by William King
Be calm, he told himself. The time for blades will come soon enough. You will have your chance at combat and you will most likely die of it, in a place where no one will see you fall and no one will remember your fate.
One of the Phoenix Guards came over. His face was as impassive as if it had been hewn from stone. He looked at Tyrion and then at the door and nodded his head. His expression was peculiar, as if he recognised something. He squared his shoulders and let out a long breath. His face was calm, as if reconciled to something.
Teclis suddenly shrieked and spasmed, as if he was having a fit. Over and over again, he repeated the name of Asuryan. It looked as if something had gone terribly wrong. Tyrion rushed over to his brother, feeling helpless, for once not knowing what to do.
N’Kari strode into the shrine. Behind him the gate was broken and corpses lay strewn everywhere. He was alone. The other daemons would come no further and the mortals were distracted by pillage and rapine. The air crackled with inimical energy. The light of Asuryan was strong here but not strong enough to keep him from his goal, not saturated as he was by power stolen from the Vortex. He was enjoying using the full power of his battle form. It had been a long time since he had given full and free rein to his lust for combat. His only regret was that even with the backing of their god, these elves were barely worthy of death under his claws.
He raised his great sword in one hand and swept it down, cutting two of the Phoenix Guard in two with one blow. He snipped off the head of the first bisected corpse with his claw just to enjoy the expression on its face. The brain still lived and thought for seconds even after it was cut off from the body.
Ahead of him were a set of stairs leading down into the depths of the temple. He sensed the presence of his prey down there where Asuryan’s power beat most strongly. The presence of that old god was all around here. The Flame blazed strongly as if trying to hide those N’Kari sought within the shadows its light created.
Given time, Asuryan himself might even manifest himself and deal with the interlopers. That would be a sight worth seeing. Unlikely though. It took long ritual magics to get the god’s attention. Beings like Asuryan moved and thought in different timescales from their little elf puppets. An eye-blink to a god could be the lifetime of an elf. N’Kari reckoned that he could easily be finished his work here before Asuryan even realised there was a threat to respond to. Unless very powerful magic was used of a type that was beyond the high elves now.
The elves had thought that placing them here would put his prey beyond his reach. He would enjoy showing how useless all of their efforts were. Once he had done that, he thought he would consider finishing the work he had begun five millennia ago and turn Ulthuan into his personal fiefdom.
Laughing with joy, basking in the adoration of those elves who looked at him longingly, even as he killed them, N’Kari made his way down the stairs towards the innermost Sanctum of the Shrine of Asuryan.
The contact was sudden and shocking. Teclis felt something ancient, ageless and terrifyingly powerful. It inspected Teclis as Teclis might inspect an insect. The mind was not mortal. It bore no resemblance to elven consciousness. It operated on a different level entirely, one that Teclis knew he had no chance whatsoever of comprehending.
He sensed the presence was waiting for something but he had no idea what. He concentrated with all his mind, asking for help, for power, for aid against their mutual enemy. Something vast and slow responded but he was not sure it was responding in the way he wanted it to. It was too alien and immense.
There was something, a sense of recognition that might have been an image, a rune, a name. Aenarion. Whatever it was, it knew Teclis was connected with the Phoenix King. It must be his blood. Or perhaps it remembered him from his trial. Now he had to make the being understand that he needed help and the nature of the help he needed.
He pictured the daemons. He pictured the shrine. He pictured what was going on around him. Nothing happened. Perhaps the being the elves knew as Asuryan worked on such a timescale that it would take hours for it to respond. All of the rituals concerned with contacting him had taken time and had been performed by elves who were his priests and presumably thus already had established some link with the entity. Teclis had never done so. Perhaps all of his efforts would be in vain. He felt the contact slipping and tried desperately to re-establish it.
A spark of enormous power passed into him so painfully strong that Teclis almost passed out. He knew that if this kept up the force of the magic would kill him. Asuryan was trying to help but seemed unaware that his colossal strength might be too much for the one he sought to aid. He thought again of himself picking up the flying fish. He had never even thought to wonder what had happened to it. Had he crushed its gills with his fingers, killing it even as he tried to save it?
Would that happen to him now?
The screams of the dying and the dreadful roars of their killer were audible now even through the thick walls of the shrine. They echoed through the corridors like notes within the cone of a trumpet. Tyrion waited, loosening his muscles, breathing deeply and letting the tension seep out of him. He looked over to the shadow of the great altar.
Teclis’s face was pale and Tyrion could sense his twin’s fear and agony. Its distant echo made his stomach churn and his muscles tense. Teclis’s brow was knotted in intense concentration. His eyes stared off into the far distance as if he was looking out on things others could not see. His thrashings had stopped and he seemed to have regained some control over himself.
Images of what might be happening outside intruded themselves into Tyrion’s mind. He pictured elves being torn apart by ravening daemons, and the hordes of Chaos rampaging through the most sacred shrine of the elves.
He realised that he was not afraid. He was angry. He was angry about the desecration of this holy place, of the threat to his brother’s life, about the strange twists of fate that had brought him to this place to die.
Anger and fear are two sides of the same coin, he told himself. Both can get you killed. He forced himself to breathe deeply, to remain calm. Now was not a time when he could afford any emotion-driven mistakes. He saw one of the wounded soldiers looking over at him with something like admiration.
‘I wonder that you can remain so calm, Prince Tyrion,’ he said. The effort of keeping his voice steady showed in his speech. His voice seemed about to crack when he mentioned Tyrion’s name.
‘We are in the keeping of Asuryan,’ Tyrion said, gesturing to one of the massive statues. He was remembering the way Lady Malene and Captain Joyelle and the officers of the Eagle of Lothern had stood on the deck in the storm and given their confidence to the crew.
‘Your faith is inspiring,’ said the soldier, with only the faintest hint of irony. What he obviously wanted to say but did not dare do in this holy place and in earshot of his comrades was that he did not share Tyrion’s faith.
Tyrion smiled at him and the soldier squared his shoulders and gripped his weapon tighter. As Tyrion had suspected he was not about to show himself less brave than an untried sixteen-year old. Tyrion looked away. He had been glad to deal with the soldier’s doubts, they had distracted him from his own dark thoughts. Deep in his breast he felt a titanic rage building once more, an anger that could consume him if he let it, the sort of rage his ancestor Aenarion might have felt when he confronted the hosts of Chaos.
Is this how the Curse manifests itself in me, he thought? Am I a child of rage, like those elves who followed Aenarion in the dark days after he lost his wife and children? Is that why I can kill without conscience? Am I chosen by Khaine in that way?
He knew he might not live to find out. The leader of the remaining Phoenix Guards gestured to the warriors present. The Guards and the wounded alike moved to place themselves between the twins and anything that sought to get at them. Tyrion knew they had no chance of doing it, but he was touched by their bravery anyway.
Something enormous bellowed outside the door.
‘Whatever you’re going to do, do it soon,’ Tyrion told his twin.
Teclis stared sightlessly at the ceiling.
The great wooden doorway of the sanctum crashed open. A four-armed form stood there, brandishing an enormous greatsword in one oddly delicate arm. A huge claw clicked at the end of another. With its remaining two arms it wove potent spells. The last twenty of the Phoenix Guard faced it.
Tyrion wondered if there would be any of the order left after this battle. It was said that each of the Phoenix Guard was granted knowledge of his own death during the intricate rituals performed when they were raised to the status of member. He wondered if the proud warriors around him had always known that this moment would come.
He studied their faces. All of them were grim. None of them showed fear, even in the face of the horror confronting them. Tyrion looked back at N’Kari. He had always known the daemon was going to be massive, what he had not conceived of was how oddly beautiful it would be. It was not that the creature’s form was lovely, rather it was that it moved with the lithe grace of a dancer and the beckoning, seductive movements of a high-class courtesan. It should and did look obscene, but it was also fascinating.
Magic, he told himself. The daemon’s aura was working on him. He shook his head and was surprised how easy it was to throw off the spell that had even the steel-willed Phoenix Guard standing quietly before the monster like rabbits before a serpent.
For a moment that seemed as long as eternity, the spell held, and all stood, seemingly frozen. Then the first of the Phoenix Guard sprang forward to strike at the monster. N’Kari parried and cut the elf in two with his return stroke. Silent as stalking cats, the remaining elf warriors threw themselves into the fray.
CHAPTER TWENTY-nine
I am going to die.
The knowledge beat against Tyrion’s brain with utter certainty as he watched N’Kari rip one of the Phoenix Guard asunder with his great claw. There was no way he was going to survive this. He simply was not a match for the daemon, even weakened as it was by the magical radiance of Asuryan’s flame.
I am going to die.
N’Kari beckoned with his hand and some of the wounded soldiers abased themselves before him. N’Kari sprang forward walking on the backs of his newfound worshippers, the great claws on his feet tearing flesh and shattering bone with every stride.
Tyrion was not afraid. He was not angry. He was simply struck by the futility of any action he might perform. He knew in part this was a reaction to the languid vapours the daemon emitted and in part it was his own mind responding to the hopelessness of the situation.
I am going to die.
The remaining Phoenix Guard threw themselves forward to meet the daemon. Its blade reaped their lives like wheat. It laughed with soul-flaying mockery. Blood and brains splattered everywhere, hitting Tyrion on the face. Calmly he wiped them away to clear his sight.
It was all just information. His death was one of the rules of this game. Accepting the truth of it, he could still win. The goal was to distract the daemon until Teclis cast his spell. It was now simply a problem of tactics.
I am going to die.
The daemon gestured again. Polychromatic lightning surged from its extended claw. It hit one of the defenders and consumed his flesh even as he groaned in what might have been agony or ecstasy. The flare of the bolt cast the huge statues of the old god into stark, blasphemous illumination.
N’Kari was huge and very fast and enormously strong. Its claw was capable of shearing a fully armoured elf warrior in half with as little effort as a seamstress cutting thread. It could fire bolts of magic at its targets. It was all but invulnerable to mortal weapons.
I am going to die.
Blades shattered on N’Kari’s flanks or passed through flesh that knitted behind them. Whatever protected the daemon seemed random but it was effective.
The invulnerability did not matter. It was not his goal to kill the daemon. Only to waste its time. To draw its attention. His task was to keep himself alive as long as possible. To hold its attention. To save the life of Teclis until he could cast his spell. If he could cast his spell.
I am going to die.
The pitifully few remaining defenders threw themselves forward. The daemon pounced to meet them and rend them asunder.
Time was passing. Every second he did not do something was a second that brought N’Kari closer to victory and Tyrion closer to defeat. He needed to act soon if he was going to act at all. He raised his sword. His hand was steady. He considered wasting an instant to turn to Teclis and wave goodbye but that would merely draw N’Kari’s attention to the one he was trying to keep it from.
I am going to die.
He smiled. He had never expected to live forever. His life was going to prove a lot shorter than he would have wished.
Why was he hesitating?
There were things he still wanted to do and would never get the chance to and once he started he never would. No matter. It was too late for that now anyway.
‘Face me, daemon, and meet your master,’ Tyrion shouted. His voice was as steady as his hand.
Teclis felt the electric thrill of contact with the presence of the god. Knowledge surged into his mind, showing him where to put his hands, how to move his fingers, which words to say. He did what he was told, binding the power and shaping it into a weapon that he knew would prove inimical to the daemon.
He moved in the patterns shown, spoke the words he was told, adapted his mind to the sorcerous inflections demonstrated. The power flowed into him like wine poured into a cup. It thrilled him and it pained him. His life and soul were in danger, for mortal forms were not intended to act as conduits for god-like power. He was filled with so much magical energy that any elf who was not a sorcerer would already have been fried to a crisp. He wondered at how much he could bear. He knew it was going to have to be a lot more if he was to have any chance of harming the daemon.
The voice was the same, N’Kari thought. He paused for a moment in something that was almost shock. The face was the same. It might have belonged to Aenarion himself although a younger, less stern, less time-ravaged Aenarion. The scent was the same, flesh for flesh. The spirit was almost the same. It did not blaze so bright. It did not burn with the Flame of Asuryan. It was not corrupted by the Sword of Khaine. It was not dimmed by the shadow of that all-devouring blade.
Astonishingly, it was not afraid. It had not yet learned the meaning of fear as Aenarion had, even when he had his fears most under control.
This was indeed a bright tender morsel to offer up to Slaanesh. The spirit burned bright but it was not the only one of the Blood that N’Kari detected. There was another nearby. No matter. This one would do. It would give N’Kari the greatest of pleasure to teach this foolish mortal the meaning of terror before he killed it.
He would torment it as a cat torments a mouse.
He sprang forward, aiming just in front of it. The elf was quick indeed. N’Kari had intended to do no more than scratch it but the elf was already gone. A pinprick in his left side, near where the heart would have been in an elf told him his opponent even had the temerity to strike back.
N’Kari smiled. This might prove even more amusing than he had hoped.
‘I will start with your fingers and toes,’ he said. ‘I will snip them off so delicately you will not even miss them at first.’
The blade flicked at his eye. It stung. It did not really hurt. It merely interfered with vision for a moment until it healed.
N’Kari struck again, faster this time, certain that this time he would connect. The elf was no longer where he had aimed. Once again it eluded with a speed much greater than N’Kari had anticipated.
‘I thought daemons were to be feared,’ said the elf with the sword. ‘You cannot even hit me.’
It was already backing away though, as if it sensed that on the third attempt N’Kari would unleash his full fury. Tempting as it was, N’Kari resisted. He struck again and thought a
t first he had connected but then realised his claw had only hit the elf’s blade. It was not exactly a parry. There was no way the elf had the strength to either hold or deflect N’Kari’s blow. He had simply managed to evade.
It was only a matter of time, the daemon thought. Nothing mortal could defeat him.
Tyrion moved away as fast as he could. N’Kari was fast, faster than anything Tyrion had ever faced and he sensed that the daemon was not even exerting itself. It was over-confident. It knew it was going to win and that it had time.
Up close the creature was fearsome. It bulked much larger than him. Its hide was armoured. Its massive claw looked too heavy even for its mightily muscled arm but somehow was not. The scent of the thing was odd, musky and spicy and oddly disturbing. Aromatic sweat or some other secretion glistened on its armour.
That was wrong. Flesh sweats. Armour does not.
He pushed aside the thought as a distraction and aimed a blow at where the skin and armour joined, at a point which on any living thing would have been vulnerable. He ducked a blindingly fast claw sweep and lashed out with his blade. It pinked the daemon where he had aimed but the flesh knit behind the blade almost as soon as it was pierced.
N’Kari struck again, aiming low, trying to hamstring Tyrion. He leapt forward, feeling the wind of the displaced air below him, careering off the daemon’s side. He hit the ground rolling, let his momentum carry him to his feet and turned to face his foe again. N’Kari was already reaching for him.
Tyrion was glad that he had entered this fight with no illusions as to his chance of survival. It would have been very discouraging otherwise to discover just how fast and strong and powerful the daemon really was. He was outclassed completely. He began to have some inkling of just how mighty Aenarion had been. He had triumphed over this creature and others just as powerful.
