by William King
‘We don’t know,’ Eltharik said. ‘We are trying to find out. The Council has called a meeting of all the seers and mages in Lothern. Archmages and Loremasters are being summoned from Saphery and the White Tower.’
‘What do you think is happening?’ Malene asked.
‘I have no idea,’ Eltharik replied. ‘There are a few signs that the winds of magic are growing stronger and the power of Chaos is increasing but nothing that would suggest a manifestation by dozens of such powerful daemons across Ulthuan.’
‘Do any of the places attacked have anything in common?’ Belthania asked.
‘We are looking into that. At a guess I would say they are all close to waystones,’ said Eltharik.
‘The pins that hold the Vortex together?’ Belthania looked thoughtful and not a little worried. ‘That could be very dangerous.’
‘The Keepers of the Stones have not reported any tampering with the Great Pattern. There have been no attempts to unmake it, only some strange surges of energy within it and those happen from time to time.’
‘Do they?’ Urian asked.
‘The winds of magic blow softer or stronger. Sometimes there are storms of magic, sometimes absolute calms. The Vortex and the Pattern are intended to channel the energy of the winds so sometimes there must be fluctuations as the levels of ambient magic change.’
Urian considered this. ‘The daemons are not attacking the Vortex though?’
‘As far as we know, no. There has only been one broken waystone found and it seems to have been the result of a lightning strike. There were traces of dark magic visible nearby though and an aura of great evil such as you might find near where daemons have manifested.’
‘Was there an attack near that waystone?’ Korhien asked.
‘Yes,’ said Eltharik. ‘There was.’
‘And it was probably among the first, wasn’t it?’
‘Too early to say yet, Korhien, but it is possible.’
‘But it is definite the daemons are not attacking the waystones.’ Belthania said. ‘They are attacking towns and killing elves.’
‘It is strange,’ said Malene. ‘But who can fathom the thinking of daemons?’
‘I thought someone had to summon them,’ said Urian ‘That’s what all the chronicles say. Some mighty sorcerer raises them for his own purposes.’
‘They can enter the world through the Chaos Wastes when the winds of magic blow at their strongest and most corrupt,’ Eltharik said.
‘But they are not doing so now. You said that yourself.’
Eltharik nodded.
Malene said, ‘Who would do this? Who would summon them? The druchii? The Witch King?’
Urian considered the possibility. He had heard nothing of any such plan. Of course, his master rarely saw fit to keep him informed about such things.
‘If any wizard living has the power to do so, he has,’ said Eltharik. ‘No dark elf armies or fleets are attacking us though, and surely there would be if this was part of one of his plans?’
‘It does not sound like Malekith,’ said Urian. ‘It is not his way. Too random. Too messy.’ He saw a number of those present including Korhien nod their heads at that.
‘A renegade wizard then? A Chaos cultist?’ Lady Malene asked.
‘Perhaps. But the attacks are too wildly spaced to be the work of one mage summoning. The reports are coming in from all across the continent.’
‘Could an army of Chaos worshippers have gathered in secret and unleashed their attacks all at once?’ Finubar asked.
‘The attacks did begin just after the full moon,’ said Eltharik. ‘That is a time of great mystical significance.’
‘Yes,’ said Lady Malene. ‘I was at sea about that time and there was a strange storm. I thought it was tainted with dark magical energy.’
‘Was that before or after the attacks began?’ Belthania asked. She looked even more troubled.
‘It would have been just before, I suspect.’
‘Where were you?’ Belthania toyed with her long black hair. It was still very dark. Urian wondered if the rumours were true about her dyeing it.
‘Off the coast of Yvresse,’ said Malene. ‘Near where the waystone was smashed.’
‘It might well have been in the storm’s path.’
‘It is possible these things were connected. The storm broke the waystone. The daemons attacked there or manifested there.’ Malene knew it sounded weak even as she said it. Urian could tell from her expression. ‘Perhaps they came out of the Vortex. It was weakened at that point.’
‘Daemons in the Vortex? That seems unlikely as well.’ Belthania was emphatic. She did not seem to even want to consider the possibility that it might be so. Urian could sympathise – it was a most unsettling prospect. Still, it was one that they might need to face up to.
‘Perhaps the place was picked by cultists for a ritual? Perhaps the storm was merely a coincidence? Perhaps it provided them with the power they needed to summon the daemons?’ Malene said.
Belthania pursed her lips. ‘That is a lot of perhapses. We need to find out concrete facts. We need to know who is behind these attacks. We need to know how strong our foes are and what their goals are. It is the only way we are going to be able to stop them.’
‘Let us hope we can.’
‘Do you have any recommendations?’ Finubar asked. ‘Is there anything we can do?’
He clearly wanted to know if there was some place where he could order his troops or fleets to go. He was a warrior and he saw things like a warrior.
‘We need to know what the daemon wants, sire, before we can prevent it from achieving its goals.’ Belthania said.
‘Then we had better work that out, hadn’t we,’ said the Phoenix King. ‘And quickly before more lives are lost.’
Urian helped himself to some wine. It was going to be a long night, and he had better make sure he missed nothing. Malekith would want a full report on this.
‘It seems my rebellious subjects are in something of a panic, Urian,’ said Malekith. His gaze burned coldly out of the great mirror beneath the Silvermount Palace. There was a certain chill satisfaction in his voice. He had listened intently to Urian’s report without interrupting once, which was unusual for him.
‘Indeed, sire. They are. Apparently Ulthuan is under attack by a legion of greater daemons. They have returned from the time of legends and are hellbent on destroying the entire island and sending us all beneath the sea.’
‘I sense that you are not in agreement with this, Urian.’
‘As ever, sire, you are correct.’
‘Your simple faith in me is touching, Urian,’ said Malekith, with a trace of his acid humour. ‘What has been the response from the False King’s court?’
‘They are mustering their armies and fleets. They have sorcerers working on divinations. Scholars such as my humble self are scouring through ancient texts. They seek to ascertain the daemons’ purpose.’
‘Do you think they will do so?’
‘Not yet, master, but it is merely a matter of time before they do. They are not without competent wizards here in Ulthuan.’
Malekith nodded. ‘I do not think it is an uprising or a group of invading armies. My spies would have informed me of such a thing and I am sure that in this matter at least the False King is at least as well informed as I.’
‘You think it is the daemon, sire? This N’Kari of legend?’
‘It is possible, Urian. Such creatures do not age any more than I do. If it is N’Kari he will be terrible.’ Urian needed to exert all his self-control to keep from shuddering. He gazed on his ruler with a feeling of something like awe. Malekith had been alive when Aenarion had defeated and banished the Keeper of Secrets. He had walked the world in that time of legend. And if he saw fit to remark that its return would be a terrible event, Urian had every reason to believe it would be so.
‘This daemon, if daemon it be, is moving very quickly around Ulthuan with a very large force. Much
faster than it should be able to by ship or road.’ The Witch King sounded even more coldly thoughtful than usual. What was he thinking?
‘Magic, sire?’
‘Magic indeed, Urian and of no usual kind. If a Keeper of Secrets were simply moving itself we could assume it was being summoned by worshippers although this would speak of a level of Slaanesh worship in Ulthuan far greater than any we were aware of.’
Urian was of the opinion that Morathi was fully aware of the extent of the Lord of Pleasure’s worship in Ulthuan, but whether she would share this knowledge with her son was a different matter entirely. ‘You think this contingency unlikely, sire?’
‘We do, Urian. Even if he were being summoned, there is no way he could bring a large force of mortals with him. There is some other form of magic at work here, one that interests me greatly.’
Urian could understand why. Anything that might allow the movement of large bodies of troops around Ulthuan so swiftly would be of great interest to the Witch King. His eventual goal was nothing less than the unification of the two elven realms under his own legitimate rule.
‘You wish me to investigate this matter, sire?’ Urian said, risking much. It was always dangerous to assume you knew what Malekith wanted and always dangerous to speak to him when he had not asked you a direct question.
‘Precisely so, Urian. I want you to keep your ears open for even the tiniest scraps of information about this thing. Nothing is too unimportant to report as far as the daemon N’Kari is concerned.’
‘I will pay scrupulous attention to all I hear concerning this. I will gather all the information currently available and hunt down every shred of rumour.’
‘Diligence will be rewarded in this matter, Urian. Failure...’ Malekith let the word hang in the air. There was no need whatsoever for him to spell out the penalties of failure in his service. ‘Concerning the matter of the twins, do nothing at the moment. This takes precedence.’
‘As you command, sire,’ said Urian.
Malekith placed his hands together and the mirror went dark. The audience was clearly over. Urian was glad. He wiped cold sweat from his brow and helped himself to some wine. He had his work cut out for him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘It looks like they are preparing for a feast here,’ said Tyrion to Liselle. The morning sun shone down on the courtyard, illuminating the bustling activity all around them.
His cousin was dressed in another expensive gown of green Cathayan silk and watching the retainers hang more lanterns on the trees in the courtyard. Twigs of oak and wreaths of oak leaves were being placed over doorways. Trestle tables were being placed in the courtyard. Carved wooden statues of treemen guarded every entrance.
‘It will be the Feast of Deliverance soon. My grandfather is giving a ball to celebrate it, and the fact that you and your brother are among us.’
‘You are certainly doing it in style,’ he said. ‘Making a statement, I suppose.’
‘Yes and yes,’ said Liselle smiling.
The Feast was a celebration of the return of Aenarion’s children, Morelion and Yvraine from the heart of the Forest. They had been believed dead even by their father when in fact they had been under the protection of the Treeman Oakheart. He had saved them from the forces of Chaos and hidden them in the depths of the forest, thus preserving the life of the future Everqueen and her brother. Tyrion was descended from Morelion as was every other surviving child of the Blood of Aenarion save Malekith, the Witch King of Naggaroth. He could see that House Emeraldsea was reminding everyone of their connection with the Blood by ostentatiously giving this feast. If it turned out that he and Teclis were judged accursed it was a potentially very risky move.
‘It looks like it is going to be a very big party,’ said Tyrion. ‘When exactly will it be?’
‘In less than a week, on the night of the Rejoicing.’ That was the traditional night when balls and parties were given and offerings made in temples. ‘Although there may not be much to rejoice over this year.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Word is that Ulthuan is under attack. Outlying mansions have been ravaged by worshippers of the Dark Prince of Pleasure. A whole town was sacked by an army headed by a daemon.’ She sounded a little worried as she said it, but not as if she was taking it entirely seriously.
‘How do you know this?’
‘A messenger brought word to my mother last night. She was summoned to the palace. A ranger found bodies at a mansion in the mountains. It seems a mage survived the attack on Tor Annan and managed a Sending. Other places have been attacked. The Phoenix King called a council to discuss what happened and decide what to do about it.’
‘A town sacked by daemons – that sounds very serious. Perhaps he will have no time to attend parties.’
‘You obviously have not had much experience of life in Lothern, Prince Tyrion. The social round would go on if the world was ending. It is the life blood of this city. Anyway, I doubt Finubar is about to strap on a sword and go hunting daemons himself. That’s what he has people like Korhien for.’
Tyrion paused to think about what she had said. Cultists attacking outlying mansions. Towns destroyed by daemon-led armies. It all sounded very unlikely standing here in this bustling courtyard in the bright light of day. And yet he supposed that was how these things must always seem to those not directly involved in them. This was nothing to do with him. Of that he felt sure.
‘I hear you have been slipping out at nights,’ said Liselle. She smiled. ‘It did not take you long to find a secret lover.’
Tyrion smiled back. He should have known that his comings and goings would not be unobserved. There were other observers than guards watching over the mansion.
‘There is no secret lover,’ said Tyrion. ‘I merely wanted to see the city without an entourage of retainers.’
‘Use the front door,’ she said. ‘It’s the easiest way.’
‘I have the elven passion for secrecy and intrigue,’ he said.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘That always makes things more interesting.’
Before he could ask her what she meant by that, she strode away, pausing in the doorway to turn and smile at him. It looked posed but she was still lovely.
Life in Lothern was certainly interesting. There was no mistaking that.
Tyrion had never seen a place quite so crowded, dirty, smelly and wonderful as the Foreigners’ Quarter. He was glad he had put on his old clothes and snuck out of the Emeraldsea Palace again.
He was free and just for this evening, he felt like his old self again. It was not just wearing his old clothes. It was not being hemmed in by endless formalities and the rituals of life in the palace.
He was already starting to be bored. Weapons practice was fun, but the endless lessons in protocol were not. He had enjoyed the dancing lessons and flirting with his pretty relatives but he had not enjoyed being told how to behave. He felt like he was somehow on probation, less than a guest, something of a prisoner.
Servants watched his every move. Bodyguards followed him everywhere, supposedly for his own protection. Tonight he had climbed down from the balcony of his chambers into the street and slipped off where no one would dream of looking for him. He knew he was being childish, that he should simply have taken Liselle’s advice and used the front door, but he liked doing this.
This was the sort of adventure he had dreamed of ever since he was young.
For the first time ever Tyrion was seeing beings of a different race, and lots of them. They bustled through the Foreigners’ Quarter as if they owned the place, and they paid less attention to him than he did to them. He supposed they must be used to seeing elves. He was not at all used to seeing humans.
They were smaller than he was, shorter than almost all elves, and yet heavier, bloated with fat and muscle. They looked clumsy and graceless and their voices sounded like the squawking and bellowing of beasts in a jungle. There were so many different types of them: tall, pale elabo
rately dressed men from Marienburg and the Empire; dusky hawk-featured, scimitar-bearing Arabyans from the lands of the south; Cathayans clad in silk robes.
He understood why some elves affected to despise them. There was a coarseness about them, a brutal directness of speech and gesture combined with a grubbiness and stench that was off-putting. And yet he was not put off – he found the differing accents and voices and clothes and body language exhilarating, as entertaining as any book or poem he had read.
Their clothes were coarsely made and their foods smelled of fat and salt and spices. Sausages of some indescribable meat sizzled on spits. Fish blackened on braziers. Sellers stomped everywhere with trays of savouries strapped to their chest, small but vicious-looking dogs snapping at their heels.
These humans were a long way from their homes but somehow they had made themselves at home here. The architecture of the quarter had taken on a humanish look. Brick buildings leaned at crazy angles against the remnants of much older elven structures. Ancient palaces had been turned into vast warrens and mazes of dwellings and shops and merchants offices.
There was none of the courtliness or formality of elvish culture. Men bumped into each other in the street and either backed away swiftly, hands reaching for swords, or grinned and nodded and passed on their way.
Merchants argued prices. Harlots led drunken sailors into side alleys and in pairs they humped and groaned against the walls. In quiet corners, men played chess on odd-looking boards with carved wooden pieces of strange design. He stopped to watch a game and just from a few moves he could tell the rules were not so different from those he was used to.
When the humans noticed him, they stopped and looked at him as if they anticipated him saying something. He gestured for them to continue but they just stared until even he felt a little uncomfortable and a little rude for distracting them from their game, so he sketched a bow and moved on deeper into the great bazaar.