by William King
Larien was quick and he was strong and his technique was excellent. Tyrion did not need Korhien’s training to know this. Something in his mind was aware of it, in the same way as he was aware of the strength and weakness of a chess position. He doubted Larien had the same quickness of reflex as he himself possessed but he decided not to act on that assumption until he had more proof of it. Larien could, after all, easily be faking it, hoping to make him overconfident.
A few more passes of the blades told him this was not so. The elf’s personality was reflected in his blade work. His swordplay was intricate and deceptive but the deception was in the technique. Larien relied on that and his natural strength to overcome his opponents. He was much better with a sword than most elves ever would be. He smiled at Tyrion, teeth gritted.
‘I see what you mean about killing me slowly,’ said Tyrion as they stepped apart. ‘Are you trying to lull me to sleep?’
‘No,’ said Larien, springing forward. His blade was aimed high. An elf less quick than Tyrion might have had his head split. As it was Tyrion merely stepped backwards, parrying as he went, noticing that the rain of blows Larien had unleashed did indeed have a rhythm, and one most likely intended to lull the opponent into parrying the pattern of it.
He found himself falling into the pattern almost automatically, as an elf might sometimes find himself tapping his fingers in time to a drumbeat. He could see the danger of what Iltharis had predicted happening. It came as no surprise when suddenly the blade was not where it should have been according to the pattern of strokes. Tyrion had already predicted where it would be and parried it. He brought his left fist crashing into Larien’s face.
Cartilage broke under the impact. Larien went reeling back, blinded by pain and tears. Tyrion leaned forward to full extension, ramming his sword into Larien’s stomach. He felt the impact all the way up his arm. There was a scraping sensation as his sword hit bone. Larien screamed like an animal being pole-axed. Blood gouted forth, covering Tyrion’s sword and hands, spraying onto his naked chest. Some of it got in his mouth. He caught the coppery taste.
Part of his mind was aware that this should be horrific. It was certainly not beautiful or glorious. There was a stink of blood and entrails, of things that should normally be inside an elf’s body but now were not.
He did not mind it, just as he did not mind the screaming, or the sight of the light dying in another elf’s eyes. The main thing was that, at some point, the sword had left Larien’s hand and was now lying on the ground. His own life was no longer in danger. He had wiped out an insult to his family’s honour and he had forestalled an attack on his clan by their enemies.
He felt a twinge of sympathy for Larien’s pain. Korhien had been right in one way. It was hard to watch another elf die, but that too was a problem easily solved. He struck again, aiming for the heart, and silenced Larien’s screams forever. He looked around at the other elves present. They stared at him in wonder and something else; it might have been horror.
‘Unorthodox and inelegant,’ said Iltharis. ‘But effective.’
Korhien nodded. ‘The main thing is that you are alive.’
He stepped forward and hoisted Tyrion into the air, laughing. He seemed more relieved than Tyrion felt and suddenly it struck him why. Korhien had not been looking forward to explaining to Prince Arathion how he had led his son to his death. Tyrion looked down at the corpse of Larien. Already it looked different. The face looked stark and all animating spirit had left it. The eyes were glazed.
Larien’s two seconds were covering his corpse with a cloak. Tyrion contemplated the shrouded form for a moment, only too aware that it might so easily have been his own. He felt no rush of reaction, no urge to scream or shout or sing with joy. He was keenly aware of his triumph, that he was alive and he had proven the victor and that was enough for him. He had a sense of satisfaction and pleasure though.
‘By all the gods,’ Iltharis said. ‘You are a cool one.’
Tyrion was barely aware of his surroundings as they rode back towards Lothern. He kept going over the fight in his mind, replaying every move, reliving every blow, remembering every small detail lovingly. He was excited, not disturbed. He had never felt better or more alive.
Larien had tried to kill him, for reasons that Tyrion was still not very clear about. He had never done anything to hurt Larien and, as far as he knew, he hadn’t given the elf any reason to pick a quarrel with him. Larien was dead through his own choice. Tyrion had merely been his chosen means of execution.
He was sure that Larien would not have looked at things this way. He was quite certain that Larien had expected to be riding away on his own horse while Tyrion lay cold on the ground. He imagined that no one ever thought that they were going to be the ones who died when they picked these quarrels but it was inevitable that somebody was and Tyrion was glad it was not him.
He was more than glad – he was pleased and proud. He had demonstrated his skill against one of the most famous duellists in Lothern. He had beaten Larien fair and square and he knew that in some ways he was going to inherit the elf’s reputation. Now he was going to be famous. Now he was going to be the one that people studied when he walked down the street and he was going to be the one that they whispered about in taverns and salons.
He glanced around him and saw the way that his companions were looking at him. Korhien looked troubled. Iltharis looked pleased. The rest of his companions looked at him admiringly and enviously. He could tell that some of them wished they were him and that was a heady feeling. They were all basking in the reflected glow of his victory.
Tyrion glanced around at the road and his surroundings. He had not been really aware of it before. He had been too lost in his own thoughts. Now he could see everything with an almost perfect clarity. He was aware of the greenness of the grass and the brightness of the sun and the caress of the wind against his flesh. He knew that food would taste better and that kissing a girl would be much more pleasant.
Korhien rode up beside him. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Never better.’
‘You are taking it very well. I have seen some warriors be sick after their first kill, some of them after many kills.’
‘I don’t feel sick,’ said Tyrion. ‘I feel great.’
‘That is because you are a natural,’ Prince Iltharis said. He had ridden up on the other side and Tyrion found himself sandwiched between the two. ‘A natural killer.’
Korhien grimaced. He did not like the sound of those words at all. Tyrion was not sure he liked the sound of it himself. It made him sound like a murderer. Iltharis could tell that he had given offence. He smiled coldly. ‘I did not mean that as an insult. It is a compliment in its way. You are like me, Prince Tyrion, you do not feel any remorse when you kill someone who deserves it.’
‘You’re always very certain that the people you kill deserved death,’ said Korhien. Iltharis’s smile widened and he looked even more sardonic than usual.
‘If they had not deserved death, I would not have killed them,’ he said. He laughed and there was a genuine humour in his laughter that chilled Tyrion a little.
This was not a subject he felt that one joked about. It was a serious matter, a matter of life and death. On the other hand, he did feel closer in his attitude to Iltharis than to Korhien. He did not really see why he should regret killing Larien. After all, Larien would have had no regrets about killing him.
‘I don’t think everyone I killed deserved death,’ said Korhien. He seemed to be taking the matter seriously too and Tyrion liked him for that even more than usual. He felt like he had something in common with both of these elves and that was not a bad thing. They were equally great warriors in their way and he could learn something from both of them. He was going to have to if he was going to become the fighter he wanted to be.
‘You think too much, my friend,’ said Iltharis.
‘I don’t think you can ever do that,’ said Korhien. ‘Too many people kill witho
ut thinking in this world.’
‘You and I are in agreement about that, at least,’ said Iltharis. ‘But come. Let us celebrate the fact our young friend is alive. We can all agree that is a good thing and raise a glass to it.’
‘Let us not get too drunk. There will be another council this afternoon. You would not want to embarrass yourself in front of the Phoenix King.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-three
Urian took another sip of the very fine wine the Phoenix King had provided for his advisors. There was some subtle narcotic in it, something that sharpened the wits and blunted the edge of fatigue. Of course, it was not nearly as potent as the equivalent vintage would have been in Naggaroth, but that was not necessarily a bad thing. If these elves had been drinking that wine they would most likely have been at each other’s throats by now. He set the goblet back down on the highly polished table and listened to the equally polished debate.
By this stage of the proceedings, it was not so much about deciding what was to be done or what the problem really was. It was more about who would get to make the decisions, who would make his rivals look foolish or weak or lacking in knowledge, who would get the credit if there was any credit to be had and who would be apportioned blame in the event of anything going wrong.
It did not matter where elves came from, Naggaroth or Ulthuan, in this their councils were always alike. Of course, in Ulthuan the stakes were not as high as they were in Naggaroth. Here, the worst that was likely to happen to anyone coming out on the losing side in a debate was that they might lose face or some fractional increment of prestige. In Naggaroth, where the stakes were in favour of Malekith, there was always the stimulating possibility that death might await the loser. The Witch King did not tolerate failure and he did not love bad advice.
Listening to some of these windbags, Urian thought they might benefit from the lash of Malekith’s iron discipline. It would certainly stop them from rambling on and on and on. One thing he could safely say about the wizards of Ulthuan was that they loved the sound of their own voices.
It made him almost nostalgic for those councils where the Witch King would execute those who bored him. Like all tyrants, Malekith loved only the sound of his own voice and was intolerant of those who would steal away some small fraction of the attention that he craved. That was his rightful entitlement, Urian corrected himself ironically.
At the moment the archmage Eltharik was laying markers on the maps of Ulthuan spread out on the great table of the council chamber. He was making the point yet again that all of the attacks had taken place near waystones. He was also placing the names of those who dwelled in areas that had been attacked and were known to have been killed.
As he listened to the long list of casualties, Urian almost sat bolt upright. For a moment he thought he perceived the pattern and he listened carefully to what was being said. As the evening wore on and Eltharik continued to bore with a list of names that he had so lovingly compiled for this purpose, Urian again and again heard names that were familiar to him from his studies.
He wondered if anybody else had seen the pattern, and decided that they had not because they did not share his fascination with the heritage of his master Malekith and his very potent father.
He wondered whether he was really correct. Perhaps it was simply seeing something random. It was the nature of the mind to try and make order out of chaos, to try and see patterns in everything. That was a danger that he was well aware of. And yet, the more he thought about it, the more what he saw made sense.
He cast his mind back over the research he had been doing for his monograph on the descendants of Aenarion. Every single one of the places that had been attacked was a place where one of the Blood had dwelled and would most likely have been dwelling still had not the daemon attacked. And it seemed very likely that a creature as malicious as N’Kari would seek revenge upon the descendants of the Phoenix King who had caused him so much inconvenience as to slay him twice.
Yes, he thought, I have it. The Keeper of Secrets is killing the descendants of Aenarion one by one. He intends to wipe out the line. Urian smiled a secret smile, knowing that for once he really was ahead of every other elf in the room.
The question was, what was he going to do with this knowledge? It would be a very dangerous thing to keep this from his master. If N’Kari was killing all of the descendants of Aenarion, the Witch King himself must surely head the list of potential victims. It would be interesting to see what happened when an ancient and powerful daemon clashed with the mighty ruler of Naggaroth.
For Urian the question became whether the reward his master would give him for finding out this information would be of greater value to him than the amusement to be gained from letting the struggle happen.
Lady Malene noticed him smiling. She looked at him sourly and said, ‘Prince Iltharis, perhaps you would care to share the joke with us. I do not really see anything to smile about in this long list of the dead.’
‘Forgive me, Lady Malene, my mind is full of butterflies tonight. I was merely pleased by the taste of this fine vintage. There is indeed nothing to smile about in this catalogue of horrors. Now if you could excuse me, something has just occurred to me and I must beg leave to return to my mansion and consult with my books.’
‘Your hypothesis is an interesting one, Urian,’ said Malekith. Even over all the long leagues between the two communicating mirrors, Urian could hear the anger in his master’s voice. ‘And it concurs with some information my mother has seen fit to pass on to me.’
‘She has had one of her visions, sire?’ Urian was suddenly glad he had chosen to pass on his information to Malekith. Not to have done so and then to have the Witch King even suspect he had behaved in this fashion would be inevitably fatal.
‘Precisely so, Urian, or so she would have me believe. It is also true that my mother has her own sources within the Cults of Luxury in Ulthuan, some of them hidden even from me.’
It was typical of Malekith to speak that way, Urian thought. It implied that he knew a very great deal even as he admitted he did not know everything. Knowing his master it was most likely an accurate summation as well. Malekith was only imprecise when he wanted to be.
‘What would you have me do, sire?’ Urian asked. This was the nub of the matter.
Malekith was silent for a long moment. Urian could almost feel the force of his thoughts, the titanic brooding immensity of his calculations. He was looking at the matter from all sides, weighing advantages and disadvantages closely.
‘I think it would be useful if you were to share your theory at the next council. It would redound to your credit. And if perchance our misguided kinsfolk should teach this arrogant daemon a lesson then so much the better.’
‘As you wish, sire,’ said Urian, feeling certain as always that his master had kept his real purposes hidden and his real reasons obscure. It certainly could not be that Malekith was frightened by the possibility of the daemon coming for him.
Nothing frightened the Witch King. Urian was very certain of that. Still if anything might, the possibility of a Greater Daemon of Chaos coming to seek vengeance would surely head the list.
Urian looked around the chamber. His expression was grave but inwardly he was enjoying the commotion he had caused. He was also feeling secretly smug. It was he, after all, who had divined the daemon’s intentions, not these clever wizards, or proud scholars or even the Witch King himself.
‘I do not believe this, Prince Iltharis’ said Eltharik.
Urian smiled at him. ‘Perhaps that is because you did not think of it yourself.’
The wizard’s mouth fell open. He was obviously not used to being talked to this way, except perhaps by other archmagi.
‘It fits the facts as we know them,’ said Lady Malene. ‘And so far it is the only theory we have that does.’
‘That does not mean it is correct,’ said Belthania.
‘But if it is correct,’ said Finubar, ‘then every surviving descendant
of Aenarion is in danger.’
‘Perhaps that is why Eltharik quibbles with my theory,’ said Urian. He kept his voice reasonable. ‘Perhaps he sees a way to end the problem of the Curse for all time.’
It was a possibility that had almost certainly occurred to most of the elves in the room, even if none of them had dared mention it. He thought it best to get it out into the open, and if by doing so he could cast a slur on this haughty archmage, so much the better.
‘That was not my intention at all. I merely think we should not accept an untested hypothesis without proof.’
‘How do you intend it should be tested?’ Lady Malene asked. ‘Shall we wait until every descendant of Aenarion is dead and every place where they dwell is ravaged?’
There was anger in her voice. She was obviously concerned for her nephews.
‘I can assure you that the facts are testable. I have access to all of our genealogies and I have talked with many of the people killed,’ said Urian. ‘If you check the records you will find their names and places of abode are all stored by the Priests of Asuryan and the Loremasters of Hoeth.’
Urian looked around the room. This was indisputably his area of expertise and no one was prepared to challenge him on it. He could see that many of those present were coming around to his point of view. It would indeed be too bad, he thought, if Eltharik was correct and all he was doing was projecting an imaginary pattern onto the course of events.
He looked at Finubar. The Phoenix King’s face was bland but there was something about his manner at that moment that reminded Urian of Malekith. The Phoenix King too was making his calculations, and they were not all about preserving the lives of the Blood of Aenarion. They were to do with enhancing his prestige and strengthening his position.
