Sword of Caledor

Chapter TWELVE





Teclis woke from an unpleasant slumber. Strange dreams had haunted his sleep, filling his mind with images of destruction and slaughter. In every nightmare was the hideous image of Morrslieb, the Chaos moon, blazing brightly in the sky. Something had transformed it into an eye through which a daemonic god looked down on the world.

He washed, pulled on his robe, and went down to breakfast. He had barely sat down at the table when there was a knocking at the door. Moments later Rose entered and said, ‘A messenger from the White Tower wishes to see you, sir.’

‘Send them in,’ said Teclis. He was surprised to see a Sword Master of Hoeth, a tall slender woman with a great two-handed blade strapped to her back. He recognised her at once. ‘Izaraa,’ he said. ‘What brings you here this fine morning?’

‘The High Loremaster has summoned a conclave at Hoeth. I was dispatched to give word to all associates of the White Tower. I heard you had returned so I brought you the message.’

‘What business is so urgent that the High Loremaster would summon us all back to the tower?’

‘I do not know, Prince Teclis. All I know is that it concerns the Chaos moon. Many dark portents have been observed and perhaps the realm is threatened.’

‘Omens indeed abound. I dreamt of Morrslieb this very night and awoke from a vision of it just before you arrived.’

‘Such things are not uncommon at the moment, prince.’

‘I had not noticed them before I returned to Ulthuan.’

‘Rumour has it you were in Lustria, far south of here.’

‘Rumour for once speaks truth and you are right; perhaps I have only recently returned to the area wherein these baleful omens hold sway.’

‘You will come to Hoeth, Prince Teclis?’

‘Most assuredly. I was returning anyway to consult the library. This only makes the errand more urgent.’

‘How will you get there?’

‘My brother is due to sail north very shortly. I can arrange to travel with him.’

‘Good, then I shall bid you farewell. I must travel on and summon others.’

‘I understand you just came back from Avelorn,’ said Tyrion to Prince Iltharis. His head hurt a little from all the wine he had drunk the previous evening. He had a few bruises from the brawl. He needed this sparring session to get rid of the grogginess and work the stiffness from his limbs. That was why he had come to the courtyard of the Emeraldsea mansion. Around the ancient fountains members of his family’s faction practised their skill at arms.

Was it his imagination or did Prince Iltharis flinch at the mention of the forest realm? Tyrion continued to strip off his shirt and don his practice armour. Iltharis paused and looked at him and then said, ‘Yes, I have. Why do you mention it?’

‘My aunt wants me to go there and take part in the great tournament to become the champion of the new Everqueen.’

Prince Iltharis let out a long breath that sounded suspiciously like a sigh, ‘Of course. Of course. I thought for a moment that you too had become overcome by morbid curiosity, like so many of my fellow citizens of Lothern.’

‘Morbid curiosity?’ Tyrion began strapping up the padded tunic. He looked directly at his friend as he did so. It was plain that the prince was a little upset, which was very unusual because he was normally the most self-possessed of elves.

‘I was one of the last people to see her alive. I was talking with her about my latest history when she was taken ill.’

‘I did not know,’ said Tyrion. ‘I was in Lustria when all of this was happening. I was summoned back because of the death.’

That certainly explained why Prince Iltharis found his question so upsetting, Tyrion thought. It could not have been pleasant to be there during the last moments of a woman so beloved by all. In some ways, witnessing the death of the Everqueen was like witnessing the death of a god.

Prince Iltharis continued to don his own training gear. ‘So I have heard. In a way I am grateful for your return. The fact that you have come back bearing the sword of Aenarion has given all of the gossips something else to talk about.’

‘I thought you liked to be talked about,’ said Tyrion with a smile. Prince Iltharis spread his hands wide.

‘What elf does not? But I prefer to be talked about for my good looks, my charm, my skill with a sword, the beauty of my prose. It is not really pleasant to be gawped at like a trained monkey simply because you were present at the last moments of a famous woman.’

‘I have never seen you like this,’ said Tyrion. ‘I believe the death of the Everqueen has really upset you.’

It was not something that Tyrion would ever have suspected of Prince Iltharis. He was very good at giving the impression of caring for nothing.

‘Now my dear Tyrion, please don’t start accusing me of being sentimental. That would be just too much.’

‘I suspect you do have a sentimental streak, Prince Iltharis.’

Iltharis picked up a wooden practice sword and began to limber up with it. ‘I shall have to beat that suspicion out of you then, Prince Tyrion.’

‘I wonder if you still have that in you, or whether old age is creeping up on you.’ Tyrion began to perform a few exercises designed to loosen his own muscles. Prince Iltharis laughed.

‘Ah, the cockiness of youth. To tell you the truth, I am glad that you have come back. I have missed the opportunity to put you in your place. Simply because you have won a few duels you overestimate your own skill and underestimate everybody else’s.’

‘I do not think it would be possible to overestimate your skill,’ said Tyrion. It was true too; he had never encountered another elf as good with a blade as Prince Iltharis. Tyrion knew exactly how good he himself was with a sword. There were few people in Ulthuan capable of matching him with it, but Prince Iltharis was even better. He learned something new every time he faced off against the prince in one of these practice bouts. It was one of the reasons he still went in for them.

‘Do not think this late showing of humility will save you from another thrashing,’ said Prince Iltharis. ‘Although, it is nice to be able to practise with someone other than Korhien who poses a bit of a challenge.’

‘I see you have regained some spark of your customary insouciance,’ said Tyrion. ‘I was starting to think that you had entered a new and morbid phase of your decrepitude.’

‘Decrepitude, is it? I’ll give you decrepitude! Ready?’

‘Ready.’

‘Then defend yourself,’ said Prince Iltharis. He lunged forward, fast as a striking serpent and Tyrion was hard put to parry. As always, when fighting the prince, he found himself constantly on the defensive, rarely able to take the initiative and mount an attack of his own.

Prince Iltharis was astonishingly swift and moved with a fluid ease that Tyrion envied. He seemed able to anticipate every one of Tyrion’s counter-attacks and neutralise it easily. And he did all of this with the infuriating air of an elf who was not really trying, who could easily raise his performance to a much higher level if he wanted to.

Tyrion understood enough of the psychology of combat to know that this was as much a part of Prince Iltharis’s arsenal as his superlative technique with a sword. It gave him a huge edge over his opponents, even ones as confident as Tyrion.

Tyrion was no longer the youth who had provided Prince Iltharis with such easy victories when they first met though. As his hangover cleared he unleashed the full fury of his sword arm, attacking with a combination of brute strength, lightning reflex and sheer skill that few could match. He forced Iltharis to take first one step back, then two. He struck at the blade and by sheer fluke managed to knock it from the prince’s hand.

For a moment, triumph filled him. It looked like he was going to defeat the prince for the first time ever. That blow must have numbed his sword hand. Then Iltharis plucked the blade from the air with his left hand and returned to the attack. Tyrion could tell that his right hand was hurt, but it did not even slow him down. Within a few heartbeats, he found the wooden practice sword at his throat.

‘You really are improving, Prince Tyrion,’ said Prince Iltharis. ‘I don’t know what it was you were doing down there in Lustria, but I don’t believe I have had such a good workout in the past two centuries.’

‘I was still not good enough to beat you,’ said Tyrion.

Prince Iltharis smiled. ‘In another two centuries you will be much better and I really will be old. Maybe you will be able to beat me then.’

‘That is not much comfort,’ said Tyrion. He suspected it was not intended to be.

‘You are good enough to become the Everqueen’s champion though, at least when it comes to swordplay.’

‘Not if you compete.’

‘There is more to becoming champion than using a sword. You must be proficient with all weapons and fighting from horseback. You must be able to sing and dance and play the part of the dashing hero. Being champion is as much about looking good as it is about being able to fight and there you have the advantage, my young friend.’

‘I am surprised to hear you admit it.’

‘An ability to realistically assess one’s own strengths and weaknesses is useful for every fighter,’ said Iltharis in his most professorial mode. It was a manner he sometimes assumed with Tyrion, master speaking to pupil. Tyrion could not find it in himself to resent it.

‘You seem less excited about taking part in this great contest than I would have expected,’ said Iltharis. He sat down on a nearby bench and took a glass of wine from the tray a human servant was holding.

‘I like the idea of competing. I am not sure I like the idea of the prize.’

‘They say the new Everqueen is a beauty.’

‘It is being her servant that I do not like.’

‘Ah, the pride of the line of Aenarion…’

‘Mock all you like, my friend, but I had become accustomed to the idea of being my own master.’

‘We are none of us that, prince.’

‘You are the last person I would expect to hear preaching sermons about duty. You spend your time doing exactly what you want.’

‘Just because I deplore responsibility myself does not mean I cannot appreciate its benefit in others. Our society would fall apart if everyone was like me.’

Prince Iltharis seemed suddenly serious. ‘Believe me, Tyrion, I have had my share of unpleasant duties in my time.’

Tyrion knew Iltharis had fought many duels on behalf of the political interests of his House. He talked about them flippantly, but being known as someone who was little better than a paid assassin must take its toll.

Tyrion laughed. ‘I had not thought to find you so mournful.’

Iltharis gave a rueful grimace. ‘I cannot help it. I look around me and see everything is in flux. The Everqueen is dead and it makes me uneasy. The world is changing, Tyrion, and I do not think it will be for the better for the people of Ulthuan. I cannot help but feel that my life and everybody else’s will soon be very altered.’

‘You are serious. The world is changed.’

Iltharis smiled. ‘Indeed. I am filled with odd forebodings. If we do not meet again after you go to Lothern, remember that I wish you well.’

Tyrion wondered what had brought that on. ‘And I you, Prince Iltharis.’

The prince gave him a strange sour smile. ‘Come, let us leave this gloomy place and go and get something stronger to drink.’

He seemed his old self again. Tyrion wondered what was really bothering him.



After he left Tyrion, Urian cursed himself. He was getting sloppy, weak and emotional. He had been startled when Tyrion asked about the Everqueen, had felt certain that his guilt must show on his face. It had taken him most of the practice duel to become accustomed to the thought that Prince Tyrion did not suspect him and did not need to be killed on the spot. He probably could have done it and made it look like an accident, but he liked Tyrion and he had not, so far, been ordered to kill him.

It was more than the shock and the guilt though. He realised that over the centuries he had been here, an agent in place, he had grown accustomed to his life in Ulthuan.

He liked it, found it pleasant and would have been grateful for it to continue indefinitely. Instead, he knew now for certain that it would be ending soon. Malekith’s plans were close to fruition and, despite the fact he had no idea as to the specifics, he knew they could not bode well for the high elves.

His forebodings for the future were based on that knowledge. Many of the elves he knew here would be dead soon, or under the iron heel of the Witch King’s rule. He would be revealed as a traitor in their midst and one of the new rulers. There had been a time when he had looked forward to that with great glee. He no longer did. He thought that when Ulthuan fell, something great would be lost and the world would be a poorer place for it.

He tried to steel his nerves by telling himself the high elves were foolish and degenerate, weak and easily deceived, but he could not even deceive himself about that. He had lived too long among them, had become more like an asur than his druchii kindred. He was an odd creature now, caught between both worlds, deceiving both as to where his sympathies lay.

He had not been lying to Tyrion, he realised. He really did feel a dark and terrible foreboding about the future. Everything was going to change for the worse. He told himself that he had better get used to the idea. Soon Malekith would rule this place, and he had no sympathy at all for those who were not utterly loyal. Urian had better be absolutely certain where his loyalties lay.