Teclis touched the centre of the breastplate and the armour blazed to full life. For a brief ecstatic moment, power and energy and a sense of something else flowed into Tyrion. He felt stronger and faster than he ever had before. He knew that great wards had slid into place around him, protecting him from magic and harm. He felt for one brief moment like a god.
Both his father and Teclis stepped back from him with looks of awe and something like fear written on their faces.
‘It worked,’ Tyrion said. His voice had a booming quality to it and he knew somehow that when he spoke on a battlefield his words would be heard and understood by his warriors no matter what the din of arms was like around him. ‘I am ready.’
Teclis held up his hand in a gesture of warning. Prince Arathion walked around him, inspecting him, and then emerged into Tyrion’s field of vision exactly when Tyrion expected him to.
‘It is done,’ his father said. ‘The dragon armour of Aenarion has been re-made. The gods help us all.’
Tyrion did not feel like he was wearing heavy armour, more like a suit made from the lightest cloth. He felt as if he could run and jump and fight completely unencumbered, and fight was exactly what he wanted to do. The spirit in the armour demanded it of him.
Tyrion fought down the rising tide of bloodlust. He did not want to be anyone or anything’s pawn. He was himself and he intended to remain that way, even if it meant whatever was present in the armour would not help him to the fullest of its abilities.
Slowly his rage subsided a little. He drew Sunfang. It blazed more brilliantly than it ever had before, as if the presence of the armour had lent it new strength. He took another deep breath and raised his burning sword. The watching army roared its approval at the sight of him.
‘Prince Tyrion!’ A group of strange elves walked towards him out of the crowd. They led the largest warhorse he had ever seen. It was armoured with heavy barding which it bore as if it were a saddle blanket.
He did not recognise any of them. They were garbed in thick leather armour and they had a peculiar, slightly bowlegged way of walking. Some of them still had spurs attached to their riding boots that clinked as they walked.
‘I am Prince Paelus of Ellyrion,’ said the leader of the newcomers. ‘I wish to thank you on behalf of my people for all you have done. If it were not for you, we would be without a queen at the moment.’
Tyrion knew exactly what the hero of the hour was expected to say. ‘I only did what any loyal elf would have done,’ he said.
‘I’m sure you did what any of us would have liked to do but which very few would have been capable of. You saved the Everqueen from the clutches of the druchii, and we would like to present you with a token of our appreciation.’
‘That will not be necessary,’ Tyrion said.
‘Necessary or not, it would be ungracious of you to refuse us,’ Prince Paelus said. ‘This is Malhandir of the line of Korhandir, Father of Horses,’ Prince Paelus said. ‘We were bringing him to the great tournament to be the mount of the Everqueen’s champion. Of course, we came too late and were caught up in the great war against the Witch King.’
Malhandir ambled towards Tyrion and nuzzled his shoulder. Prince Paelus laughed.
‘It seems Malhandir has already made his choice,’ he said. ‘Once such a beast chooses a rider, he will never take another.’
Now that Malhandir was near, Tyrion sensed the strangeness in the horse. It was clear even to one as magically blind as he was that this was no normal beast. Malhandir radiated power, intelligence and a potent burning magic.
He was larger, more graceful and stronger than any horse Tyrion had ever seen and there was a wisdom in his eyes worthy of a scholar. Instinctively, he found himself reaching out to stroke the horse’s muzzle.
He felt a great affection for the horse, such as he had never felt any moment before. There was a bond between them even after only a few heartbeats. The horse whinnied as if it was laughing at him and then shook its head and Tyrion found himself laughing too. His laughter echoed through the assembled ranks of the elven army.
Tyrion was glad. He truly wanted to be the rider of this steed. It was a warhorse that could carry him through any battle, he felt. Malhandir moved its head in a way that told Tyrion that it was time to mount up. Tyrion vaulted onto the great horse’s back.
‘Now I am ready to do battle,’ he said. The army cheered. The set of Alarielle’s face told him she was worried, but she kept the glorious confident smile on her face.
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘So it begins,’ Malekith said. His huge army was already in position. It looked ready to sweep forward and destroy the asur where they stood. Before that happened, there was something else that needed to be done.
‘I am ready, sire,’ Urian said. Malekith had reinforced the already potent magic in his armour with still more powerful spells. The magical blades blazed in his fist.
‘First you will destroy their champions and then I will destroy their army – then I will have all of Ulthuan under my boot.’
Urian nodded. How many of those people down there faced their last day? How many would be dead before this day was out so that Malekith could realise his mad ambition? For a moment, he was tempted to take his sword and bury it in the Witch King’s back. Only the knowledge that it was almost certainly not powerful enough to penetrate that almost-indestructible armour stopped him.
He told himself that today the Witch King would triumph and he stood at the Witch King’s right hand. Somehow that knowledge did not make him as happy as it should have.
Tyrion reined Malhandir to a halt and watched the army move around him.
Even now in the face of that enormous and seemingly invincible enemy horde, it stirred his heart. He had always loved this time before the blood, the mud and the chaos of battle overwhelmed everything. The formations were drawn up. Everything was in order. There was this sense of being part of something much larger than himself.
Being part of this crowd was something that spoke to something deep within him. He could smell the oiled weapons, the leather and steel of the armour and the animal stink of the cavalry horses.
He felt like he was one very small part of a very large living thing. When he breathed, it breathed. When it spoke, he was part of its voice. Perhaps this was what it was like to be a god. Or perhaps part of a god.
He felt as if he was enormously strong, as if he could do anything, as if all he and all of the other soldiers round about him needed to do was will something to be done and it would occur. He was part of this vast hydra-headed entity that was far greater than the sum of its parts.
Of course, over there, on the other side of the battlefield, was another colossal entity, equally strong, if not stronger, that felt itself to be invincible. Soon these two huge monsters would come crashing together like stegadons in the jungle of Lustria. Then they would rend each other with their sword-like claws until great chunks were ripped bleeding from the flesh of the monsters and the army would lose all cohesion. In some ways, that would be a bit like dying, Tyrion thought.
All around him voices rumbled. The air vibrated as with the droning of a vast hive of bees. The earth shook beneath the tread of the marching army. He felt like a tiny particle being driven before a huge storm wind. It was as if somehow his life had taken on the momentum of the army and it had transferred some part of its vast purpose to him.
Looking at the faces of those around him, he could tell that they all felt the same way. They had a bemused, inebriated look written on them as if the owners of those faces were sodden with drink or under the influence of some potent drug that deadened their sense of individuality and made them less than individuals and yet greater.
He took a deep breath and allowed himself to luxuriate in the sense of being part of a greater entity, then he focused his concentration on his own body and became Tyrion once more, a small mote of life being driven before the vast hurricane of the army’s purpose.
He u
rged Malhandir forwards to the place where the two armies would meet.
Teclis hated this. He hated the way the army marched together like one monstrous automaton. He felt more alone than at any time since he had begun his quest to find his brother. He could not be part of this. He could not join in.
He disliked the idea of being one mindless creature in a herd of mindless creatures. He disliked the way all of the faces around him showed one fixed purpose: unquestioning, obedient, willing to kill at the orders of someone else. He knew then exactly how different he was. It was simply part of his character that he could not be part of this huge, violent, unthinking community.
It was not that he was incapable of violence or indeed lack of thought – it was simply that he could not lay down his sense of self, subsume it to the will of the crowd.
He was not a leader but he was not a follower either. He was something different, alone, isolated, not part of this vast strange thing that was happening around him.
He was glad of that. Crowds were less than the sum of their parts. For some elves, there was a temptation in that. Perhaps it would be nice to stop thinking for himself for a moment, to suspend his judgement, to not look at the world through his own solitary eyes. He simply was not capable of doing that though. There was no temptation because there was nothing in him to be tempted.
He looked at the faces around him and he felt nothing but contempt at their slack-jawed acceptance of what was going on round about them. He was glad he was not like them.
He was not a sheep. He was an individual. His life had been a lonely one but it had prepared him for this moment, it had prepared him to stand apart and maintain his own critical faculties and be prepared to look with his own eyes upon what was going to happen.
Perhaps if all elves were capable of this, or all sentient beings, wars would not happen. Perhaps this loss of the sense of being an individual was a necessary precursor to mass violence. Perhaps one had to lose one’s sense of self in order to become capable of killing.
He knew though that he was deceiving himself. He was certainly capable of killing. The question was whether he was normal, and he knew the answer to that already. He kept walking, carried along by the flow of the army.
Ahead of them a vaster force waited. He sensed the magical power summoned in its midst. Overhead dark clouds flowed, driven by cold winds. There was a storm coming. He could feel it.
The armies halted just out of bowshot of each other. They halted as if a signal had been given, and glared at each other.
A dark elf herald rode right up to the front of the asur force. He was accompanied by a few bodyguards, carrying the flags of truce. He smiled mockingly, confidently, with contempt. He looked perfectly at ease, as if he had nothing to fear, which was nothing less than the case. No one was going to attack him while he bore that flag.
‘Malekith the Great, king of all the elves, commands you to listen!’ The herald’s voice was clear and ringing, some trick of magic allowed his words to carry to the furthest edges of the high elf camp. ‘If any of you have the courage to face his champion in single combat, present yourself on the plain between the two armies and allow yourself to be slaughtered. He doubts that any of you will dare do so. He believes that none of the children of Ulthuan have the courage of their ancestors.’
‘I will fight!’ Someone shouted. Tyrion recognised the voice as belonging to Arhalien of Yvresse. ‘I will show you that we do not fear your pathetic master.’
The herald laughed outright. ‘You shall pay for the disrespect you show. Still, present yourself! Your death shall be a swift one.’
Tyrion wondered if Arhalien was being wise. Doubtless, Malekith was confident that his champion would be victorious. There was no reason for calling this challenge otherwise. It was meant, as Teclis had claimed last night, simply to give him one more advantage in the coming battle. It was intended to drive another nail into the coffin of high elf morale. On the other hand, Tyrion was not sure it would have been wise to turn down that challenge. To do so would simply be to admit that there was no warrior in the high elf army willing or able to accept the challenge.
He could see that a number of eyes were on him. It was true that he was looked upon as a hero in this army. They had expected him to speak up. It was too late now. Arhalien had spoken. He must be allowed to fight.
Arhalien came riding over to the rise upon which Tyrion stood. The pavilion of the Everqueen was behind him. It was obvious that Arhalien felt himself to be the true champion of Alarielle and this was his way of proving it.
‘I have come to ask for the Everqueen’s blessing and her favour before I ride out on her behalf,’ he said.
Tyrion winced. This truly was playing into Malekith’s hands if Arhalien should be killed. That a warrior carrying both Alarielle’s favour and blessing should be slain was the worst of all possible omens for the army that represented her.
Did Arhalien not realise this? Did he even care? Or was he so wrapped up in his own personal quest for glory that he was willing to have that happen? It did not matter, Tyrion thought. He had already done it.
Alarielle looked as radiantly beautiful as ever, the expression on the faces of all the watchers changed to reverence by her mere presence. Tyrion wondered if he would ever get used to it. Why was he incapable of feeling that level of reverence and respect? He cared about the woman, but nothing about the goddess touched him at all.
‘My blessing you may have,’ she said. ‘But my favour is reserved for Tyrion, son of Arathion.’
Arhalien accepted her words with a graceful gesture. ‘Your blessing is enough for me, Your serenity,’ he said. ‘I accept your decision.’
He rode forth to the centre of Finuval Plain. The soldiers of the high elf army left their camp behind him, just as the dark elves were doing on the far side of the plain. It was a mistake, Tyrion could see that. It meant that if battle erupted after the single combat, the high elves would not be in a good formation. It mattered less to the dark elves that the same would apply to them. They had the advantage of numbers. Tyrion wondered if Malekith had planned it this way all along.
Leaders bellowed instructions trying to hold formations together. The princes sent messengers everywhere, telling them to hold their formation. It was like watching a rout in reverse. It was as if the army was losing all coherence in its quest to get close enough to watch the champions fight. Tyrion kept close to Alarielle. He noticed that those assigned to protect the Everqueen were doing the same. It was good. If Malekith planned any treacherous attack upon her, she would at least have bodyguards. Somehow, Teclis emerged from the crowd.
‘I told you this would happen,’ he said.
‘As ever, brother, your gift for prophecy is impressive,’ Tyrion said. ‘I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.’
‘That’s why I decided to join you. This might be cover for something else.’
‘What frightens me is the idea that it might not be.’
‘What do you mean?’ Teclis asked.
‘This might be exactly what it appears to be. Malekith may be so confident of victory that he merely wants to put on this little show to damage our morale. This might be the only point of this exercise, as you suggested last night.’
Teclis nodded. ‘If any wicked magic is attempted, I will at least be here to counter it.’
‘I find your presence oddly reassuring, brother,’ Tyrion said.
‘As I find yours,’ Teclis replied. They moved closer to Alarielle. She reached out and squeezed Tyrion’s hand.
‘What is going on?’ she asked.
‘Apparently Malekith wants to be entertained by some gladiatorial combat before he puts the rest of us to the sword.’
‘Do you think Arhalien has a chance?’ Alarielle asked.
‘I think we shall soon find out. Here comes Malekith’s champion now.’
Urian Poisonblade moved exactly the same way as Prince Iltharis moved. He looked exactly as Prince Iltharis looked. It
came to Tyrion that that was because he was Prince Iltharis in truth. There could be no mistake about that. He was garbed all in black armour, with two blades strapped to his side. He walked with a certain jaunty confidence that had always been Prince Iltharis’s.
‘I wish I had killed him back in Lothern,’ Teclis said.
‘You never had that chance,’ Tyrion said. Teclis looked at him coldly.
‘You might have it now,’ Tyrion told him, ‘but you were not capable of killing him in the past.’
Teclis shrugged. ‘You might well be right, brother.’
Korhien Ironglaive walked up to the brothers. ‘It is all so easy for him, isn’t it?’ he said, indicating Urian. There was admiration as well as cold hatred in his voice.
‘He always was an overconfident bastard,’ said Teclis.
It seemed that they were not the only ones who recognised Prince Iltharis. Loud booing emerged from the ranks of the high elves. Urian drew his blades and raised them in an ironic salute. He seemed not in the slightest daunted by the hatred that the massed army expressed towards him.
Tyrion admired his coolness. Prince Arhalien rode up towards Urian. He vaulted lithely from his saddle, looking every bit the poised and polished hero. Behind them, officers still called orders to the army, trying to restore some semblance of discipline and formation.
Tyrion noticed that the druchii were drawn up in ordered ranks. They were already in battle formation. The barbarians were not and they moved restlessly as if they were prepared to attack treacherously at any moment. It was entirely possible that they might – perhaps this was what Malekith was counting upon to give him an excuse to break the truce when he needed to. Equally though, Tyrion felt certain that the time was not upon them when the Witch King would do that. He wanted Urian to fight against Arhalien. He wanted his champion to demonstrate his superiority.