by William King
She heard a stone bang against the shutter of her window. She knew who it was without having to look. Only one elf had ever done that. She opened the shutter. As if summoned by the thought of him, Elrion emerged from the gloom. There was something wild in his appearance. He looked different although she could not quite put her finger on how and she had known him since childhood.
‘What is it, Elrion? What is wrong?’ she asked. She thought she heard some large animal growling in the dark behind him. Perhaps some wild thing had strayed into the area after all, and he had fled before it. That might explain the wildness of his appearance.
‘In the name of Isha run down and open the door, it’s following me,’ he said, but he said it quietly, as if he did not want anyone to hear. Perhaps he was afraid of attracting the creature’s attention. She thought about ringing the bell to summon the servants but realised it would be faster just to go down herself and open the gate as she had done when they were younger. She raced down the stairs, threw the bolts on the gate and opened it.
‘Quickly, come in,’ she said, peering past his shoulder to see if whatever it was was still out there. She thought she caught sight of glowing eyes glittering in the gloom. There was something terrifying about them. He stepped passed her into the courtyard. As he did so, old Peteor emerged from inside the mansion. He carried a bow in his blue-veined old hand and he had an arrow knocked and ready.
‘I thought I heard the bolts being thrown,’ he said. ‘What is it? Who would come calling at this time of night?’
‘It is only Elrion,’ Fayelle said. ‘Some night-stalking beast followed him here.’
‘It’s an odd time of the night to come calling,’ said Peteor. He had never liked Elrion, and his liking had grown less as tales of Elrion’s debauched lifestyle and wild parties had become common knowledge in the neighbourhood.
‘I have urgent news for Prince Faldor,’ said Elrion. He strode over to Peteor with his hands outstretched. ‘It concerns the wedding. It’s not going to happen.’
‘Has there been an accident? Has something happened to Moralis?’ Fayelle asked.
‘What else could bring him at such a time of the night,’ said Peteor. ‘News brought after dark is usually bad news.’
‘I am afraid Peteor is right,’ said Elrion. He seemed to slap Peteor on the back. The old elf coughed and lurched forwards. Red stuff emerged from his nose and lips, and something bubbled in his chest, causing him to have trouble breathing.
‘Are you sick, Peteor?’ Fayelle asked. Peteor struggled to say something. He reached up and tried to grab Elrion who leaned against him and moved his arm again. Peteor bent double and more red erupted from his chest. Fayelle ran over to him ‘What is wrong?’ she asked, reaching out to touch him. She was shocked at how wet he was and how red her hand came away, then suddenly in a rush, she realised what was happening. ‘You are bleeding,’ she said. Frothy red bubbles erupted from Peteor’s mouth as he tried to speak. His eyes opened wide and he slumped forward.
‘He’s dead,’ said Elrion.
Fayelle felt sick and panicky and she did not quite understand what was going on even when she saw the red knife in Elrion’s hand.
‘And I am afraid everyone else here soon will be. Come now, there is someone I must introduce you to.’ He twisted her arm painfully up her back and pushed her towards the gateway, seemingly not caring any more that her screams were rousing the house. Lights were coming on everywhere and she could hear retainers moving within.
From out of the shadows, a massive and sinisterly beautiful humanoid figure emerged. It was the most handsome-looking elf she had ever seen, except for the fact that its feet ended in hooves, one arm ended in a crab-like pincer and small curling goat horns emerged from its forehead. She opened her mouth to scream and took in a lungful of oddly calming, musky perfume. She was suddenly filled with the urge to reach out and stroke the goat-horned elf’s naked flesh. He seemed to understand this and smiled back. It was a most winning smile.
‘Greetings, Blood of Aenarion,’ he said in the most thrilling voice imaginable. ‘You should be pleased. You will be the first to know my vengeance. And you will be the first whose soul I offer screaming to my god.’
The next morning, when he awoke, Tyrion found a pile of new clothes on the table in his room. Under the table was a complete set of new footwear. In a sandalwood box was a necklace, a torque and a pair of sunstone rings. He donned all the apparel including a very fine green cloak trimmed with cloth of gold and studied himself in the mirror. He looked every inch the asur prince, he thought, but he did not look like himself.
As he studied himself, a servant entered, without knocking. ‘Korhien Ironglaive requests your presence in the courtyard, Prince Tyrion. It appears he would like to give you a lesson in swordplay.’
‘Please tell Korhien I will be right down.’ He began to change out of his new clothes into the old ones he had used on the journey. He did not want such beautiful things ruined in weapons practice. The servant watched him uncomprehendingly for a few moments, lifted a shirt and a pair of britches and said, ‘I think you will find these were intended for you to wear at practice. I was told to take away all of your old clothes and burn them.’
Tyrion laughed. ‘I shall wear what you suggest but don’t burn my old clothes. Have them washed and mended and brought back to me. I may have some use for them yet.’
‘As you wish, sir.’ The servant looked confused. He could not imagine what Tyrion wanted these rags for. Tyrion decided it was better that way. He had an idea of doing something for which they might be useful. He was not sure he wanted his relatives to find that out yet.
chapter twelve
‘Good of you to join us,’ said Korhien Ironglaive. The big elf was stripped to his tunic and looked as if he had just finished some hard sparring with wooden swords. A group of younger-looking elves stood nearby with their weapons in the guard positions.
Korhien tossed him a wooden practice blade. Tyrion caught it easily by the hilt as it tumbled through the air. ‘If you would be so kind as to demonstrate your technique in the practice circle.’
Tyrion saw that a chalk circle had been marked in the centre of the courtyard. He strode into it, sword held ready. Korhien coughed. The other students laughed. Tyrion looked at Korhien.
‘You don’t lack for heart, lad,’ Korhien said. ‘I am not so sure about your wisdom but your courage is impressive.’
He indicated a stand which contained a suit of padded armour just like the others were wearing. Tyrion smiled at his mistake, strode over and laced it up. He did not need to be shown how. It was as if he was born knowing how to tie the stays in the correct way. When this was complete he returned to the circle.
Korhien said, ‘Atharis! You shall spar with Prince Tyrion.’
‘As you wish, sir,’ said a blond haired, good looking elf, stepping forward into the practice circle. He was not as tall as Tyrion, but he was well-muscled and lithe. His nose had been broken and not badly set, and his mouth had a cruel twist to it. He looked as if he took this whole thing very seriously.
‘I shall try not to hurt you,’ he said in a very low voice. His tone implied that he meant to do exactly the opposite of what he said.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Tyrion. He moved more slowly and clumsily than he normally would. He saw Atharis sneer, as Tyrion deliberately held the practice blade incorrectly. ‘I shall endeavour to do the same.’
‘Begin,’ said Korhien.
Within three strokes, Tyrion had put Atharis on his back. The other student seemed very slow to Tyrion and his moves very predictable. Korhien looked at him from the corner of his eye.
‘As you can see, Prince Tyrion is not quite as simple as he chooses to appear,’ he said.
Korhien strode forward into the circle and spoke to the watching group of students. ‘In case you are in any doubt, Prince Tyrion has exceptional gifts. You would do well not to underestimate him as Atharis did. There is a lesson he
re about combat in general. Don’t judge your foe by what you are told about him. Don’t judge him by his appearance. Don’t judge him by what he says about himself. Judge him by how he fights against you. You might live longer if you do.’
He gestured for Tyrion to leave the circle and join the other students. Tyrion did so, helping Atharis up as he went. The other elf grinned at him ruefully.
‘You are all here to learn to fight,’ said Korhien. ‘I am taking time to teach you. There are not so many elves that we can afford to lose any. Bear that in mind. Every asur life lost is a terrible blow to our people and we can ill afford such losses. It is your duty to see that you live. It is your duty to see that you are fit and that you are capable. It is your duty to learn from your mistakes and master your weapons. All of you, and I include the gifted Prince Tyrion in this statement, have a good deal to learn, but you have the time to learn it, and learn it you shall. I intend to see to that.’
‘Still giving that same old speech, Korhien,’ said a mocking voice from under the colonnaded arches.
‘Why not, Prince Iltharis? It is a good one and there is truth in it.’ Korhien did not seem to mind the mockery.
Tyrion studied Prince Iltharis as he came into view. He was a tall, slender elf, dark-haired and fair-skinned with piercing grey eyes and a languid manner. He was garbed in a very elaborate, scholarly fashion. He carried a bunch of scrolls negligently under one arm.
He sauntered over to inspect the students, smiled and bowed to Korhien. ‘Indeed it is, and who can disagree with the sentiment?’
‘I sense that you do.’
‘Not in the slightest, my dear fellow – I just wish you would express them less pompously and with slightly more originality.’
‘I see you are determined to undermine my authority with my students, Iltharis.’
‘You were doing that quite well enough without my help, Korhien. I am surprised that they could keep from laughing at you.’
Tyrion was surprised that an elf as fierce as Korhien would put up with this banter, but he saw that the White Lion was not put out by it in the least, in fact appeared to enjoy it.
‘Perhaps you would care to instruct them instead.’
‘I am not in the least suited to being a teacher of weapons,’ said Iltharis. ‘Poetry or history are more my forte. When it comes to teaching, anyway.’
‘That is something we can both agree upon, my friend. Perhaps you would care to leave me to giving the lessons then?’
‘Indeed. Perhaps I shall remain and watch. I might pick up a few pointers.’
Korhien laughed.
‘I somehow doubt that, Prince Iltharis, but you are welcome to remain.’
‘Well, I am interested in your latest pupil anyway. I am writing another monograph on the Blood of Aenarion.’
Tyrion spend the next few hours sparring, losing himself in physical activity, learning everything Korhien had to say. He was aware all the time that Prince Iltharis was studying him with a watchful eye. He found that he was getting a little bit tired of being inspected so closely all the time.
Prince Iltharis eventually said, ‘Your new pupil is quite exceptional, Korhien.’
‘Indeed,’ said the White Lion. Tyrion was annoyed at this fop passing judgement on him.
‘Perhaps you would care to try a turn with the blades,’ Tyrion said. Iltharis looked at him and smiled mockingly.
‘It is not something I would usually do, but in your case I shall make an exception.’
He sauntered over to the sword rack, examined the wooden blades like a connoisseur selecting a bottle of wine and picked up the one that he liked the most. A moment later he was strapping on the practice armour.
Tyrion could not help but notice that for all his languid manner there was muscle there. Iltharis stretched like a big cat to get the kinks out of his muscles, saluted Korhien and then turned to face Tyrion. ‘When you are ready, young prince,’ he said. The rest of the students watched with interest. Some of them smiled. One or two laughed. Tyrion wondered what he had gotten himself into.
He approached Prince Iltharis, sword held ready. They exchanged two blows and his sword was out of his hand. Tyrion replayed what had happened in his mind. Iltharis had used a similar trick to the one Korhien had played when first they duelled, but had done it much faster. His speed of reflex was uncanny. Tyrion suspected that for the first time in his life he had encountered someone even quicker than himself.
‘That was a pretty trick with which you disarmed me. I will wager you could not do it again.’
Iltharis raised an eyebrow. ‘What will you wager?’
Tyrion felt his embarrassment deepen. He owned nothing, not even the clothes he was wearing. ‘It was a figure of speech,’ he said lamely.
‘Prince Iltharis is also very wealthy,’ said Korhien. ‘Or his family is, which comes to the same thing.’
‘Your plebeian roots are showing, Korhien. One would think you almost jealous.’
‘The only thing I envy you, prince, is your skill with a blade.’
‘Well, it’s always nice to be envied for something. But I was talking to your young friend here about the terms of a wager.’
‘I have nothing to offer,’ said Tyrion, thinking as always that honesty was for the best. ‘As I said, it was a figure of speech.’
‘I will lend him a gold piece,’ said Korhien.
‘Are you sure, my friend? I know it is a large sum of money for you.’
‘I do not want it,’ said Tyrion.
‘You may not have the wealth of Aenarion, but you have some of his pride,’ said Iltharis. ‘I can set a term for the wager that I believe will be acceptable.’
‘Go on,’ said Tyrion.
‘If I win, you will do me one favour when I request it. If you win, I will do the same.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Tyrion.
‘I would not be so quick to accept, doorkeeper,’ said Korhien. ‘You do not know what the favour might prove to be.’
‘Nothing dishonourable or hurtful to your ancient pride,’ said Iltharis. ‘Be sure of it.’
‘Very well,’ said Tyrion.
They fell into fighting stances again. This time Tyrion’s attack was less reckless and he watched for Iltharis to try the same disarming technique. When it came, he was ready for it. His response was swift and sure and almost successful. Instead of being disarmed himself, he almost disarmed Iltharis.
Only the other’s cat-like quickness of reflex saved him. He sprang backwards, aimed a blow at Tyrion’s knee, paralysing it and then knocked him off his feet with a powerful blow to the chest.
Ruefully, Tyrion picked himself up. His leg felt numb from the nerve-strike. ‘I guess I lost the bet,’ he said.
Iltharis shook his head. ‘No. You won it. I could not disarm you with the same technique again. You were quite right.’ He raised the wooden blade in an intricate salute and then returned it to the rack. ‘I congratulate you, Korhien. Your pupil is everything you claimed and more.’
Tyrion glanced at the White Lion. It seemed that he and Iltharis had been talking about him in private and Iltharis’s appearance was not mere happenstance.
‘It is good of you to say so.’
‘No, Korhien, it is honest of me to say so. Now I must thank you for an interesting morning’s entertainment and bid you adieu.’ With that Prince Iltharis bowed and strolled away across the courtyard.
The other pupils were looking at Tyrion now with something like awe. It appeared that Prince Iltharis was well-known and respected among the young warriors of the Emeraldsea Palace.
‘Who was he?’ Tyrion asked Atharis, after Iltharis was out of sight.
‘Prince Iltharis is one of the deadliest swords in all Ulthuan. He has killed more elves in duels than anyone in living memory. Some whisper that he is an assassin for his House.’
‘An assassin?’
‘Sometimes duels are fought over more than points of honour. Sometimes they are fought to rem
ove political inconveniences or as part of political manoeuvres.’
Tyrion stared at him for a long moment then smiled. ‘I start to understand why you all take this practice so seriously.’
‘It is, as Korhien said, a matter of life and death. Sometimes it has larger consequences for our House and our families. I doubt you have very much to worry about though.’
‘I do if Prince Iltharis comes after me. Or anyone nearly as good.’
‘There are very few that good in Ulthuan and his House is allied to our own.’
‘Alliances can always be broken,’ said Tyrion.
‘I see you have a swift grasp of politics as well as how to use a blade,’ said Atharis. ‘We could be useful friends to each other.’
Tyrion extended his hand and clasped the others’. ‘I can always use a friend,’ he said.
Teclis woke to find Malene sitting by his bed. She looked a little worried.
‘What happened?’ he asked. The last thing he could remember was watching Tyrion leave for his fencing lesson. He had walked over to the table and bent over to pick something up. Then he had felt dizzy...
His heart sank. It seemed like his illness had returned.
‘You were taken ill,’ she said. She looked rueful. ‘I think you have been over-exerting yourself recently. You have not recovered as much as you appeared to have. It seems I am not quite as good an alchemist as I thought.’
‘Yes, you are. I have never felt better in my life than the past few days,’ Teclis said.
‘Nonetheless you must be careful not to push yourself too hard. You are still far from healthy.’
‘I believe I am in a position to understand that,’ said Teclis, gesturing at his recumbent form. Malene smiled. There was a knock on the door, an odd double tap that sounded unlike any knock Teclis had heard before. Malene seemed to recognise it. She made a face.