Blood of Aenarion

chapter TWENTY-eight



The sky was dark with thunderclouds. Rain poured down. The heavens themselves seemed angry. Lightning split the night.

From the top of the temple, a soaked Tyrion looked down on the onrushing horde illuminated by the sudden stark light of the thunderbolt. This looked bad. The attacking force was far larger than anyone had ever imagined it would be, and it had arrived far sooner than anyone had expected.

Tyrion was not frightened. He was rationally aware that there was a very strong possibility that he was going to be dead before this day ended but that did not scare him. He was fascinated. Below him were creatures out of legend – daemons the likes of which had not been seen since the time of Aenarion.

If the stories were true, the howling horde of attackers throwing themselves at the walls were led by N’Kari, a being who had commanded the attack on Ulthuan in the dawn ages of the world and who had twice faced Aenarion himself. He thought he could make out a monstrous four-armed figure that might be the Keeper of Secrets ordering his troops forward.

He had certainly seen with his own eyes a Lord of Change’s fire blasts of multi-hewed Chaotic energy directed at the archers on the walls. Its magic carving through the protective enchantments and then the flesh of the defenders. Its raptor-screams of triumph echoing across the battlefield, their very sound freezing the weaker-willed in fear.

He wished Teclis were here to see this. He felt sure his brother would be at least as fascinated by the sight as he was. Tyrion did not need his brother’s gift to see that there was powerful magic at work here on behalf of the elves as well as the daemons. Elven weapons harmed hell-things that ought, according to the legends, to have been invulnerable to them. Something shielded the defenders from many of the daemon’s spells. He felt sure that the greater daemons were holding back because of the presence of something they feared although he was not sure for how much longer they would do so.

All night the daemon worshippers had attacked in waves, and then at last, as the defenders had tried to snatch some rest, that horrific cloud of sorcery had come. Tyrion had no idea what had happened within it, but screams of agony and delight had echoed over the battlements and when the cloud had finally dispersed the ground around the exterior walls had been littered with the half-naked bodies of fallen elven troops. The Chaos worshippers had come surging over.

There simply were not enough elves to hold the shrine against the force assaulting it. The speed with which such a huge attack had come had thrown the elves off guard. They had never imagined such a force could set foot on the sacred soil of the holy island so quickly.

What had been intended to be a safe refuge for himself and his brother had turned out to be a death trap. There was no way off the island without passing through that daemonic horde. Perhaps reinforcements would arrive soon but if they did not come in force, they would be destroyed piecemeal as they tried to leave the harbour.

In the distance brazen horns sounded. Winged furies descended from the sky, falling on the defenders with terrible rending claws. Down there people were dying to protect him and the sacred soil of this most holy place. Part of him wanted to leap into the fray and aid them but that would not be wise. Needlessly exposing himself would make the defenders’ task harder and perhaps even make a mockery of their efforts if he were to be killed.

The most sensible thing he could do was to retreat into the deepest and best protected parts of the shrine and pray that the battle turned out well. He already knew that it would not. He could see what would happen quite clearly. The daemons would clear the last few defenders from the outer walls, and force them to fall back.

Tyrion heard feet on the stairs behind him. The rain-soaked cowl of a priest of Asuryan rose into view. He was breathing hard, his face was pale and he was obviously frightened.

‘There you are, Prince Tyrion,’ he said. ‘We have been looking all over for you. The abbot has ordered me to take you the inner shrine. You will be safe there along with your brother... if you are safe anywhere. The god will protect you.’

He did not seem at all sure of that.

Teclis knew the battle was going badly. He did not even have to look at the faces of the messengers bringing reports to the captain of the warriors guarding the innermost shrine to know it. The news had been bad ever since the priest had come to lead him to this sacred sanctum deep within the shrine. There were a few wounded warriors here in the shadows cast by the great fire pit and twenty Phoenix Guards. The warriors looked worried. The Phoenix Guards stood as impassive as the massive statues surrounding them.

Teclis could sense there were many daemons, some of enormous power, outside the shrine and drawing ever closer. He felt their presence like an evil shadow lying on his heart. It made him want to howl with terror. Only by an enormous effort of will could he keep himself from doing so. When mortals faced daemons the evil ones usually had the advantage in power and magic and morale. They need not fear for their infinite lives. Mortals did. The mere presence of daemons was enough to ensure terror.

The daemons were not the only supernatural entities making their presence felt in this hour. He looked up at the great flame burning in the centre of the chamber. It roared like a city on fire. Its heat was enormous. At any other time he would have felt privileged to witness this manifestation in the most sacred heart of elvendom, the chamber of the Flame of Asuryan.

He was more aware of the flows of power around him within the shrine than he ever had been in any other place and at any other time. He sensed the presence of the god as it leaked out of whatever realm Asuryan dwelled in and into this world. It was visible to his magesight all around. The air seemed full of glittering sparks. His skin tingled where they touched and the hairs on the back of his neck rose.

If he reached out with his own senses, somewhere infinitely remote and yet so close he could almost touch it was the presence of Asuryan. Being here and being a mage was like swimming in murky water as a leviathan rose from the depths beneath. He sensed the imminence of the god as a massive displacement of energy from one world to another.

If only there was some way to tap into the power of the Sacred Flames and use it as a weapon, he felt sure that the daemons could be defeated. The mighty mages of old could perhaps have managed such a feat. Others had mastered the art of bending the Flame to their will too. The priests who protected the Phoenix King as he passed through it must know some way. That showed it could be done by mortals in this age of the world.

Of course they were shaping the energy in a completely different way, or perhaps they were merely shielding someone else from it, but the thought gave him hope. There might be a way to use the power of the Flame to save himself and Tyrion and the warriors who were trying so valiantly but fruitlessly to protect them. All he needed to do was work out how that could be done.

He offered up a prayer to Asuryan for guidance. Somewhere far off he thought he felt an answering call. Something out there would aid him, if only he could find a way to contact it and make his prayers clear to it.

Tyrion entered the chamber, his clothing soaking wet. His brother looked torn between wonder and unease, but he did not look afraid. His unbounded bravery astonished Teclis.

‘How is it going?’ Teclis asked.

‘Not well,’ said Tyrion. ‘The priests don’t think they will be able to hold off our attackers much longer. I expect we shall be seeing the famous N’Kari soon.’

His idiot brother did not even sound troubled by the prospect.

Teclis took his brother to one side. None of the soldiers were paying any attention to them. They had their own worries.

‘The guards will not be able to stop N’Kari,’ he said.

Tyrion nodded. He had already made his own assessment of the situation, and doubtless, as in all matters military, it would be an accurate one.

‘There is nothing we can do about it,’ Tyrion said. ‘The Phoenix King’s advisors miscalculated. We are not safe here. The reinforcements will not get here in time. Perhaps we would not have been safe anywhere. Who would have thought our foe could become so strong in so short a time?’

‘The soldiers cannot stop the daemon, but perhaps I can.’

Tyrion’s eyes widened in surprise at Teclis’s words. He tilted his head to one side. At least he was not showing outright disbelief in the fact that one barely trained sixteen-year old was claiming to be able to do what an asur army and its contingent of wizards could not.

‘How?’

‘I may be able to tap into the power of the shrine here.’

‘That sounds sacrilegious. Dangerous too.’

‘Believe me, I don’t like the idea any more than you do but it may be our only chance. I am of the Blood of Aenarion. I may be able to touch the power of the Flame and live where others could not.’

‘You are not planning on walking through it?’ Tyrion did show some alarm now. The last person who had tried that unprotected was Malekith and his fate had been awful. He had been a mighty warrior too, not a sickly child.

‘No. I am planning on begging for aid. Perhaps the power behind the Flame will respond. Perhaps not. If it does not we have lost nothing but our lives, which are already forfeit.’

‘What can I do to help?’ This was the part Teclis did not like at all. He was going to have to ask his twin to risk his life, perhaps even sacrifice himself so that his plan might work.

‘If I have not completed my spell by the time the daemon gets here, you must distract it for as long as possible. Keep it away from me at all costs.’

‘I would do that anyway,’ said Tyrion immediately.

Teclis looked at his twin with wonder and admiration. He had always known Tyrion was brave but never realised exactly how brave. He asked no questions, made no excuses, did not prevaricate. He was ready, instantly, to go into battle, to give up his life if necessary. He did not even seem to realise how courageous he really was. Teclis wanted to say something to his twin at that moment, but he knew he was wasting time.

‘Just be ready,’ he said, knowing that Tyrion would understand how he felt. He always did.

Teclis picked a place behind the altar, by the flame pit, that would hide him from view from the doorway. He took a deep breath and concentrated as hard as he could. He was not simply praying. He was working magic as best he could. He pulled power purified by the sacred flame from the air around him and wove it into a structure that would suit his purpose. He created a thin filament of light that he could extend down the well that connected the Flame in this world with the being known as Asuryan in the other. In some ways it was a spell very similar to the one he had used on the mirror in the Emeraldsea Palace only instead of the mirror, he was using the Flame as a focus.

With invisible fingers of magic, he probed the rent in the fabric of reality until he could find the place where it was holed. Once he had done so, he pushed the line of energy through and extended it as far as he could.

He was like a fisherman dropping a line into deep, still waters. He was not sure what response he would get to his efforts but he knew Asuryan could not be pleased to have his sacred space invaded by his ancestral enemies. Over all the millennia the elves had known of him, Asuryan had hated Chaos and warred against it. Teclis held this thought firmly in his mind. There was aid to be had here, if only he could reach it.

He kept extending the line of energy and still he did not make contact. The strain mounted. Mortals were not meant to reach too deeply into this place. He could feel that. There was a power here that only the most rugged could wield, and he was very far from that.

His head spun and his stomach heaved. He felt himself getting weaker and weaker as he extended himself more. It was possible that all life would be drained from him by his efforts. Or something else even more terrible might happen – his soul might be drawn from his body and flee into the depths of the well, never to return.

He felt as if he were drowning. He could not breathe. His chest felt as if it was being crushed. He remembered the flying fish on the deck of the Eagle of Lothern, drowning in air.

At this moment, he knew that was him.

He was going to die.

Inside the cool depths of the shrine everything seemed calm. No screams had so far penetrated the rock walls. No tainted footsteps were heard echoing within. Tyrion knew it was only a matter of time. His blade felt heavy and useless in his hand. He longed to be outside, in the fighting, doing his part to beat back the attackers. Inaction did not suit him. He was a fighter.

Be calm, he told himself. The time for blades will come soon enough. You will have your chance at combat and you will most likely die of it, in a place where no one will see you fall and no one will remember your fate.

One of the Phoenix Guards came over. His face was as impassive as if it had been hewn from stone. He looked at Tyrion and then at the door and nodded his head. His expression was peculiar, as if he recognised something. He squared his shoulders and let out a long breath. His face was calm, as if reconciled to something.

Teclis suddenly shrieked and spasmed, as if he was having a fit. Over and over again, he repeated the name of Asuryan. It looked as if something had gone terribly wrong. Tyrion rushed over to his brother, feeling helpless, for once not knowing what to do.

N’Kari strode into the shrine. Behind him the gate was broken and corpses lay strewn everywhere. He was alone. The other daemons would come no further and the mortals were distracted by pillage and rapine. The air crackled with inimical energy. The light of Asuryan was strong here but not strong enough to keep him from his goal, not saturated as he was by power stolen from the Vortex. He was enjoying using the full power of his battle form. It had been a long time since he had given full and free rein to his lust for combat. His only regret was that even with the backing of their god, these elves were barely worthy of death under his claws.

He raised his great sword in one hand and swept it down, cutting two of the Phoenix Guard in two with one blow. He snipped off the head of the first bisected corpse with his claw just to enjoy the expression on its face. The brain still lived and thought for seconds even after it was cut off from the body.

Ahead of him were a set of stairs leading down into the depths of the temple. He sensed the presence of his prey down there where Asuryan’s power beat most strongly. The presence of that old god was all around here. The Flame blazed strongly as if trying to hide those N’Kari sought within the shadows its light created.

Given time, Asuryan himself might even manifest himself and deal with the interlopers. That would be a sight worth seeing. Unlikely though. It took long ritual magics to get the god’s attention. Beings like Asuryan moved and thought in different timescales from their little elf puppets. An eye-blink to a god could be the lifetime of an elf. N’Kari reckoned that he could easily be finished his work here before Asuryan even realised there was a threat to respond to. Unless very powerful magic was used of a type that was beyond the high elves now.

The elves had thought that placing them here would put his prey beyond his reach. He would enjoy showing how useless all of their efforts were. Once he had done that, he thought he would consider finishing the work he had begun five millennia ago and turn Ulthuan into his personal fiefdom.

Laughing with joy, basking in the adoration of those elves who looked at him longingly, even as he killed them, N’Kari made his way down the stairs towards the innermost Sanctum of the Shrine of Asuryan.

The contact was sudden and shocking. Teclis felt something ancient, ageless and terrifyingly powerful. It inspected Teclis as Teclis might inspect an insect. The mind was not mortal. It bore no resemblance to elven consciousness. It operated on a different level entirely, one that Teclis knew he had no chance whatsoever of comprehending.

He sensed the presence was waiting for something but he had no idea what. He concentrated with all his mind, asking for help, for power, for aid against their mutual enemy. Something vast and slow responded but he was not sure it was responding in the way he wanted it to. It was too alien and immense.

There was something, a sense of recognition that might have been an image, a rune, a name. Aenarion. Whatever it was, it knew Teclis was connected with the Phoenix King. It must be his blood. Or perhaps it remembered him from his trial. Now he had to make the being understand that he needed help and the nature of the help he needed.

He pictured the daemons. He pictured the shrine. He pictured what was going on around him. Nothing happened. Perhaps the being the elves knew as Asuryan worked on such a timescale that it would take hours for it to respond. All of the rituals concerned with contacting him had taken time and had been performed by elves who were his priests and presumably thus already had established some link with the entity. Teclis had never done so. Perhaps all of his efforts would be in vain. He felt the contact slipping and tried desperately to re-establish it.

A spark of enormous power passed into him so painfully strong that Teclis almost passed out. He knew that if this kept up the force of the magic would kill him. Asuryan was trying to help but seemed unaware that his colossal strength might be too much for the one he sought to aid. He thought again of himself picking up the flying fish. He had never even thought to wonder what had happened to it. Had he crushed its gills with his fingers, killing it even as he tried to save it?

Would that happen to him now?

The screams of the dying and the dreadful roars of their killer were audible now even through the thick walls of the shrine. They echoed through the corridors like notes within the cone of a trumpet. Tyrion waited, loosening his muscles, breathing deeply and letting the tension seep out of him. He looked over to the shadow of the great altar.

Teclis’s face was pale and Tyrion could sense his twin’s fear and agony. Its distant echo made his stomach churn and his muscles tense. Teclis’s brow was knotted in intense concentration. His eyes stared off into the far distance as if he was looking out on things others could not see. His thrashings had stopped and he seemed to have regained some control over himself.

Images of what might be happening outside intruded themselves into Tyrion’s mind. He pictured elves being torn apart by ravening daemons, and the hordes of Chaos rampaging through the most sacred shrine of the elves.

He realised that he was not afraid. He was angry. He was angry about the desecration of this holy place, of the threat to his brother’s life, about the strange twists of fate that had brought him to this place to die.

Anger and fear are two sides of the same coin, he told himself. Both can get you killed. He forced himself to breathe deeply, to remain calm. Now was not a time when he could afford any emotion-driven mistakes. He saw one of the wounded soldiers looking over at him with something like admiration.

‘I wonder that you can remain so calm, Prince Tyrion,’ he said. The effort of keeping his voice steady showed in his speech. His voice seemed about to crack when he mentioned Tyrion’s name.

‘We are in the keeping of Asuryan,’ Tyrion said, gesturing to one of the massive statues. He was remembering the way Lady Malene and Captain Joyelle and the officers of the Eagle of Lothern had stood on the deck in the storm and given their confidence to the crew.

‘Your faith is inspiring,’ said the soldier, with only the faintest hint of irony. What he obviously wanted to say but did not dare do in this holy place and in earshot of his comrades was that he did not share Tyrion’s faith.

Tyrion smiled at him and the soldier squared his shoulders and gripped his weapon tighter. As Tyrion had suspected he was not about to show himself less brave than an untried sixteen-year old. Tyrion looked away. He had been glad to deal with the soldier’s doubts, they had distracted him from his own dark thoughts. Deep in his breast he felt a titanic rage building once more, an anger that could consume him if he let it, the sort of rage his ancestor Aenarion might have felt when he confronted the hosts of Chaos.

Is this how the Curse manifests itself in me, he thought? Am I a child of rage, like those elves who followed Aenarion in the dark days after he lost his wife and children? Is that why I can kill without conscience? Am I chosen by Khaine in that way?

He knew he might not live to find out. The leader of the remaining Phoenix Guards gestured to the warriors present. The Guards and the wounded alike moved to place themselves between the twins and anything that sought to get at them. Tyrion knew they had no chance of doing it, but he was touched by their bravery anyway.

Something enormous bellowed outside the door.

‘Whatever you’re going to do, do it soon,’ Tyrion told his twin.

Teclis stared sightlessly at the ceiling.

The great wooden doorway of the sanctum crashed open. A four-armed form stood there, brandishing an enormous greatsword in one oddly delicate arm. A huge claw clicked at the end of another. With its remaining two arms it wove potent spells. The last twenty of the Phoenix Guard faced it.

Tyrion wondered if there would be any of the order left after this battle. It was said that each of the Phoenix Guard was granted knowledge of his own death during the intricate rituals performed when they were raised to the status of member. He wondered if the proud warriors around him had always known that this moment would come.

He studied their faces. All of them were grim. None of them showed fear, even in the face of the horror confronting them. Tyrion looked back at N’Kari. He had always known the daemon was going to be massive, what he had not conceived of was how oddly beautiful it would be. It was not that the creature’s form was lovely, rather it was that it moved with the lithe grace of a dancer and the beckoning, seductive movements of a high-class courtesan. It should and did look obscene, but it was also fascinating.

Magic, he told himself. The daemon’s aura was working on him. He shook his head and was surprised how easy it was to throw off the spell that had even the steel-willed Phoenix Guard standing quietly before the monster like rabbits before a serpent.

For a moment that seemed as long as eternity, the spell held, and all stood, seemingly frozen. Then the first of the Phoenix Guard sprang forward to strike at the monster. N’Kari parried and cut the elf in two with his return stroke. Silent as stalking cats, the remaining elf warriors threw themselves into the fray.