home. He felt a surge of pain in his side and wondered if it was all over. He did not look down. He did not allow himself to be distracted. Instead he brought Sunfang down in a mighty arc, hoping to split his opponent’s head with a reflexive death strike.