He shrugged. It was all very well telling himself that what he was hearing was impossible, but he was still hearing it. He had known warriors to die from simply standing around trying to decide how to react during a surprise attack. He was not going to be one of those.
Having come to a decision, the rest was easy. He buckled on the armour that was within his reach, unsheathed Sunfang and stepped out into the burning darkness. Corpses lay everywhere. Two of his companions lay with spear wounds in their sides. Atharis stared at the sky. He looked as if he might have been drunk, but there was a huge gash in his throat from which blood poured.
Shadowy figures erupted from the bushes around him. Bloody blades stabbed out at him. A warrior less quick of reflex would have died in that moment. Tyrion sprang lithely to one side, twisting to avoid a blow that should have gutted him.
Sunfang lashed out in response, leaving a blazing trail through the darkness. It crashed into the helmet of one dark elf warrior, cleaving it in two and splitting the skull beneath. Blood and brains flew everywhere, splattering against Tyrion’s chest and arm.
He did not let it slow him down. He kept moving, shifting his position to confuse his enemies, sending his blade flickering across their fields of vision, knowing that its light would ruin their night-sight and give him some slight advantage in the ensuing melee.
He was certain that his foes were dark elves now. They spoke with the accents of Naggaroth and their wargear bore its unmistakable stamp. They fought with the disciplined organisation so typical of the inhabitants of their dreary northern land.
These were hardened veterans. They responded to his actions quickly and well, not in the least taken aback to find themselves facing an opponent of his skill. The fury of his onslaught did not dismay them. They fell back before him, not panicking despite the fact that he slaughtered another two of them as they did so.
Lesser troops would have fled under the circumstances, to have the table so suddenly turned on them in the darkness, but these warriors held their ground as best they could and fought back with the fury of maddened panthers.
The foes he faced were only one small part of the attacking army. All around him he could hear the sounds of butchery taking place in the darkness and he could tell from the screams of the victims that most of those people dying were his own folk.
How many dark elves were there out there? Far more than there should have been, of that he was certain. Once again the thought returned to him that this was impossible, that these ruthless foemen could not be here and yet they were.
Even as he killed and killed again, the sheer impossibility of it bothered him. An army could not move in secrecy the way this one had done. Not unless sorcery was involved and sorcery on a scale that had rarely been seen in this world since the time of Aenarion.
There was something about the situation that nagged at him though, something familiar and yet strange that he felt he should be able to remember, and that he might possibly be able to do so if he were not fighting for his life.
Mere heartbeats had passed since he heard the first screams. It seemed much longer, in the way that it always did when he was in combat. Time always seemed to dilate under the circumstances. He struck down another dark elf and tried to work out what was going on.
Why were the druchii attacking here and now? Forget about the impossibility of it – that was obviously an illusion. They were here for a reason and in that moment it struck him what that reason was.
They were after the Everqueen. It was the only possible reason why they would attack here and now. Their intelligence gathering must have been extraordinarily effective, he thought, to know her whereabouts and be able to dispatch such a force to find her.
Once again, that was irrelevant. All that mattered was that he prevent them from achieving their goal, no matter what the cost. If the Everqueen fell into the hands of the dark elves, it would be the most terrible blow to afflict his people since the time of Aenarion.
Nothing quite so dreadful had ever happened before. If the Everqueen was to die it would wreak havoc with the morale of the high elves. If she was to become a prisoner of the Witch King it would be even worse. With her as his hostage, he would be able to dictate terms in any subsequent peace that would be enormously to his advantage. That was if there was a peace and he was not seeking an outright victory and the total annihilation of the forces of Ulthuan.
Tyrion knew that whatever happened, he must find Alarielle and save her. His personal feelings counted for nothing under the circumstances. He must do his duty to his people. He must save the Everqueen.
Dorian burst into the inner chamber of the great Pavilion. Dead elf maidens lay sprawled on the floor, their swords close at hands. They had died like warriors, he thought approvingly, their wounds to the front. He hoped when his own time came he would be able to do the same.
At bay in the centre of the room, back to the great central pole, standing on a great carpet woven with scenes of grace and beauty, was the single most beautiful woman Dorian had ever seen, perhaps excepting Morathi. Even through the wards of the amulets protecting him, he felt the tug of reverence and even love.
He knew he was committing a sacrilege by being here and he wanted to beg her pardon and ask her forgiveness. He realised how clever his master had been launching the attack now. If this was how it felt before the new Everqueen possessed her full power, even through the protective spells of his amulet, what would it be like to enter her presence once she had her full strength?
Ruthlessly Dorian quashed his feelings of awe. ‘Good evening, your majesty,’ he said in his coldest parade ground voice. ‘I bring you greetings from my master, Malekith the Great, true king of all the elves.’
The realisation of her predicament flashed across that beautiful face. In that moment, and just for that moment, she was no longer a living goddess but a frightened young elf woman realising that she was in peril, alone and surrounded by enemies who could not but mean her harm.
He did not feel sorry for her. He felt only contempt for one whose pampered existence had not prepared her for even the possibility of an experience like this.
The confusion and fear was only there for a moment before command reasserted itself. For an instant something infinitely old and wise looked out of her eyes. She opened her mouth to say something, perhaps speak a spell. At that moment, two of his guards grasped her, immobilising her arms. Another placed his hands over her mouth. Cassandra swiftly gagged her. She was cast down on her sleeping silks, limbs bound with whipcord.
Dorian and Cassandra exchanged triumphant looks. For both of them this was the supreme moment of their lives. They had captured the Everqueen. Malekith would reward them with kingdoms. His mouth felt dry. His heart raced. His dark druchii nature asserted itself. He wanted to howl with exultation. Instead he clenched his fist and placed his foot on the recumbent form of the bound goddess. Part of him wanted to kick her until she was a bloody corpse, but that would not fulfil the terms of his orders.
Outside, screams filled the night. Smoke drifted on the air. There was the sound of weapons clashing. The massacre had truly begun. It would not end till morning.
Tyrion ran towards the Everqueen’s Pavilion. He could see that the dark elf troops were densest around about it. The bodies of the Maiden Guard lay sprawled everywhere, staring at the sky with sightless eyes. Tyrion had no time for regrets, to feel sorry for the dead. His business was with the living, assuming that the Everqueen was still alive. He believed that she would be, for that was what would make more strategic sense.
Charging into a horde of armed soldiers would not serve either Alarielle or himself. All that was likely to happen is that he would die a quick death and that the Everqueen would remain in captivity, assuming that was what had happened.
He needed a plan and he needed to come up with one quickly if he was to avert disaster. Mighty warrior though he mig
ht be, potent magical blade that Sunfang was, they were no match for an army. What was needed here was intelligence, not a strong arm.
He doubled back, moving away from the vast body of dark elf troops. He remembered the bodies of the warriors he had slain. They were wearing the armour of his enemies and that was something he could put to good use.
Swiftly he chose the armour belonging to the corpse whose head he had split and stripped it off. It was bloody, but on a night like this that would not matter. It would simply add to the authenticity of his disguise. He took the helmet from another dark elf corpse and put that on.
He wished he had a mirror so that he could check how he looked, but that was like wishing for an army of high elves to come out of the forest and save him – it was not going to happen. He was going to have to trust in the darkness and confusion all around him and hope that he was not cut down by any surviving high elves who might mistake him for one of the enemy.
He took a deep breath, stepped out of the shadows and began to move confidently towards the Pavilion as if he had every right to be among the attackers. He kept his shoulders pulled back and did his best to imitate the marching stride of one of the sons of Naggaroth.
In the howling confusion no one questioned him. No one paid the slightest attention to him being there. The fighting was all but over. The dark elves were triumphant. They grinned at each other like warriors who know they are in possession of the field. There was an exultant look in their eyes and cold smiles on their lips. That more than anything chilled Tyrion’s heart. He knew those expressions from his own career as a soldier. He’d worn similar ones when he was victorious in battle and noticed them on the faces of his comrades.
If ever he had had any hope that the situation might be salvaged, it vanished then. He was on his own. If he wanted to, he could probably escape now, using his disguise to get clear of the dark elf force and vanish into the woods.
He considered it for a heartbeat, but knew that he could not do so if there was even the slightest chance that Alarielle was being held captive. He could not abandon this place without finding that out. It was the least he could do.
All around him, discipline was starting to break down even among the hardened druchii. The certainty of victory affected even the cold-hearted children of the uttermost north. Soldiers were starting to collect loot and slaves. He could hear the screams of prisoners being tortured and raped.
Tyrion hardened his heart. Even if he could rescue those who were in pain, he could not do that now. He had a mission of the utmost importance and he could allow nothing to distract him from that. But he swore in his heart that the dark elves would pay with interest for every scream they extracted from the lips of one of his own people.
Much to his surprise, the Pavilion was still upright. It was surrounded by druchii warriors who still looked alert and disciplined. They had the aura of elite troops, ones who might be entrusted with a mission of the gravest importance. Not for a moment did Tyrion doubt that he was in the right place. The question was how he was going to get inside.
One of the soldiers stared at him. It would be suspicious of him to back away now and he might be remembered if he returned in the future, so he squared his shoulders and strode confidently forward, as if he had every business being there, was on a mission of some importance.
He must have looked the part because no one questioned him as he strode within and made his way to the central chamber of the tent. There were several high officers, he recognised their rank from their garb. He had fought against that type before on many battlefields. In the centre, lying prostrate with her arms bound behind her back, and a gag on her mouth, was Alarielle. She stared at him with hate-filled eyes as he came in. She did not recognise him.
One of the high staff officers turned to look at him. Tyrion strode forward.
‘What do you want?’ the officer asked. ‘What are you doing here, sergeant?’
‘I bring a message from the commander,’ said Tyrion. He was almost within striking distance now.
‘What?’
‘It is of the utmost importance,’ said Tyrion.
‘It had better be or I will have you flayed alive,’ the officer said.
‘I do not doubt it.’
‘Then spit it out,’ the officer said.
‘It concerns the Everqueen. There’s been a change of plans.’
‘Impossible!’
‘No,’ said Tyrion. He drew Sunfang and decapitated the officer. With two more quick strokes he chopped down his companions. In a flurry of blows, he struck down the remaining dark elves within reach. Most of them died clawing for their weapons, desperately trying to react to the sudden fury of his onslaught.
Dorian wondered what was happening. A burning blade chopped down Captain Aeris and slashed off half of Captain Manion’s face. The stench of seared flesh suddenly filled the Pavilion. Had one of the druchii gone mad, he wondered, or was this some kind of sorcery? Were the Everqueen’s powers still at work?
Even as that thought occurred to him, Alarielle rolled away from beneath his feet, sending him tumbling backwards. That action probably saved his life, unintentionally, for he fell out of the way of that blazing sword. He felt the red heat of it mere fingers’ breadths from his face. He saw the warrior wielding the blade leap among his guard, slashing left and right as he went.
Maniac or not, the newcomer was eye-blurringly swift. He made the hardened veterans of Dorian’s guard seem like children. They could do nothing to stop him. They did not even seem to be trying. They had been taken completely off guard by the sudden, stunning savagery of the stranger’s attack. He recalled his own thoughts about how people responded to surprise attacks earlier. It seemed his own troops were no more immune to it than anyone else. Sheep, he thought.
Cassandra raised her hand as she attempted to cast a spell. Somehow the stranger was aware of it before she even half began. He pounced like a great cat springing. The brilliantly glowing blade slashed downwards. The protective spells surrounding Cass overloaded, burning out in a blaze of power. The sword smashed into her, snapping bones like twigs, cauterising flesh as it passed through.
‘No,’ Dorian shouted, rising to his feet. This could not be happening, he thought. Life and victory could not be snatched away from them so quickly. He remembered Cass’s forebodings of the previous night. It seemed they had come true, since Alarielle had summoned this daemonic warrior to her aid.
He ripped his sword from its scabbard and just managed to parry as the stranger was upon him. Dorian was gifted with a blade, and he knew it. He was considered among the best in the entire druchii army.
Somehow though, he instantly found himself on the defensive. It was all he could do to parry the newcomer’s weapon. The light from it dazzled his eyes in the gloom.
The fury of the stranger’s attack was astonishing. He struck with the speed and power of a lightning bolt. Dorian’s arm was numb just from maintaining his increasingly desperate parries. He would have liked to have gone on the offensive. He would have liked to have avenged Cass but there was no chance of it. He could barely find the time or the energy to shout for help. It took all of his concentration merely to stay alive.
There was something about the newcomer’s style that reminded Dorian of his brother Urian. It had the same fluidity, and the same tricky manner of placing a feint within a feint, so that you never knew where the true attack was going to come from. It was almost as if this newcomer had been a pupil of his brother. Was it possible that this was some incredible feat of treachery?
Even as the question entered Dorian’s mind, the stranger’s sword found its way past his guard. Volcanic agony erupted in Dorian’s side and he fell forward into darkness.
So this was death at last, he thought, come when he least expected it.
‘Quickly! Stop him! He’s getting away,’ Tyrion shouted, to send the guards out
side sniffing down the wrong trail. He strode over to the Everqueen, tore off the gag, and slashed her bonds. She stared at him for a moment then her eyes widened and he saw the flash of recognition. ‘Prince Tyrion!’ she said.
‘None other.’ He strode to the opposite side of the Pavilion and slashed it with his sword. ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘We are getting out of here.’
She nodded, and dived through the gap he had created. He followed her out into the night.
‘This way,’ Tyrion said. He grabbed her by the hand and began to drag her through the undergrowth.
‘We need to keep low and not be seen. If we are lucky they won’t pick up our trail for a while. I can’t imagine they brought hounds with them and there’s been so much chaos around here, it will be difficult to pick up our tracks.’
‘Sorcery,’ she said. ‘They will have wizards.’
‘I was rather hoping you could do something about that.’
She stared and he saw the black hopelessness in her eyes. ‘Why? What chance have we got of getting out of here, Prince Tyrion? The dark elves are already in Avelorn. They have killed my guard, my friends, my people. I have already failed in my trust.’
Tyrion shook her. ‘You are alive. And while you are alive there is hope. What chance do we have? I don’t know. I do know we will have no chance at all if we give up.’
She nodded but she did not seem to understand. Tyrion had seen the same look and same reaction written on the faces of young warriors after their first battle in which they had lost friends and comrades.
It must be worse for her. She was the Everqueen. She had grown up in luxury. She had never expected to see war or its aftermath.
‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘You are our queen. You were chosen by the gods. You are the heart of our realm. If you give up, we may as well all just surrender to Malekith. He will become king after all these millennia of waiting. Is that what you want?’