Blood of Aenarion

chapter TWENTY



Tyrion walked back into the lion’s den. He smiled amiably at anyone who looked at him, giving no indication that he felt embarrassed or flustered by the gossip circulating about his parents, his brother or himself. There was no reason to. He had no quarrel with any of those present, unless they chose to make one. In that case, he would not back away from a fight.

The Lady Melissa glanced at him and smiled again. Larien stared rudely. It seemed like a deliberate attempt at intimidation. Tyrion shrugged and walked over.

‘I trust running to your crippled brother and your frosty aunt has put your mind at rest,’ said Larien. His face was a little flushed although whether with wine or anger or something else Tyrion could not tell.

‘About what?’

‘About your dubious parentage.’

There was a moment of silence. This was not the sort of thing said in polite elf circles. Even those nearby were quiet now, waiting to hear Tyrion’s response.

‘There is nothing dubious about my parentage,’ said Tyrion calmly.

‘I am sorry, perhaps I should have said your dubious parents,’ said Larien.

Definitely drunk, Tyrion decided. The goblet in his hand was empty, and Tyrion could recall seeing it refilled more than once.

‘Hush,’ said Lady Melissa. ‘This is not the time or place for this. You are a guest of House Emeraldsea.’

She shot Tyrion what looked like an apologetic look, but he could not miss the glitter in her eyes and the faint twist of her lips. She was enjoying this.

‘Yes, hush, Larien,’ said one of her friends. ‘You are embarrassing yourself.’

Nothing could have been better calculated to goad Larien than pointing this out, Tyrion thought. Perhaps that was the intention.

‘I am not the one who should be embarrassed. I am not the one who was conceived at some Slaaneshi orgy.’

‘Nobody here was,’ said Tyrion.

Larien gave a cruel laugh that was all the more shocking because of the note of pity in it. ‘You really don’t know, do you?’

‘Larien,’ said Lady Melissa. The warning in her voice was obvious. Larien paid it no more attention than a drunken dockman would pay an ant.

‘Know what?’ Tyrion asked. He knew that he really should not, but he was curious.

‘You and your brother were conceived in the Temple of Dark Pleasures. That is why your brother turned out the way he did...’

‘How would you know?’ Tyrion asked pleasantly. ‘Were you there?’

‘Are you implying that I am a member of the Cult of Luxury?’ Larien asked. He looked a lot more sober all of a sudden. His words were said very loudly, as if he wanted everyone to hear them.

All around was silence. All eyes in the room were on them now. Tyrion understood what was going on but there was no way he could stop it. It had all happened so quickly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Korhien moving across the room towards the disturbance. He would not get here in time to intervene.

‘Well, are you?’ Larien was almost shouting now. He cocked his head to one side as if Tyrion had already replied. ‘How dare you imply such a thing?’

Tyrion decided he might as well make the best of a bad situation. He smiled mockingly at Melissa and her friend and then at Larien. ‘I was merely astounded that anyone could claim such familiarity with Slaaneshi ritual as you did. If anyone implied such a thing, it was you.’

Larien’s hand shot out towards Tyrion’s cheek. He obviously intended to strike the blow that marked the formal challenge to a duel. Tyrion had been expecting it. He stepped to one side and struck Larien hard in the stomach. The goblet fell from his hand.

When he had regained his wind, Larien said, with some satisfaction. ‘You struck me.’

‘It seemed better than allowing you to strike me,’ said Tyrion.

‘There can be only one redress,’ said Larien. ‘The Circle of Blades.’

‘As you wish,’ said Tyrion, ignoring the way Korhien was shaking his head.

Larien pulled himself upright and glared around.

‘Leave now,’ said Korhien. ‘You’ve got what you came here for.’

Larien smirked at him.

‘And I would not smile like that if I were you,’ Korhien said. ‘If this young elf does not kill you, I most assuredly will.’

That took the smile off his face, Tyrion thought. He grinned and then the thought struck him that the only circumstances that Korhien would be taking vengeance for him, was if he himself was dead.

‘You cannot do that Ironglaive, duelling is forbidden to White Lions,’ said Larien. His smirk had returned. Surrounded by his clique of adoring ladies he made his departure.

The air seemed suddenly very chilly.

‘That was very foolish, doorkeeper,’ said Korhien. He had led Tyrion into a side room. Outside, the hall was in an uproar.

‘Listen to the commotion,’ Tyrion said. ‘Apparently challenges to duels are not as common at Lothern parties as this evening’s experience has led me to believe.’

‘This is not a joking matter. That elf intends to kill you and he is quite capable of doing it. Sober he is one of the best blades in this city.’

Korhien’s seriousness communicated itself to Tyrion. ‘I wish you had told me that before I hit him.’

‘Go ahead! Joke your way into an early grave, doorkeeper.’

‘I did not start it.’ It was the sort of thing a child might say and Tyrion was conscious of it as soon as the words left his mouth.

‘I am sure you did not.’ Korhien expression was bitter. ‘I should have seen this coming.’

‘Who would have expected anyone to be so boorish as to start a brawl at a Lantern party,’ said Lady Malene. She had just entered the chamber. Teclis was beside her, his face pale.

‘The question is who put him up to it and why?’ said Korhien. ‘We need to know who it is so we can put pressure on them to make him withdraw.’

‘What?’ Tyrion asked. He had never heard of such a thing. Or read about it. ‘No one withdraws challenges.’

‘It happens all the time,’ said Lady Malene. ‘Larien will lose face and have to leave the city for a few years.’

‘If we can make whoever set this hound on Tyrion call him off,’ said Korhien.

‘We are going to have to,’ said Malene. ‘I do not think he is ready to kill his first elf just yet.’

She was wrong. After what Larien had said about his parents Tyrion was more than willing to kill Larien. In fact he would enjoy it. It was the first time he had ever realised such a thing about himself. It was not a pleasant thought.

He was disturbed to discover that Liselle had been wrong earlier. There was malice in him. It was just more deeply hidden than it was in most elves. And there was a terrible anger too although most times he hid it from everyone, even himself.

Tyrion heard a knock at the door. Cautiously he padded over on his bare feet and answered it. He could hear someone just outside. He was not too worried but he slid the bolt back cautiously and pulled the door open. He was surprised to see Liselle standing there. She was dressed in a night robe which clearly had nothing underneath it.

‘What do you want?’ he asked.

‘I’m sure you already know,’ she replied.

‘Then I suppose you had better come inside,’ he said. He pulled the door fully open and gestured for her to enter. She strode inside and looked around.

‘My room is just down the corridor,’ she said. He reached out and pulled a strand of hair from behind her ear. He leaned forward as he had done earlier, and whispered into that ear, ‘That is very fortunate.’

She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. It was a long kiss and it started experimentally, tentatively but it ended up being very passionate.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it is. Let us both make the most of that fortunate accident of geography.’

She led him by the hand towards the bed.

N’Kari roared as he raced through the streets of Tor Yvresse, killing as he went. He was strong now. He had eaten many souls and supped on many pleasures, his own and others. He felt almost as mighty as he had been on the day he had faced Aenarion millennia ago.

His army was an army now, no longer a mere raider band or an ill-organised group of cultists. It was a force strong enough to take even an ancient walled city like this one.

Hundreds of partially altered warriors had joined him. He had found more humans, shipwrecked mariners from the Old World. Groups of beastmen who had somehow survived in the high mountains and kept to the old ways had been drawn to him. Decadent elves had responded to the summons of his magic. Souls offered up in sacrifice had multiplied the number of daemons bound to his will. All of them rampaged through the streets of the city now, maiming, killing, raping, torturing, pillaging.

Terror and pleasure and hatred and fear pulsed through the air around N’Kari. It was like a banquet to him. He drank it all in.

A company of elf soldiers formed up in the square ahead, moving in a disciplined phalanx to repulse a company of his beastmen. The brutes threw themselves against that steady line with simple-minded ferocity that might have worked if they had been facing tribesmen as primitive as themselves but which had no chance of success against these foes.

Briefly N’Kari considered aiding his followers, of using his own power to break the bodies and spirits of the enemy but he sensed the opposition to his presence was growing and he still had a task to perform here. Somewhere out there a cabal of wizards was using its power to strengthen the ancient wards against his kind that had been built in ancient times. These were spells that could hurt him. They were already making him uncomfortable and they had the potential to banish him from this place if he was not careful. He was not going to take the risk of that happening, not until he had completed his vengeance on the Blood of Aenarion.

He could sense the nearness of the prey he sought. His nostrils flared in response to what his spiritual senses detected. Saliva filled his mouth and dripped onto the ground. Elrion leapt forward and grovelled in the dirt, licking it up, moaning in ecstatic pleasure that contact with N’Kari’s secretions always gave to mortal things. N’Kari trampled on his back, leaving great talon marks on the writhing acolyte’s flesh, forcing Elrion face down in the puddle of drool as he strode forwards.

Ahead of him was a small tenement house, inside of which a few warm bodies huddled. The ones he sought, two elves half-garbed in their militia gear who had obviously been trapped here en route to joining their unit, were being menaced by a group of beastmen. They bore the spiritual scent of the Blood of Aenarion.

N’Kari shifted his form, becoming an elf of spectacular beauty, goddess-like. He blasted his own beastmen in the back with a bolt of purple lightning and raced up to the elves. They stood there bemused by his loveliness and the narcotic cloud surrounding him.

‘Quickly, follow me,’ said N’Kari in a voice at once seductive and commanding. ‘I will see you to safety.’

The elves looked at him, grateful for being saved, bemused at the appearance of a powerful sorceress they did not recognise. N’Kari reached out and stroked the cheek of the nearest one. He quivered with pleasure. ‘We do not have any time to waste. Follow me. I will weave a spell that will get us out of here.’

He opened a portal and without giving the elves time to think, shepherded them through it before following him themselves. The elf he had touched was already looking at the other with insane jealousy. N’Kari chuckled, thinking of the sport he would have with this pair.

Behind him his army battled on. It would take them some time to realise they had been abandoned by their leader and begin a fighting retreat. N’Kari did not care. He had found what he had come for. Soon there would be two fewer of the line of Aenarion left.

There were not many more now. Soon his vengeance would be complete.