Sword of Caledor

by William King

  ‘I did not know,’ said Tyrion. ‘I was in Lustria when all of this was happening. I was summoned back because of the death.’

  That certainly explained why Prince Iltharis found his question so upsetting, Tyrion thought. It could not have been pleasant to be there during the last moments of a woman so beloved by all. In some ways, witnessing the death of the Everqueen was like witnessing the death of a god.

  Prince Iltharis continued to don his own training gear. ‘So I have heard. In a way I am grateful for your return. The fact that you have come back bearing the sword of Aenarion has given all of the gossips something else to talk about.’

  ‘I thought you liked to be talked about,’ said Tyrion with a smile. Prince Iltharis spread his hands wide.

  ‘What elf does not? But I prefer to be talked about for my good looks, my charm, my skill with a sword, the beauty of my prose. It is not really pleasant to be gawped at like a trained monkey simply because you were present at the last moments of a famous woman.’

  ‘I have never seen you like this,’ said Tyrion. ‘I believe the death of the Everqueen has really upset you.’

  It was not something that Tyrion would ever have suspected of Prince Iltharis. He was very good at giving the impression of caring for nothing.

  ‘Now my dear Tyrion, please don’t start accusing me of being sentimental. That would be just too much.’

  ‘I suspect you do have a sentimental streak, Prince Iltharis.’

  Iltharis picked up a wooden practice sword and began to limber up with it. ‘I shall have to beat that suspicion out of you then, Prince Tyrion.’

  ‘I wonder if you still have that in you, or whether old age is creeping up on you.’ Tyrion began to perform a few exercises designed to loosen his own muscles. Prince Iltharis laughed.

  ‘Ah, the cockiness of youth. To tell you the truth, I am glad that you have come back. I have missed the opportunity to put you in your place. Simply because you have won a few duels you overestimate your own skill and underestimate everybody else’s.’

  ‘I do not think it would be possible to overestimate your skill,’ said Tyrion. It was true too; he had never encountered another elf as good with a blade as Prince Iltharis. Tyrion knew exactly how good he himself was with a sword. There were few people in Ulthuan capable of matching him with it, but Prince Iltharis was even better. He learned something new every time he faced off against the prince in one of these practice bouts. It was one of the reasons he still went in for them.

  ‘Do not think this late showing of humility will save you from another thrashing,’ said Prince Iltharis. ‘Although, it is nice to be able to practise with someone other than Korhien who poses a bit of a challenge.’

  ‘I see you have regained some spark of your customary insouciance,’ said Tyrion. ‘I was starting to think that you had entered a new and morbid phase of your decrepitude.’

  ‘Decrepitude, is it? I’ll give you decrepitude! Ready?’

  ‘Ready.’

  ‘Then defend yourself,’ said Prince Iltharis. He lunged forward, fast as a striking serpent and Tyrion was hard put to parry. As always, when fighting the prince, he found himself constantly on the defensive, rarely able to take the initiative and mount an attack of his own.

  Prince Iltharis was astonishingly swift and moved with a fluid ease that Tyrion envied. He seemed able to anticipate every one of Tyrion’s counter-attacks and neutralise it easily. And he did all of this with the infuriating air of an elf who was not really trying, who could easily raise his performance to a much higher level if he wanted to.

  Tyrion understood enough of the psychology of combat to know that this was as much a part of Prince Iltharis’s arsenal as his superlative technique with a sword. It gave him a huge edge over his opponents, even ones as confident as Tyrion.

  Tyrion was no longer the youth who had provided Prince Iltharis with such easy victories when they first met though. As his hangover cleared he unleashed the full fury of his sword arm, attacking with a combination of brute strength, lightning reflex and sheer skill that few could match. He forced Iltharis to take first one step back, then two. He struck at the blade and by sheer fluke managed to knock it from the prince’s hand.

  For a moment, triumph filled him. It looked like he was going to defeat the prince for the first time ever. That blow must have numbed his sword hand. Then Iltharis plucked the blade from the air with his left hand and returned to the attack. Tyrion could tell that his right hand was hurt, but it did not even slow him down. Within a few heartbeats, he found the wooden practice sword at his throat.

  ‘You really are improving, Prince Tyrion,’ said Prince Iltharis. ‘I don’t know what it was you were doing down there in Lustria, but I don’t believe I have had such a good workout in the past two centuries.’

  ‘I was still not good enough to beat you,’ said Tyrion.

  Prince Iltharis smiled. ‘In another two centuries you will be much better and I really will be old. Maybe you will be able to beat me then.’

  ‘That is not much comfort,’ said Tyrion. He suspected it was not intended to be.

  ‘You are good enough to become the Everqueen’s champion though, at least when it comes to swordplay.’

  ‘Not if you compete.’

  ‘There is more to becoming champion than using a sword. You must be proficient with all weapons and fighting from horseback. You must be able to sing and dance and play the part of the dashing hero. Being champion is as much about looking good as it is about being able to fight and there you have the advantage, my young friend.’

  ‘I am surprised to hear you admit it.’

  ‘An ability to realistically assess one’s own strengths and weaknesses is useful for every fighter,’ said Iltharis in his most professorial mode. It was a manner he sometimes assumed with Tyrion, master speaking to pupil. Tyrion could not find it in himself to resent it.

  ‘You seem less excited about taking part in this great contest than I would have expected,’ said Iltharis. He sat down on a nearby bench and took a glass of wine from the tray a human servant was holding.

  ‘I like the idea of competing. I am not sure I like the idea of the prize.’

  ‘They say the new Everqueen is a beauty.’

  ‘It is being her servant that I do not like.’

  ‘Ah, the pride of the line of Aenarion…’

  ‘Mock all you like, my friend, but I had become accustomed to the idea of being my own master.’

  ‘We are none of us that, prince.’

  ‘You are the last person I would expect to hear preaching sermons about duty. You spend your time doing exactly what you want.’

  ‘Just because I deplore responsibility myself does not mean I cannot appreciate its benefit in others. Our society would fall apart if everyone was like me.’

  Prince Iltharis seemed suddenly serious. ‘Believe me, Tyrion, I have had my share of unpleasant duties in my time.’

  Tyrion knew Iltharis had fought many duels on behalf of the political interests of his House. He talked about them flippantly, but being known as someone who was little better than a paid assassin must take its toll.

  Tyrion laughed. ‘I had not thought to find you so mournful.’

  Iltharis gave a rueful grimace. ‘I cannot help it. I look around me and see everything is in flux. The Everqueen is dead and it makes me uneasy. The world is changing, Tyrion, and I do not think it will be for the better for the people of Ulthuan. I cannot help but feel that my life and everybody else’s will soon be very altered.’

  ‘You are serious. The world is changed.’

  Iltharis smiled. ‘Indeed. I am filled with odd forebodings. If we do not meet again after you go to Lothern, remember that I wish you well.’

  Tyrion wondered what had brought that on. ‘And I you, Prince Iltharis.’

  The prince gave him a stra
nge sour smile. ‘Come, let us leave this gloomy place and go and get something stronger to drink.’

  He seemed his old self again. Tyrion wondered what was really bothering him.

  After he left Tyrion, Urian cursed himself. He was getting sloppy, weak and emotional. He had been startled when Tyrion asked about the Everqueen, had felt certain that his guilt must show on his face. It had taken him most of the practice duel to become accustomed to the thought that Prince Tyrion did not suspect him and did not need to be killed on the spot. He probably could have done it and made it look like an accident, but he liked Tyrion and he had not, so far, been ordered to kill him.

  It was more than the shock and the guilt though. He realised that over the centuries he had been here, an agent in place, he had grown accustomed to his life in Ulthuan.

  He liked it, found it pleasant and would have been grateful for it to continue indefinitely. Instead, he knew now for certain that it would be ending soon. Malekith’s plans were close to fruition and, despite the fact he had no idea as to the specifics, he knew they could not bode well for the high elves.

  His forebodings for the future were based on that knowledge. Many of the elves he knew here would be dead soon, or under the iron heel of the Witch King’s rule. He would be revealed as a traitor in their midst and one of the new rulers. There had been a time when he had looked forward to that with great glee. He no longer did. He thought that when Ulthuan fell, something great would be lost and the world would be a poorer place for it.

  He tried to steel his nerves by telling himself the high elves were foolish and degenerate, weak and easily deceived, but he could not even deceive himself about that. He had lived too long among them, had become more like an asur than his druchii kindred. He was an odd creature now, caught between both worlds, deceiving both as to where his sympathies lay.

  He had not been lying to Tyrion, he realised. He really did feel a dark and terrible foreboding about the future. Everything was going to change for the worse. He told himself that he had better get used to the idea. Soon Malekith would rule this place, and he had no sympathy at all for those who were not utterly loyal. Urian had better be absolutely certain where his loyalties lay.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Greetings, doorkeeper,’ Korhien Ironglaive said. ‘Welcome to my humble chamber.’

  Tyrion presented Korhien with some wine from his father’s cellars and looked around. Korhien’s chambers were simple by the standards of the Phoenix King’s palace, which meant they were luxurious beyond belief even by the standards of Lothern. Carpets from Araby covered the floor. The hangings were ancient silk tapestries. Paintings from the golden age of art during the reign of Aethis hung on the walls. The crystal window had an astonishing view of the harbour.

  Tyrion took a seat on a divan and looked across at his father’s oldest friend. Korhien looked almost the same as the time when they had first met over a century ago. He had a few more scars but the agelessness that the vast majority of elves possessed until extreme old age was still his. He was as tall, fit and muscular as a youth, and moved with the easy grace of the very highest echelon of warriors.

  ‘I hear your quest to the world’s far edges has been successful.’

  ‘We found it, Korhien. We found the sword Aenarion carried in his youth.’ For once Tyrion could allow all of his enthusiasm to show. He could not with his other friends, even Prince Iltharis.

  Korhien raised an eyebrow.

  ‘What?’ Tyrion asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Korhien said.

  ‘Spit it out. There’s never been any need for restraint between us, why start now?’

  Korhien laughed. ‘Very well, since candour is what you demand. I was thinking that I am not sure whether it’s a good omen that you have found that sword.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Aenarion started with that blade. He moved on to another one.’

  ‘You are not seriously suggesting that I am interested in drawing the Sword of Khaine?’

  ‘What I am suggesting, doorkeeper, is that it would not matter whether you are or not. If it is your destiny to do those things you will, and you are very clearly someone marked by destiny.’

  ‘I would never have believed you were so superstitious, Korhien.’

  ‘Nor would I. But sometimes I look at you and I wonder into what pattern the stars are aligning behind your head. I wonder how much of it is deliberate, and how much of it is Fate, the gods, whatever you want to call it.’

  He sounded unusually thoughtful. No, Tyrion thought. That was not fair. The White Lion had always been much more thoughtful than most elves ever gave him credit for being. It was just that his thoughts did not usually drift down such strange channels.

  ‘You are serious, aren’t you?’

  Korhien nodded. ‘A god reached out and touched your life once, Tyrion. It intervened to save you. How many elves has that ever happened to? I can count it on the fingers of one foot and contrary to the opinion of some I am not a Chaos mutant.’

  ‘We were in the Shrine of Asuryan. The god was protecting his own.’

  ‘Asuryan did not save any of the warriors with you, or any of the priests guarding his shrine. He lent his power to you and your brother. I would respectfully submit that he most likely did it for his own reasons. Now you return from the blighted edges of the world carrying a blade that was forged by Caledor and borne by Aenarion himself. I can almost feel the forces of destiny lining up behind you.’

  ‘You are unusually full of forebodings this fine morning. And to think I only came over to offer you a cup of wine.’

  ‘You are of the blood of Aenarion, doorkeeper. That means something.’

  ‘It means I belong to a select group that has been prodded and tested and manipulated by its own people, hunted by daemons and secret cults, whispered about behind its back and accused of all manner of unspeakable crimes. I did not ask for any of this, Korhien.’

  ‘Ah, but you did. No one forced you to go seeking that blade. And yet you did.’

  ‘You think I have some ulterior motive?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I think you are not without ambitions. I think you are interested in a career in politics and you, or the people behind you, are using your resemblance to Aenarion to build a legend around you.’

  ‘The people around me? You mean my grandfather in his time or my aunt now?’

  ‘And their faction, yes.’

  ‘Are you talking for Finubar here? Does he think I threaten him?’

  ‘No, doorkeeper. On both accounts. I am speaking for myself, based on my own observations. You are not a threat to Finubar, because he is the Phoenix King and only his death will change that. And you are not the sort to try your hand at assassination, nor is your aunt.’

  Tyrion was annoyed but he did not let that show in his voice. ‘I am glad you think so.’

  ‘You asked me for honesty, doorkeeper. Would you prefer that I did not give it to you?’

  Tyrion shook his head then smiled, seeing the absurdity of the situation. ‘No. I prefer you as you are, Korhien, and I prefer you to say what you think. I am just surprised that you have such a low opinion of me.’

  ‘That I do not. It is just that I sometimes look at you and wonder how it is all going to end. Your life is taking on a strange shape and so is that of your brother. I worry about you both.’

  ‘It would be best not to mention that to him. He likes to think he can take care of himself.’

  ‘You both can, but that does not stop me from worrying. Now tell me about your aunt. How is she these days?’

  Korhien and Malene had been lovers once, but the decades and politics had pulled them apart. He still seemed interested in her though. Perhaps she was in him. They were still friends.

  ‘She seemed a little w
orried when I last talked to her,’ Tyrion began.

  ‘It is good to see you again, aunt,’ said Teclis with what he felt was a little too much formality. He was unsure of his reception so he had fallen back on good manners. It was unusual for him.

  Teclis looked at Lady Malene. Physically she did not look any different from the beautiful elf woman he had first seen the day before his sixteenth birthday over a century ago. She was still beautiful in a severe way and as ageless as any other elf. She looked somehow older though.

  There was something to the set of her shoulders and the way her lips compressed. A slight frown was always present on her forehead. Responsibility had changed her. Just the way she sat hunched over her father’s old desk made her look different.

  Tyrion would have been able to tell him in exactly what ways and quite possibly explain why, but he had always lacked his brother’s gift for reading people.

  She looked up and smiled with a genuine warmth that always surprised him. He never really expected anyone but his father and his brother to look at him like that.

  ‘Prince Teclis,’ she said. ‘This is a pleasure.’

  ‘Not entirely an unexpected one, I hope.’ Try as he might, he could not keep the hurt from his voice. He had always thought that she preferred him to Tyrion, the only person other than his father who had ever done so. It hurt him, more than he cared to admit, that she had summoned his brother first and in private.

  ‘I knew you had returned along with your brother. I saw him yesterday evening.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It was business of the House,’ she said, as if that explained everything, which he supposed it did. She took her duties as the new ruler of House Emeraldsea very seriously.

  As she said it she rose from behind the desk, walked around it and hugged him. The intimacy of the gesture was startling. He was not used to any physical displays of affection. He returned the hug clumsily and backed away as quickly as he could, staring at her from arm’s length.

  ‘I understand you have become quite the adventurer,’ she said, returning to her place behind the desk as if she understood his embarrassment. ‘You have found the sword of Aenarion.’