Sword of Caledor (19 page)

He found that he was humming an ancient tune to himself. In some ways he was nearing the closest thing that he had to a home in the world. The tower was a place where mages gathered to study together and work spells and use the ancient library, easily the best in the world. It was a community of kindred spirits all sharing goals and ideals. It was a place where everybody understood him in a way that was simply impossible for the non-magically adept to do. It was the one place in the world where he was not an outsider, and where his physical handicaps were not held against him, at least some of the time.

Nonetheless, he found himself ambivalent about the place sometimes. He had grown accustomed to being an outsider, even enjoyed it in a perverse sort of way. It was, to a certain extent, the core of his own identity, of his view of himself.

Of course, sometimes having other people around could be pleasant. He was going to enjoy the sensation caused by his announcement that he had found the sword of Aenarion. He was going to enjoy talking about his discovery of its enchantments with his colleagues. He was going to enjoy sharing with them the knowledge that he suspected was in the ancient slann inscriptions he had brought back with him, even if that was knowledge of the disaster. There was something about being the centre of attention that he sometimes enjoyed, and he knew that he did not really care how he became the centre of attention when he was in this sort of mood.

Whistling to himself, smiling happily even though he carried news of impending disaster, he approached the White Tower. For whatever reason, the defences did not turn him away.

Teclis could really see the White Tower now. It was an enormous ivory spear, aimed at the underbelly of the clouds, easily the tallest structure that he had ever seen, quite possibly the tallest building in the world. It stood astonishingly high, immensely thin, tipped with a pointed cupola from which the High Loremaster could look down upon the vast width of his domain.

It was an awe-inspiring sight, at once fragile-looking and monumentally impressive, the sort of thing that could only be created by magic of the highest order. Many claimed that this was the crowning achievement of architecture and Teclis was not inclined to disagree.

Ever since he had first seen this building, he had loved it. It symbolised to him everything that was good and worth preserving about his people. When people talked about being willing to die to save their country, Teclis had never understood it. He could understand talking that way about this place though.

The Tower of Hoeth was not just a tremendous feat of architecture. It was the centre of learning for the entire island-continent of Ulthuan, the greatest repository of knowledge that the elves had ever created, greater even than the fabled library of Caledor the Archmage back in the dawn of the world. Hundreds of the greatest sorcerers from all across the continent came here to consult the library and to talk with colleagues and to share their knowledge with the students, among whom Teclis had once been numbered.

He was no longer a student. He rather missed that. In some ways it had been the happiest time of his life. He had had nothing to do but to study ancient texts and scrolls, to learn magic under the tuition of its greatest practitioners. There had been a time when every day revealed a new wonder and every night had been given over to learning how to work the small miracles of magic.

It had been an innocent time when he had nothing more to think about than which area of study he wanted to dive into next. He had been flattered by the attention of great wizards who found it worth their time to school him. He had been overcome by the sheer scale of the library, whose shelves and corridors filled the entire bottom of the tower, and the huge labyrinth of tunnels and cellars beneath it. He had been even more impressed by the complex labyrinth of spells that made the experience of studying in the library different for every person who visited it.

He knew he had seen shelves that had not been visited since the library was built and he knew that other people had found their way to parts of the library that he never would. The library showed each scholar what they needed to find when they needed to find it. It was as if some guardian spirit presided over it and gave to each student what was required.

As he wound ever closer to the tower, he began to notice the other guardians. In the shadows of the trees and bushes the Sword Masters of Hoeth waited. Each of them was equipped with a huge two-handed sword and each of them knew exactly how to use that weapon. Tall helmets shaded their eyes and heavy leather armour covered their bodies. One or two of them waved to Teclis as he rode by but most of them ignored him, concentrating on watching the approaches to the tower, even though no threat had ever managed to penetrate this far.

If one should perchance manage to do so, they would find armed warriors waiting for them and that would not be the least of the defences that they would encounter.

Potent spells walled the tower, protection against supernatural intrusions and divinations. The Loremasters did not want anyone spying on them and it was within their power to see that that did not happen. The spells were almost unnoticeable when they were dormant save, perhaps, to a wizard as perceptive as he was, but they were there, omnipresent and ready to be activated at the slightest sign of an intrusion.

As he got closer and closer to the tower, he found himself moving through larger and larger clearings. In some of the clearings were the glasshouse farms which provided food and drink for the wizards. In others were the small villages where the retainers lived. Nearer to the tower, the open spaces held small groups of wizards. Some of them were scholars gathered together to discuss matters of research. Others consisted of a Loremaster and his students, engaged in the business of teaching and learning magic.

A few of them noticed him as he passed and pointed to him. He was well-known here, recognised as one of the most powerful of the new generation of wizards. His deeds were already discussed where mages gathered and he was sure that when word of his latest exploit got around, he would once again become the focus of all attention in the White Tower of Hoeth.

He waved at one or two of the academics that he knew and acknowledged others with a nod of his head. There were people here that he would need to talk to soon – scholars of ancient slann lore and wizards specialising in their odd means of divination.

He would also need to talk to artificers about what he had learned about the spells woven into the forging of Sunfang. He had an idea that he wanted to implement. He wanted to make his own blade using some of the techniques he had learned from the study of Caledor’s work.

He did not want to copy that ancient masterpiece, though there were things that he could use, and possibly even improve on. He was being arrogant when he thought that, but a certain self-confidence was the mark of the true master wizard. After all, it was not enough to simply duplicate the work of the ancients, one had to engrave one’s own signature on the work and leave one’s own mark in the history of magical scholarship.

He dismounted from the steed and it was led away by a retainer, who seemingly had materialised there just for the purpose of doing so. He walked into the tower and made his way to the chambers that had been assigned to him. They were as he had left them, his books still strewn on the table, a scroll on which he had been penning magical formulae partially rolled up beside them.

He limped over to his bed, threw himself down upon it and looked up at the ceiling, knowing that above him the spire of the tower raced towards the sky. He was home. He had time to rest and gather his wits before he began to face the challenges awaiting him.

There was work to be done, and, for some strange reason, he did not feel like he had much time left to do it in.

Malekith strode up to the waystone. Tens of thousands of eyes were upon him. Most of those present were confused, wondering why so great an army had come ashore at this remote spot. They had expected to be besieging a city like Lothern by now.

Let them wonder, he thought. They would find out what the plan was soon enough.

He surveyed the land, drinking in the landscape of Ulthuan from which he had been so long away. He had a fine view out to sea where his ships lay at anchor and the Black Ark of Naggaroth sat like a volcanic island newly emerged from the waters of the bay. He could see the local farmers his warriors had captured and crucified for entertainment.

He shook his head at the stupidity of it. What a waste! Those elves could have been sold as slaves or made servants, or even simply put to death if they had committed some crime against Malekith’s laws. It was not the way with the druchii though; they had to outdo themselves in proclaiming their decadence and cruelty. He blamed the influence of his mother and the cults she had introduced so long ago for that. The time would soon be here when he would bring them to heel.

Let them have their sport, they would be fighting soon enough and under the iron discipline he expected from the soldiers. They could indulge themselves – for now.

He inspected the waystone, studying the ancient runes marked in its side. He could feel the power surging through it, tapping into the ancient spell Caledor had cast on the last day of his life.

He could only see a tiny part of the vast network of energy that radiated out from the spot but he understood how it worked and just how awesome the concept was. This was probably the greatest feat of magic ever achieved by elves. It was difficult to see how it could be surpassed, although that would not stop him trying.

Once he had reunited the elves he would need to find some great projects to unify them behind him. Wars against the rest of the world would do to begin with but after that, once the world was reconquered, he would need to find some other great works to keep his subjects busy and prevent them from plotting against him, as elves always would if given the time and the opportunity. There had to be a way to improve on what Caledor had done, to use it against the powers of Chaos. If there was, he would find it.

That was for the future though. Right now he had other things that he needed to be doing. He gestured for N’Kari to approach. ‘This is what you need, isn’t it?’ he said.

The daemon nodded. ‘From here I can do all you require.’

‘Then I suggest you proceed,’ Malekith said. ‘The sooner you are done, the sooner you can have vengeance on those you hate.’

‘Let it be as you say,’ N’Kari said, a measure of irony showing in its tone.

The daemon set to work, weaving a very intricate spell around the waystone that somehow tapped into its energies and the energies of something beneath it. Malekith watched fascinated, trying to understand what was being done.

Even with his vast knowledge of magic it was not quite possible. He wondered how much of what the daemon was doing was true magic and how much of it was deception, purely for show. He did not doubt that some of it was a trap that would have fatal consequences for anyone who tried to emulate the spell exactly as it was being performed now. It was what he would have done under the circumstances. He could expect no less from a Keeper of Secrets.

Soon a shimmering gateway glittered in the air before them. The assembled ranks of dark elf warriors eyed it uneasily. They did not quite understand what was going on here, although they could see some powerful magic being cast. Only his generals were completely familiar with the plan and he suspected that even they had not really believed it was possible until they had witnessed it.

Malekith turned his cold gaze upon his army. He let them feel the power of his will. Not a single soldier present could hold his glance for more than a heartbeat and none of them dared even attempt it. All of them were thoroughly cowed. It pleased Malekith to note the result. It was possible for one being such as himself to intimidate tens of thousands. All it took was courage and iron will.

He raised his hand and gave the signal that the first phase of his great plan was about to begin.

His generals gave orders to the officers. His officers gave orders to their warriors. One by one, a unit at a time, the soldiers advanced into the gateway the daemon had opened and disappeared. Malekith turned his glance upon N’Kari. If the daemon planned treachery, this would be the time to attempt it. It would cause the maximum damage to Malekith’s plans. Once again, he ran over all of the binding spells and oaths he had placed on the daemon, looking for a flaw, but he could not find one. It was too late now anyway if there was.

This was just the first portal of many that it would open. If the daemon planned treachery it would have many opportunities. Still, within days, if all went well, his army would be in position to make the greatest surprise attack in history.

Now the Great War had truly begun.

Chapter Sixteen

Tyrion smelled Avelorn before he saw it. Even over the salty tang of the Inner Sea, he caught the scent of pine and a hint of the fresh air of the forest that lay just over the horizon. And there was something else in the air, some kind of magic, faint yet tangible, that set his skin to tingling and made him feel more alive than he had in a very long time.

Soon, green was visible right across the horizon. Enormous trees overhung the water, packed so densely that it was difficult to see what was beneath their eaves. It was a forest, ancient and primordial, of the sort that had existed when the world was young, before the coming of Chaos changed everything. Perhaps some of those trees over there had existed during that dark time. It was possible that he was looking upon a thing that had existed when Aenarion was young.

The ship sailed on, leaving white foam in its wake. Gulls circled overhead. Atharis came up beside Tyrion and said, ‘We shall be there soon. I hope you’re prepared for your first look at the legendary Everqueen.’

‘I’m sure she will be beautiful,’ said Tyrion sardonically. ‘Everybody tells me this.’

‘Why do you sound so sour about it? Anybody would think that you did not want to be her champion.’

‘Perhaps I just want to be different. Perhaps I just want to make up my mind for myself, not believe what everybody tells me.’

‘You’re starting to sound like your brother,’ said Atharis.

‘I am sorry if that disturbs you. It’s just that everybody speaks about the Everqueen in the same tone of voice. Everyone who has ever met her sounds like they worship her except Prince Iltharis.’

‘Yes, he only ever sounds like he worships himself.’

Tyrion laughed at that. ‘You know him too well.’

‘He was one of the last people to see the old Everqueen alive,’ said Atharis. ‘She probably wasn’t very happy that one of the last faces she ever looked on was not one of her devotees.’

‘I think even he was disturbed by that event.’

‘You talked to him about it, did you?’

Tyrion nodded. ‘It was the most upset I have ever seen him.’

‘You’re probably the only person who has ever seen him upset then,’ said Atharis. ‘He is the most cold-blooded elf I have ever met.’

‘You don’t like him?’

‘I never said that,’ Atharis said. ‘He is amusing enough in his own way and I don’t suppose he’s any more self-centred than most of us. I just don’t think he liked me all that much.’

‘I don’t think he likes anybody all that much.’

‘He seems to like you well enough. Probably because you are one of the few people that he can spar with and still get a bit of exercise.’

In the distance a bay was visible, the mouth of a river merging into the sea. The forest around the estuary had been cleared a little and there was what passed for a port in this part of the world. ‘It looks like we have arrived,’ said Atharis.

Tyrion could see that there was a large number of ships in the harbour, a much greater number than there really ought to have been in a port this small. A large number of people had sailed here for the tournament, judging by the amount of ships that he could see riding at anchor.

‘We shall need to head on upriver to find the tournament grounds,’ said Atharis.

‘It looks like we won’t be the only ones,’ said Tyrion.

‘
We’ll be ready to go soon,’ said Atharis.

‘Good,’ Tyrion replied. ‘We don’t have much light left.’

It had taken most of the day for his party to unload their horses and gear from the ship. They had to go as close as possible to the shore and then lower the horses into the water with winches and cranes, which was always a tricky proposition at the best of times.

While they were doing, this Tyrion waded ashore and explored his surroundings. The small village was right by the waterside. It had no walls and was built from logs with wattle and daub roofs. It looked very primitive for elven building but it somehow fitted in with the landscape. Perhaps this was how elves lived in ancient times. This was one of the few permanent settlements to be found on the coast. Most of the elves that dwelled within Avelorn were nomadic or lived deep in the woods.

‘You seem unusually thoughtful,’ said Atharis.

‘This place is making me so. It’s all very different from what I imagined.’

It all seemed stranger and older and wilder than any place he had ever been. The trees were hoary and ancient. Panthers stalked beneath the canopies of leaves. Somewhere off in the distance he heard the growl of an even larger predator, a manticore or a griffon perhaps. This would be a great land for hunting, he thought. It would be something to come here with a bow and some trusty companions and live off the land.

‘Mount up,’ said Atharis. ‘We have a long way to go.’

‘The sooner we start the better then,’ Tyrion said. At the head of a force of fifty warriors and an equal number of retainers, he took the trail into the heart of ancient Avelorn. He could tell from the tracks that they were not the first to take this route in recent times. The thought was to occur to him more than once in the days of riding ahead.

In the distance, Tyrion could just make out singing and the sounds of flutes, lutes and other traditional elven musical instruments ringing out through the forest. The sounds drifted on the wind, carrying the sad, sweet music of the elves to his ears.

Tyrion’s company rode down into a clearing crowded with musicians and archers and groups of elves that were cooking, singing and dancing. It was as if a city had suddenly sprung into being under the eaves of the trees. The ancient woods were crowded with people. There were elves everywhere, under the boughs of the great oaks.

There were hundreds of tents visible and quite possibly thousands more hidden just out of sight among the trees and dells. They ranged from mighty pavilions, large enough to house companies of bowmen, to small lean-tos set up by poor elves with nowhere else to stay during this great festival.

The sound of musical instruments filled the air. A hundred songs mingled into one vast chorus. Thousands of voices sang the praises of the woods and the sun and the most beautiful queen who had ever lived.

There was an underlying note of sadness to the song that told the listener that the singers mourned the passing of someone who had been deeply loved, even as they celebrated the ascension of her cherished daughter.

Tyrion reined in his horse and paused to listen, drinking in the sound, surprisingly touched by what he was hearing. The rest of his party paused to listen as well, moved as much as he was.

As they stood there, a group of female elves armed with bows and dressed in leather armour came towards them. These were warriors of the Maiden Guard. They inspected Tyrion’s party closely and their leader, a tall, stately beautiful elf said, ‘You are here for the tournament?’

‘Yes,’ Tyrion said. ‘I am Prince Tyrion and I have come from Lothern to take part in the competition.’

‘You’re very welcome here, Prince Tyrion,’ the elf maiden said. ‘We shall guide you to your campsite. You will want to be near the rest of the competitors.’

The Maiden Guard showed them to a place overlooking a stream. It was on a slight rise that gave them a good view of the vast open field on which the tournament would take place. Tyrion could see that there were many beautiful pavilions scattered around the area. Outside each of them stood a tall proud banner which told of the presence of a champion within.

Some of these little clusters of tents were the size of small villages. Some of those champions had a much larger retinue than he did. He wondered why they had brought small armies with them. Did they expect to be fighting a war for the favour of the Everqueen? Or was it all simply part of the great game of making a good impression, not just upon the new queen, but upon all rivals present?

He did not know and he did not really care. His own ego was not daunted by their presence, nor did he compare the size of his own retinue to those of his potential rivals and feel in the slightest intimidated.

He did however realise that the game had begun the moment he arrived, if not before. All of these things were moves on the board. He realised that his aunt had carefully calculated the size of his own retinue to be large enough to make an impression, but not so large as to seem ostentatious.

His followers went about their work under Atharis’s careful eye. They were soon erecting his pavilion. Tyrion joined in. He always enjoyed using his hands and there was something about setting up these temporary structures that appealed to him. He helped drive the central post of his great silken tent into the dirt and then he aided his fellows to throw the fabric shell into place, pull the hawsers tight and then drive in the pegs. He could see that some of the watching nobles were appalled to observe him performing manual labour and rushed off to tell their friends the gossip. He did not care.

When his own small village of tents was in place, he took the Emeraldsea banner himself and drove it into the ground outside his pavilion, like an explorer claiming a new land in the name of the Phoenix King.

He was not sure this was entirely appropriate behaviour or an entirely appropriate image to have in mind as he did it, but it suited his mood and he was pleased to see the green ship on a gold background flutter in the breeze before him.

He felt like he had staked a claim to his own place in this vast temporary city.

‘
Who is that?’ Tyrion asked Atharis as they sat together on the slope outside his tent.

He pointed towards a tall, noble-looking elf, garbed in glittering armour and riding upon a most impressive steed. The warrior was accompanied by a group of knights almost as stern looking and impressive as himself. He waved in a friendly fashion as he passed.

‘I believe that is Arhalien of Yvresse, judging by the device on his shield. He is widely regarded as the most likely winner of this tournament.’

‘Why?’ Tyrion asked.

‘He is a great warrior. He has slain hundreds of dark elves. He has never lost a tournament with lances. He rides like he is from Ellyrion and fights like a Shadow Warrior. He is brave, noble, of ancient lineage, a noted poet, a fine dancer, a bold war-leader. He is everything a hero should be – sickeningly dull.’

‘You sound as if you have studied him.’

‘I have been forced to learn the life stories of all of your likely opponents. Your grandfather was a believer in thorough preparation. Your aunt is keeping that proud family tradition alive.’

‘He knew this day would come?’

‘Of course he did. The old Everqueen had to die sometime and it was a fair bet that her champion would not wish to serve her successor. Your grandfather had plans for all contingencies and your aunt is his daughter. Although I must admit that neither of them expected this to happen so soon. They would not have allowed you to go gadding around the world with your brother otherwise.’

‘Is he a better warrior than I am?’ Tyrion asked.

‘I don’t know. I doubt anyone except Prince Iltharis is better with a sword than you are, but if anyone is it will be Arhalien, or perhaps Prince Perian of Valaste. In addition, Arhalien has had far more practice with a lance than you have, and far more experience of tournament fighting. It is something of a sport where he comes from.’

‘That is not real fighting,’ said Tyrion.

‘Perhaps not,’ said Atharis, ‘but it is the sort of fighting that will be going on here. And don’t underestimate how vicious these contests can be. Competitors have died before now and not always by accident.’

‘You don’t think that is possible here? In the tournament to decide who will be the Everqueen’s champion? That would make a mockery of everything the tournament stands for.’

‘My dear Tyrion, there are times when I wonder whether you are really an elf. The forms will, of course, be observed, but there is a great deal of power and prestige at stake here, and you know how elves can be over those. This is a deadly serious matter. Deadly serious. I suggest you treat it as such.’

‘I will bear that in mind.’

‘We have found a poet to compose verses for you. You will merely need to memorise the couplets he writes and recite them.’

‘I will not do that,’ said Tyrion. ‘I am here to compete on my own merits.’

‘I have never known you to court failure. You are no poet, my friend, whatever else you might be. Many of those warriors over there are almost as adept with a pen as they are with a blade. Those who are not will have their own pet minstrels to compose verses for them. Why should you be any different?’

‘Because I am different. I will win this in my own way or not at all.’

‘It may well prove to be the latter.’

‘If that is the case, let it be so.’

‘You do not seem at all determined to win.’

‘Let us rather say that I am not determined to win at any cost.’

‘Then you start at a grave disadvantage.’

‘So be it. You mentioned Prince Perian of Valaste as being good with a sword.’

‘He is. Very good indeed. He fancies himself a bit of a wit too. A thoroughly unpleasant character if you ask me.’