Bane of Malekith

  He thought about his lord and master. Malekith was not forgiving. He despised failures and he punished them; up until an hour ago Dorian would not but have agreed with that policy.

  Why preserve the weak?

  They needed to be winnowed out so that the strong might prosper. Of course, that had been before he had become a failure himself. Somehow he did not see the Witch King making an exception to his policy in this case. This was failure on a monumental scale. Dorian had imperilled a plan that had been a century in the making.

  It was unfair. It had all gone perfectly. Right until the end. They had destroyed the great tournament camp and taken prisoner or slain thousands of the asur. They had captured the Everqueen. She had lain bound on the floor of this vast florid pavilion before him. The god-queen of the asur had been his prisoner.

  For all of twenty minutes, he thought sourly. Before a solitary warrior had stolen her away.

  As if that was not bad enough, his aides were bringing him news that some others had cut their way out of this trap. A group of elven knights under the banner of Arhalien of Yvresse had fought their way free.

  Arhalien was a famous warrior. Was it he who had come back to undo Malekith’s plans, slay Cassandra and lay waste to Dorian’s life?

  The Everqueen was a potent symbol to her people, their living goddess, an incarnation of their spirit. While she was free she would provide a rallying point for her people. They would not give in without a fight. It had been Malekith’s master-stroke, capturing her. Or it would have been, if Dorian had succeeded.

  At least it was peaceful here, he thought. He was alone with his grief and his sense of failure and shame. None of his officers dared enter this part of the tent. None of them wanted to catch the Witch King’s eye when he was wrathful.

  If Dorian had been reporting success, as had seemed so likely a few hours ago, they would have crowded around him, elbowing each other out of the way to come into the view of the mirror’s great watchful eye. Now, there was no one except him there. Outside, all was silence. He knew the survivors of his staff were listening intently to see what transpired, to eavesdrop for any hints of their own fate.

  He wondered if the sense of failure had started to ripple out through the army yet, if they realised exactly how bad things were or could be, if Malekith became really wrathful. They were hundreds of leagues behind enemy lines, in the heart of the oldest forest in the world. They were being supplied through a mystical portal created by an enslaved daemon who might turn on their master at any time. They were in a land they did not know and surrounded by an enemy who knew every inch of it. They had lost the element of surprise, which had been their greatest weapon.

  He told himself not to be so defeatist. All across Ulthuan, the Witch King’s armies were striking unexpectedly in the heart of Elvendom. A gigantic host of Chaos marauders was descending on the elven realm from the north. This was the greatest invasion of Ulthuan since the time of Aenarion. It was not going to fail.

  And yet, Dorian thought, he had. One solitary elf had turned the greatest of victories into the most disastrous of defeats. He glared into the mirror, willing his master to appear so he could report his failure. Nothing happened.

  What was going on, Dorian wondered?

  He reached out and touched the mirror. It felt cold and dead. It was inert, without the faintest trace of magic in it.

  He waited for an hour. Malekith still did not communicate. Slowly it came to Dorian that he was not going to die immediately. If the delay was sufficiently long, he might not have to die at all. If he could just recapture the Everqueen…

  And why not? He still had a powerful army at his command. He still had the advantage of surprise. His foe was only a solitary elf, in the company of an Everqueen who had yet to come into possession of her legacy of power. If he acted quickly, he might still be able to save the situation, his career and his life.

  Filled with a renewed sense of purpose, he squared his shoulders and strode out of the tent, bellowing orders to summon his captains, his scouts and his magicians to him. At the very least, he thought, he would get revenge for Cassandra’s death.

  Chapter Three

  As the sun rose higher, Tyrion’s natural good spirits began to assert themselves. He was still alive and so was the Everqueen, and that meant that whatever the Witch King had planned could still be stopped. Ignoring the pain in his side, he vaulted over a fallen log.

  He was not sure what that ancient evil being had in mind for the Everqueen, but he knew that it could not be anything good. At the very least, having her in captivity would allow him to exert a great deal of pressure on her people, who would naturally be very concerned for her safety.

  Perhaps Malekith thought that if he had the Everqueen in his hands, he could use her as a figurehead for his occupation. Perhaps, by the use of magic or torture or some combination of both, he might even be able to make her act the part.

  It would be a very bad thing for the people of Ulthuan if the Everqueen was to fall into the Witch King’s hands. The best thing he could do for his people might be to ensure that it never happened.

  Looking at the beautiful girl walking beside him, he was not sure he was capable of killing her. She was not his enemy, she was his queen. It was his duty to keep her alive if he could, and that was a duty he intended to perform for as long as there was breath within him. The Everqueen caught him looking at her from the corner of her eye and looked at him quizzically. ‘What are you thinking about, Prince Tyrion?’

  ‘I’m thinking about my duty, your serenity, and what I may need to do to perform it.’

  ‘I’m sure that you will do whatever needs to be done, Prince Tyrion.’

  ‘There are some things that I hope never become necessary.’

  ‘We all have had such duties to perform. When the time comes, you must put aside your personal feelings and do what is needed.’

  Tyrion wondered if she knew that she was signing her own death warrant. He half-suspected that she did.

  Sunlight dappled the path. Alarielle gave a shout and dropped downslope. She picked up something, studied it and nodded.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Tyrion asked. He was still taken aback by the suddenness of her action. He glared around, half-expecting some threat to emerge from the trees.

  ‘I saw this,’ said Alarielle, raising the long piece of wood in her left hand.

  ‘Very good,’ said Tyrion. ‘You found a stick.’

  ‘Not just a stick,’ she said, already cross-legged and whittling away at the wood. ‘I can make this into a bow.’

  ‘I am not sure that will help us against the armies of Malekith,’ he said.

  She kept stripping the bark from the wood with her knife. ‘No, but it will help us to eat.’

  ‘Only if you can hit something with it,’ he said.

  She smiled. It was as dazzling as the sunbeams filtering down through the gaps in the leaves. ‘I think I might be capable of that.’

  ‘How long is this going to take?’ He glanced around, as much to let her know that even now enemies might be creeping up on them as to give himself a chance to spot pursuit.

  ‘A while,’ she said. ‘You may as well make yourself comfortable.’

  ‘Let us hope our enemies are doing the same.’

  ‘You were not brought up in Avelorn, were you, Prince Tyrion?’

  ‘You know it.’

  ‘It’s easy enough to see. You do not move like an elf of Avelorn. You do not cover your tracks like an elf of Avelorn. You do not think like an elf of Avelorn.’

  ‘I suspect all of this is leading towards the inevitable conclusion that I am not an elf of Avelorn, and that you are…’

  ‘How long do you think this pursuit may go on?’

  ‘I don’t know. Weeks, perhaps months.’

  ‘Indeed.’ She inspected the bow which she had stripped of all bark now. ‘Improvised, but it will do.’

  ‘What has the time got to do with it?’

&
nbsp; ‘How do you propose we eat?’

  ‘We forage for edible roots, we bring down small game.’

  She was making a string from the lacings of her dark elf tunic now and winding it around the bent piece of wood, drawing it taut. Tyrion could see a bow beginning to take shape.

  ‘And how are you proposing to do that?’

  ‘I was brought up in the mountains of Cothique. I can use a sling.’

  Alarielle took some other pieces of wood and began to sharpen them. She was making very basic arrows.

  ‘I don’t see a sling,’ she said.

  ‘They are easier to make than a bow,’ said Tyrion. ‘You can use leather or cloth. Leather by preference.’

  ‘And you are good with this improvised weapon?’

  ‘I am good with any weapon.’

  Alarielle took her hastily made bow and sighted at something in a nearby tree. She aimed, drew and fired. A bird fell, improvised arrow sticking from its breast.

  ‘And I am good with a bow,’ she said. ‘All the children of Avelorn are.’

  She walked over to where the bird’s corpse lay, picked it up and began removing feathers. Tyrion already knew she intended to use them on her arrows.

  ‘I could have brought that down,’ he said, a little defensively, ‘with a thrown stone.’

  ‘You may not always be here to ward and feed me. I think it best to be prepared for that eventuality.’

  As she said this, she turned and fired again. Another bird fell.

  Tyrion could think of nothing to say. She was correct.

  Dorian looked at the chief scout then at the dead witch elves.

  ‘You see it?’ Scout Commander Malak asked.

  ‘The wounds have been cauterised.’

  Malak nodded. ‘Unless a passing torturer decided to mutilate the corpses with red-hot pokers, I would say they went this way.’

  ‘Good. I want this elf found and I want him dead, and I want the Everqueen back in my hands before this week is out.’

  ‘Perhaps you should simply leave the matter in my hands, general,’ Malak said. ‘I can do what needs to be done, and someone needs to be in command of the army.’

  ‘You think to teach me my duties, or how to run my command?’

  ‘Of course not, general.’

  ‘Good. Let me explain something to you. There is nothing in the whole wide world more important than finding the elf with the burning sword and the woman who is with him. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, general.’

  ‘If he is not found, none of our lives will be spared. The Witch King will make an example of us all.’ Dorian paused and studied Malak’s expression. If the scout thought that the general had gone mad, no sign of it showed on his face. If he was laughing inwardly at Dorian’s failure, it was cleverly concealed. He had spoken loudly so that his words would reach all nearby ears. Soon it would be communicated to the whole army. He thought he had better emphasise the point.

  ‘If we find the Everqueen, our rewards will be unimaginable. If we fail, the tale of our deaths will cause druchii everywhere to shudder for twice ten thousand years.’

  ‘We will not fail, general,’ said Malak.

  ‘Good. Now let us get about our business.’

  Bending over the tracks like a hound sniffing at a trail, Malak looked for clues. After a moment, he said, ‘There were only two of them, a male and a female. They were garbed as druchii or at least wearing the boots of our soldiers.’

  ‘I think it safe to assume they are in disguise then…’

  ‘Indeed. They fought against a dozen witch elves and killed them all. The weapon used by one of them was a magical burning sword. It is definitely the elf you want, general.’

  ‘How long till we find them?’

  ‘They are travelling fast and light but my scouts can overhaul them. I recommend we fan out our force on either side of the trail in case they are hiding. I will assign a tracker to each company. We can send scouts on Cold Ones ahead down the trail and hope to overhaul them.’

  ‘So be it,’ said Dorian. ‘Let us get to it.’

  Already he was thinking that it might be best not to rely on the skills of his scouts. It might be best to invoke sorcery. He would need to talk with the witches.

  Tyrion added some more twigs to the fire. The night was cool and there were beasts about. He had made camp in a hollow which would put their fire out of sight. In the darkness, he did not fear that woodsmoke rising skywards would give them away, although perhaps the scent of it would if their enemies got close. They needed warm food and comfort more than that slight risk at the moment, he decided.

  The Everqueen looked at home here. Her face was smudged with soot. She had dressed the birds she had shot earlier and was cooking them on an improvised spit, baking tubers in the same fire. He was glad she had turned out to be competent at this. He was not sure he was going to be able to get her all the way out of the forest. His side was paining him already and he did not know how long they would have to flee.

  They sat in silence as the pigeons cooked, then ate quietly, stripping the birds right down to the bones. Afterwards they sat down by the fire. Alarielle stared into it.

  ‘I used to love doing this when I was a child,’ she said. The sound of her voice was surprising in the night.

  ‘Doing what?’ Tyrion asked.

  ‘Staring into the fire I could see all sorts of things in it: castles, clouds, gods, elementals, daemons. I used to tell myself all sorts of stories.’

  ‘I would have thought there was always someone there to do that for you.’

  ‘You don’t like me, do you, Prince Tyrion?’ There was truth in that, but now did not seem like a time to say it.

  ‘I don’t know you.’

  ‘And yet you still don’t like me – why is that?’

  Tyrion sighed. ‘Does it trouble you so much that one person does not like you? I would have thought the adoration of all the rest made up for it.’

  ‘Is that what bothers you? The way the people worship me?’

  ‘Perhaps worship is too strong a word.’

  ‘No, it is not, and the truth is that it bothers me too.’

  Tyrion looked at her sharply. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it was not always so. I was once an elf maid like any other. Now people treat me as a living goddess. Even you, in your strange, sullen way.’

  Tyrion felt that was unfair. Her words stung. He was not used to being talked to like this either. ‘Perhaps because you are a goddess.’

  ‘It was not my choice.’

  ‘Poor child.’

  She smiled, and something in her smile made Tyrion feel ashamed of himself. ‘No. Really. It was not my choice. And I would much rather my mother was alive than I was possessed by this thing.’

  ‘Possessed? That is an interesting choice of words.’

  ‘It is an accurate one, Prince Tyrion. I share my body with something else. I am not even sure what that something is.’

  ‘It is the spirit of the earth goddess. Even I know that.’

  ‘You may know the words, Prince Tyrion, but I very much doubt you can have any inkling of what they mean.’

  ‘I have met the Phoenix King.’

  ‘I have not. Do I remind you of him?’

  ‘No. Yes.’

  ‘You are not normally so indecisive.’

  ‘There is a spell around you. Even I can see that.’

  ‘Why do you say even?’

  ‘Because my magesight is not good. It has always been worse than most other elves.’

  ‘I would not have thought you had any flaws. You don’t behave as if you do…’

  Tyrion laughed. ‘You don’t like me either, do you?’

  ‘It’s difficult to like someone so hostile.’

  ‘I am not always so hostile,’ Tyrion said. He decided it was best to be honest. ‘You bring it out in me. You did before ever I saw you, if truth be told.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I did not want
to become your champion. I was blackmailed into it.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘By my aunt, a very great and gracious elf lady, not unlike yourself.’

  ‘You don’t like her either?’

  ‘On the contrary, I like her very much. I just don’t like being made to do things.’

  ‘We are all made to do things we don’t like, Prince Tyrion.’

  ‘Now you sound like her. She said very much the same thing.’

  ‘Perhaps because life is like that.’ She sounded sad again. Tyrion did not like that. He did not like seeing her as a person.

  ‘What would you know of that?’

  ‘I was born to be the Everqueen.’

  ‘And you did not want to be the goddess of an entire people, of course?’

  ‘Of course I did. When I was a little girl I dreamed of it. It was only later, when I saw what it really meant, that I had my doubts.’

  ‘When you saw what it really meant?’

  ‘What it did to my mother and to me and my sister.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘My mother loved me, Prince Tyrion.’

  ‘Is that such a bad thing?’

  ‘And I loved her.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘We almost never saw each other. We almost never saw my sister either.’

  Tyrion thought he already knew the answer but he spoke anyway – she seemed to need to talk. This was the odd intimacy of strangers met around a campfire, telling things to strangers they would not tell to their best friends. He had experienced it before on his travels. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she was the Everqueen and we were her heirs and we could not all be in one place at one time in case we were all slain or captured together. There must always be an Everqueen.’

  Tyrion saw the logic of it. ‘Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.’

  ‘A crude way of putting it, but essentially correct. I was taken away from her and put in the care of my aunt when I was small. I never saw my mother until my sister was born.’

  ‘So you both could not be killed at one time.’

  She nodded. ‘My sister and I were not allowed to be in one place together. My mother could see one of us only on special occasions under conditions of highest security, and only for very short times.’