‘They are right and I suspect that the effect is carefully calculated. Tyrion looks like Aenarion, so everybody says, and to see him wearing this armour would be like having Aenarion fight on our side.’
‘So you agree with the princes? You think that Tyrion should do this?’
‘It does not matter what I think,’ Teclis said. ‘If he is asked, he will do it. That is the sort of fool he is.’
‘Then what can we do?’
‘We can try and see whether we can come up with some way to mitigate the effect of the armour’s aura.’
‘We don’t have much time,’ said his father.
‘Then we’d better get started,’ Teclis said.
Tyrion inspected the armour of Aenarion. It looked different. He had seen it almost every day during his childhood, and very often in the years of his adulthood. It had never looked then the way it did now, alive, malevolent and full of power. There was a shadow in it that he could sense and that shadow called out to something in him.
Suddenly a moment from his childhood came back to him. He remembered standing in the chill of the night in his father’s alchemical laboratory inspecting the armour. His father and Korhien Ironglaive were somewhere in the house, talking about the old days. Lady Malene was in her chambers writing something. He was standing in his bare feet, looking at the armour and half-fearfully, half-hopefully waiting for something to happen, for some sign to be given, for the same supernatural power that had touched Aenarion to reach out and touch him. Of course, back then, nothing had happened and he had been glad of it.
But something had happened now. The armour was not the same. His father had succeeded in his long labour and finally repaired this ancient artefact. He finally had something to show for squandering the family fortunes, neglecting his family and letting his life fall into ruin. The armour was alive. That was the only thing that could be said about it. It was like a living thing, with a personality of its own.
No. That was not right. It held the echo of a personality, of the elf who had worn it so long ago, of Aenarion. Now, Tyrion had a sense of what his ancestor was like. He did not like what he was seeing. The armour gave off an air of malevolence, of rage, of an anger so great it might consume the world. Aenarion had left something of himself in it, and his father had succeeded in awakening it.
Do I want to be like this, Tyrion asked himself? Do I have a choice?
Someone is going to have to wear this, to inspire our troops, to give our warriors some hope. He knew that if he put on the armour, he would never be the same afterwards. All of his life he had wanted glory, to be a hero. He was surprised to discover that he did not want it so badly that he was prepared to subsume his own personality to another’s, to sell his soul for it.
Or was he? He already knew the answer to the decision he had to make.
He sensed Alarielle’s presence in the tent. He turned to look at her. She was beautiful in the lantern-light. It had been a while since he had seen her. She had been very busy, talking with princes and wizards.
‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.
‘I was remembering looking at this armour when I was a boy,’ he said. ‘It always seemed so much larger than it was. As if the wearer was a giant, much bigger than me.’
‘It looks as if it was made for you,’ she said. ‘And you for it.’
‘Aenarion wore it. It seems somewhat presumptuous for me to.’
‘Tomorrow will be the greatest battle the elves face since his time,’ she said. She walked over to him and took him by his hand. ‘Someone needs to wear it, to give our people hope.’
‘And you think it should be me?’ For a moment, something ancient, powerful and unforgiving looked out of her eyes. It was the pitiless presence of the Everqueen. She was here and Alarielle was not.
‘I can think of no elf better suited to wear it.’ She squeezed his hand gently.
‘Aenarion,’ Tyrion said.
‘He is not here. You are.’
‘It’s always the way,’ he said. ‘Heroes are never around when you really need them.’
‘You are here.’
‘I am just an elf who likes to kill. I am not a hero.’
‘You are the only person who thinks that.’
‘Doesn’t my opinion count?’
‘I do not think you see yourself as we see you.’
‘I see myself as I am.’
She shook her head. ‘I had never thought you so modest, Prince Tyrion.’
‘I am not modest. I am just not Aenarion.’
‘Has it ever occurred to you that that might be a good thing? We do not need another Aenarion.’
Tyrion smiled. ‘It seems most of my life people have been comparing me to him, because I look like him.’
‘You do more than look like him. You have something of his power and his grace. Believe me, I remember Aenarion. He was not an elf you could forget.’
‘That is a chilling thought.’
‘You are not him though. I think you are someone better.’
Tyrion laughed.
‘You do not have his cruelty. Or his despair. Or his titanic arrogance.’
‘They made him what he was, the saviour of our people.’
‘Caledor saved our people. Aenarion almost destroyed them. We do not need another Aenarion. We need you.’
‘And yet you want me to take up his mantle, don his armour.’ Suddenly the sense of ancient presence was gone.
‘I want you to wear his armour because it is among the most powerful protective artefacts ever made. I want you to come back to me. Tomorrow there will be a battle. I want you to live through it.’
She looked as if she was going to cry. Tyrion reached out and stroked her cheek. ‘We’ve come a very long way, you and I,’ he said.
‘Let us hope we have a long way further to travel.’
She reached out and took his face in both her hands. He leaned forwards and kissed her gently. The armour of Aenarion watched over them, brooding in the background.
From outside there came the sounds of an army preparing for war.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The sun rose as if it was the last day of the world. Red light blazed down upon the two vast armed camps that sat on the edge of Finuval Plain. Tyrion stood upon the small rise and looked aghast at the size of the Witch King’s army. It was plain that the high elves were hugely outnumbered. There were not only dark elves over there but a high proportion of humans, followers of Chaos, dedicated to the dark gods.
The assembled asur army looked at the Everqueen. They were drawn up as if ready for battle. In the distance, the horns of Malekith’s army sounded but no one was distracted. All of the asur present looked upon their living goddess with reverence.
Alarielle smiled at them and Tyrion thought she had never looked lovelier. Something old and primal in her was responding to the presence and adoration of those present. She was the focus of every gaze, beloved in every eye, and suddenly he felt jealous in a way he never had before of anyone or about anyone.
He actively resented the way all of those elves looked at her, and he realised that for the rest of his life he was going to have to compete with that untiring, relentless torrent of adoration, and that there was no way he could. The sensation was a sour one, made all the more so because it was the last thing he had expected to experience at this moment.
He knew that he should be proud of her courage and her beauty and her gift for inspiring others around her, but instead he found a small, mean thing that wanted to hide her away and keep her for himself. She was revealing to him that he was smaller than he thought he was, and he resented her for that. He told himself it was unfair and unworthy, but unfortunately it was the way he felt.
She seemed unaware of it too, unaware of him. Her attention was focussed on the crowd of elves whose attention was focussed on her. It was like the relationship between an actor and his audience but multiplied a thousand times by the force of her magic. He was fooling him
self if he thought he could compete with that. No living thing could. He might as well slink away now and leave her to her adoring worshippers.
Then she looked at him sidelong and with a small secretive smile. It was aimed at him alone, as if there was some shared joke or knowledge that lay between them and existed only for them – he saw the other side of what being the Everqueen meant. He was her friend, possibly the only one she was ever likely to have now, the only person to whom she was not the avatar of a living goddess but who saw her as a person.
It was a thing that would make a goddess lonely, he thought.
Good, he thought, the small, twisted jealous side of his nature responded. It would make her all the sorrier when he was gone. But he smiled himself now, understanding that what he was feeling was not the sum total of all his feelings for her, only part of them and not the better part either. It was something he was just going to have to get used to, much as he resented it.
‘My friends, we are gathered in very dark times,’ Alarielle said. Her voice was one of those magical ones that would have carried to the furthest corners of the assembled throng even if she was talking in a whisper. There was something in it that commanded respect and belief as well.
Teclis recognised the sorcery but it was so subtly done that even he had trouble identifying quite how. ‘Our enemies are mighty and our allies few. We have suffered defeat after defeat and loss after loss. I would not blame any of you if you had lost all hope of eventual victory.’
She paused to give her listeners a chance to absorb what she had said. Teclis was no great expert on public speaking but he thought that perhaps her message was somewhat too downbeat for this audience.
‘Nonetheless, you have not done so. You have not given up even in the face of a foe who delights in displaying his cruelty and power. You have not admitted defeat even in the face of overwhelming odds. You stand before me ready to fight and die for your homeland, and that makes me proud of each and every one of you.
‘I would not have been here to tell you this if it had not been for two brothers. They saved me from the servants of the Witch King and they are here now to fight alongside you in battle tomorrow.
‘I owe them my life and I wish to repay them. Teclis, step forwards.’
Teclis was surprised to be summoned, and embarrassed. He did not like limping forwards to be greeted by the Everqueen in front of the whole army. He would have remained where he was had not Tyrion pushed him forwards.
He limped up and was surprised to hear his name roared in acclamation by the assembled warriors. Alarielle gestured for silence. ‘It has been said that you may turn out to be the greatest wizard since Caledor. I truly hope this is the case, for we have need of great wizards today. As a token of my respect and esteem, I give you this staff.’
She held aloft the Moonstaff of Lileath. It glowed in the moonlight, looking more than ever like an artefact of the ancients. Even those with the poorest magesight could see it radiated power. Teclis was stunned. He barely found the words to say, ‘It is a queenly gift, your serenity.’
He accepted it from her, and it felt right in his hand, perfectly balanced, augmenting his power in a way that few things could. She leaned forwards to kiss him on the cheek. He was touched by that gesture and bowed to her, before backing away.
As he returned from the rise, he felt hands reach out to touch him and slap his back. He was unused to such gestures of affection or respect. He realised that many of those present were in awe of him. It was intoxicating and disturbing at the same time. He did not like being the centre of attention.
Alarielle continued to speak.
‘If it was not for Teclis’s brother, Tyrion, I truly would not be here today. He saved me from the midst of a druchii army when all hope seemed lost, and he stayed with me until I found safety among you, despite taking terrible wounds from the poisoned blades of the followers of Malekith.’
She gestured and heralds brought forwards a covered wagon. ‘Recently, the greatest artefact of our greatest hero has been restored to its full power by the father of these destiny-touched twins. He has spent a lifetime reforging the work of the master-mage Caledor…’
She paused to give her words time to sink in. A silence like that before the breaking of a storm settled upon the army. Teclis knew everyone present was wondering what she was going to say. It was more than magic that compelled their attention now, it was a genuine curiosity. She sprang onto the back of the wagon and stood beside an object covered by a tarpaulin. Teclis knew what was coming, but he still found himself holding his breath as she pulled the cover away.
In full view, on the great stand Teclis remembered so well, stood the armour of Aenarion. It looked new. It was burnished till it shone and it glowed with awesome power. His magesight allowed him to see deep into the intricate web of spells overlaid on it. Even he was awed by the power and complexity of them though he had added to them himself in an attempt to protect his brother from the armour’s power.
There was something else about the armour that compelled attention, a sense of awesome, ominous presence, of a magic that dated back to an earlier, darker, more primitive age. It stood there like a god emerged from the red murk of that ancient era. No one who looked upon it could doubt what it was.
‘This is the dragon armour of Aenarion,’ Alarielle said. ‘And I can think of no one more worthy to wear it than my champion, Tyrion, son of Arathion.’
Tyrion stepped forwards and raised his arm to receive the army’s acclamation. He looked the part, Teclis thought, as if he had been born to wear the armour and lead this army to victory.
They cheered him as if he could do it, and it was then that it sank in to Teclis exactly how desperate they all were.
‘Let’s get this over with,’ Tyrion said quietly. He knew that the army was waiting to see him in the armour.
His father and Teclis nodded. They looked more serious and more worried than he could ever remember them doing in his entire life.
‘Cheer up. We’re not dead yet,’ he told them. No one else was close enough to hear his words.
‘Only a matter of time,’ said Teclis, ignoring the annoyed look his father shot him. Tyrion understood what his brother meant.
‘It happens to everybody,’ he said.
‘To some sooner than others,’ said his father. He looked lost and a little gloomy. Tyrion was reminded of the human explorer Leiber after they had found the treasure house of the lost city of Zultec. He would have expected his father to be more excited. Instead he seemed more than a little depressed, seemingly unaware that there was an entire army waiting expectantly.
‘I did not expect to live forever,’ Tyrion said.
‘You always behaved as if you did,’ said Teclis. Again Prince Arathion looked annoyed. He did not seem to be able to realise that Teclis had a different way of dealing with tension than he did.
‘Are you sure you want to do this, my son?’ he asked. There was genuine concern in his voice, and Tyrion was touched. The elf he remembered from his childhood would have been in a hurry to see him in the armour to make sure that it worked as he expected it to. Perhaps his father had changed.
‘I am ready,’ Tyrion said. He glanced from face to face and saw only concern there.
‘I am the one who should be worried,’ he said. ‘All you have to do is get me into the suit.’
‘It’s the first time anyone has worn this armour in over six thousand years,’ said his father. He glanced from Tyrion to the armour. A troubled expression flickered across his face. ‘This is not without risks.’
‘The time for worrying about those risks is long since passed,’ Tyrion said. ‘We will all die here if Malekith has his way. Some of us more painfully than others.’
Teclis nodded. His father sucked in his cheeks and made a clicking sound with his teeth. ‘There is no need for this bravado, Tyrion. No one doubts your courage.’
‘I am starting to. Please begin before I have second thoughts.’
>
His father nodded. He took the armour piece by piece from the stand and placed it reverently on the ground around Tyrion. He strapped the chestpiece into place. It was, for some reason, heavier than Tyrion expected it to be and colder, as if the metal had lain in snow for a long time. He rapped its surface with his knuckles. It rang. It was a strange thought that the last person who had done this was Aenarion, before setting out for the Island of the Dead. Tyrion wondered if he was going to his own death too. There were those who might see it as a fitting punishment for his presumption.
His father put on the armguards and the gauntlets while Teclis helped him into the greaves and leg-pieces. He stepped into the boots. At last, Teclis placed the helmet on his head. It shut down his field of vision and muffled his hearing. There was a certain finality to the act, like the closing of a door. Tyrion could feel the power in the armour. It was heavy and magic flowed through it; there was something else, a sense of anger and power and… resentment there, as if whatever was in it did not wish to see him wearing the armour.
‘This is not the most pleasant sensation,’ Tyrion said.
‘It’s about to become less pleasant,’ said Teclis. His father nodded. Teclis raised the Moonstaff of Lileath and began to chant the words of an incantation. His father joined in, singing a counterpoint. As they did so, Teclis touched the runes on each section of the armour one at a time with the staff. Power seemed to flow out of him and into the armour.
Tyrion could feel it becoming lighter, or perhaps it was him becoming stronger. The sense of another person being there became more intense too.
He felt a great rage start to settle within him, a bloodthirsty desire to stride out of the tent and face his enemies, to slay them, to tear them apart with his bare hands. It was the sort of rage he had never felt before, but he knew that it had always been there, deep within him, part of his ancient bloodright.
Teclis touched his arms and he felt as if he could lift a horse. When the enchantments in the legs were activated, he felt as if he could run for miles. The activation of the helmet made his senses seem suddenly much clearer. He regained all the keenness of vision and hearing it had cost him, and more besides. He had a sense of awareness of what was going on all around him. It was not like anything he had experienced before. He felt those around him as a pressure. He knew that if Teclis stepped behind him he would know exactly where he was.