Sword of Caledor

Chapter ELEVEN



‘Drink!’ said Orysian. He handed Tyrion a skin of wine. He was already quite drunk. Wine had spilled from the corners of his thick-lipped mouth and dribbled down his chin. A challenge glittered in his narrow eyes. It was obvious in his wine-thickened voice.

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Tyrion, seizing the wineskin and tipping its contents down his throat in one long, theatrical swig. The rest of his companions laughed. All of them except the human slave who carried the lighted lantern seemed vastly amused.

Tyrion loved this, striding through the night-time streets of Lothern with his pack of friends, elves with whom he had spent many a night carousing down by the docks or in the taverns and brothels of the old city. Looking at them he understood his aunt’s words about the bad reputation he was getting for himself.

They were all of about his age or younger and they were all heavily armed and ready for a fight with members of any other faction they might encounter in the streets of the city. Of late, such running street battles had become part and parcel of life in Lothern – what was worse, in various areas the humans seem to be getting involved, fighting proxy wars on behalf of their patrons.

Lothern had become a much more violent place in the last century than the relatively peaceful city-state Tyrion had known in his youth. He had to admit that he was part of that problem.

He was one of the elves who took the most joy in street-fighting. He had a reputation for it and he was seen as a champion of House Emeraldsea. His grandfather and his aunt had disapproved but they were of an older generation, born in a simpler time.

They did not really understand the new world bred of riches and foreign trade and the opening of Lothern to a tidal wave of new money and goods.

At this moment, with the wine burning in his belly like liquid fire, Tyrion did not really care what his aunt or anyone else thought. He swaggered along with his hands hitched into his sword belt, daring any passer-by to look at him the wrong way. Very few could look him in the eye. They were afraid and there was something intoxicating about their fear.

This was not his usual practice – he liked to think of himself as a peaceful elf except when provoked, but at this moment in time he would welcome some violence. His companions sensed that. They were going out of their way to be provocative to anyone who got in their way, knowing that when Tyrion was in one of these wild moods there were very few people in the city who could stand against them. Merchants hastened into their shops, passers-by scuttled across the streets.

Only the soldiers of the City Watch held their ground and even they looked nervous, for they were outnumbered by this mob of richly garbed young elves. They knew also that these wealthy trouble-makers had the influence to avoid the consequences of breaking the heads of a few poor guardsmen.

The sight of them gave Tyrion pause. The guard were just doing their jobs, trying to keep the streets safe. They were not the enemy. They did not need trouble from the likes of him. They were the sort of elves he had led on battlefields. He had no quarrel with them.

There was something ugly about the faces of his companions, an expression of brutality and superiority that did not sit well on their fine features. Tyrion realised that exactly the same expression was on his face and he did not like that. He did not like to think he was simply part of the herd.

He forced himself to pause and smile and consider the reasons why he was doing this. He knew that it was not wise. No matter how tough an elf was it was still possible for anyone to be killed in the rough and tumble of a street brawl. He had lost a number of friends that way over the years.

It was wasteful and it was stupid. There were few enough elves as it was and with more humans appearing in the city every year it set a very bad precedent and example. The humans would see that the elves were fractious and divided and they would realise that it was a weakness. It was one that the elves really could not afford to display in a city where they were even now outnumbered by strangers.

He wrestled with his own anger, looking for the reasons and finding them easily enough. He did not like the way his aunt had spoken to him and he did not like being treated as if he were some sort of lackey – he was of the blood of Aenarion, after all. He smiled with genuine mirth; he certainly had the mad pride associated with that particular bloodline. It was coming out now. The wine had made sure of that.

His aunt had her own reasons for doing these things. Tyrion understood that. The trick was going to be to make sure that he did not do anything rash because of that. Knowing her motivations, he could put these to good use and manipulate his aunt for his own purposes, or at least he hoped so. It was never wise to assume such things with elves who were so much older and more experienced than he was. Although he was already very confident of his own gifts in that particular area.

He looked around at his friends. They were taking their cues from him. They seemed to sense the conflict in his mind. A few of them still looked angry and spoiling for a fight, a few of them looked as if they were waiting for him to say something funny, most of them just looked confused.

He grinned at all of them and spread his hands wide and said, ‘Come, let us visit the Golden Lion and I will buy you all some fine wine – there is much to be celebrated. I have found the blade of Aenarion, a thing lost for many centuries. It is an omen of great things.’

Most of them laughed but Orysian said, ‘I thought you wanted to blood it this evening. Our enemies have been casting aspersions on the bravery of House Emeraldsea in your absence. I thought you would have brought this fabled blade. We are all dying to get a look at it.’

Orysian was a brute, Tyrion thought. He wanted to be thought tough and he was. He wanted to be the centre of attention the way Tyrion was, but he could not be, because he lacked Tyrion’s good looks and charm. Tyrion knew the other elf would have challenged him to a fight, if he had not been so certain he would lose. Instead he contented himself with sniping resentfully at Tyrion. Still these things made him easy enough to handle.

‘It would be a very bad omen to blood the blade of Aenarion on asur,’ said Tyrion. ‘That is why I have left it with my brother this evening – so that I will not be tempted! Anyway, I have had enough fighting over the past few months to last me for at least an evening. While you were drinking in the taverns of Lothern, I was fighting lizardmen, carnosaurs and flesh-eating plants in the jungles of Lustria.’

A look of disappointment passed over Orysian’s coarsely handsome features and he said, ‘Doubtless you will bore us with all the details before this night is out.’ Tyrion could see that Orysian was going to be the problem here, so he singled him out for attention.

‘Don’t worry, I will regale you with endless tales of my own heroism and bravery which you will, by the end of the evening, envy even more than my startling good looks and wit and charm.’

‘I have heard it said that words can be just as deadly as swords and our friend Tyrion is about to prove that by boring us all to death,’ said Orysian, rising to the bait.

‘As ever, jealousy is an ugly thing,’ said Tyrion. ‘I have seen you bore a few of your enemies with the sword. The last time I saw you fight I thought it was your intention to watch your opponent die of old age… and let us never forget that they were elves.’

‘It would still probably have been preferable for them than listening to your stories,’ said Orysian.

‘Then imagine what it would be like for them to listen to yours. Heroic tales of the number of courtesans you have kissed and bottles of wine you have drunk interspersed with stories of the cakes you have knifed to death.’

All of the others were laughing now. Even Orysian was amused and flattered to be singled out by the hero of the hour. Tyrion smiled at them all, having turned the mood to his own wishes. He kept it up all the way to the Golden Lion. He did not want to fight tonight. He had too much to think about.



Like a conquering army, Tyrion and his companions burst through the doors of the tavern.

‘Drink!’ Orysian shouted.

The Golden Lion was crowded. Glittering elven courtesans glided from table to table. Glowstones shimmered in chandeliers illuminating everyone. Servants carried goblets of hallucinogenic wine to gold-inlaid tables, or hookahs of Arabyan kif to those elves who desired it.

It was a vast place, furnished with articles from every corner of the globe, carpets from Araby and clockwork automatons from the Worlds Edge Mountains. Hanging from the ceiling was the huge skeleton of some aquatic monster harpooned by the tavern’s owner back when he was a simple sea captain, or so he claimed.

It lay on the edgy territory between the human quarter and the Great Dock. It had once been a warehouse as could be seen by its huge internal area, with an enormous ceiling and many landings looking down over the central pit. On these landings there were still the loading bay doors where hauliers had lifted cargoes into the warehouse.

Most of the serving wenches and staff were humans. That was increasingly the way with all menial labour in Lothern. Some of the great trading houses had even started using slaves as labourers in their warehouses, although technically it was still only permitted to sell slaves in Lothern for purposes of transhipment. There was no business in this world that could not be pursued in this greatest of port cities. The merchants of Lothern did not want to miss out on the slightest copper piece of potential profit.

Tyrion glanced around to see who else was present. The place had gone quiet for a moment when the patrons had noticed his entry. It pleased him that he was so well known here. The tavern’s owner came to greet him.

‘Prince Tyrion, I had heard you were back.’

‘News travels fast, Garion,’ said Tyrion.

‘In Lothern, always.’ The owner led them to a massive platform where they could stare down on the less wealthy and famous below. Drinks were brought. The most beautiful courtesans began to drift away from other tables towards their own.

Tyrion sipped his wine and studied his friends. They were a typical cross section of the young, outrageous and wealthy of Lothern at this moment in time; part of the new generation that had grown up over the past century as Lothern was transformed from a half-dreaming city into the hub of a global trading empire. They had the swaggering, piratical look of young merchants on the make. Many of them had captained ships to the far corners of the globe.

Here was Lucius, whose family had grown wealthy in spices and silks from Cathay and the Mystic East. He affected long flowing wizardly robes of the Cathayan upper echelons. It was intended as a joke, a parody of the self-importance of the mandarins but somehow it suited him.

Here was Kargan, who had made a fortune raiding the coasts of Naggaroth and the dark elf colonies. He was lean and scarred with a vulpine look to his features and two dark elf blades strapped to his sides. He hated the spawn of Naggaroth with a black passion that matched that of the druchii. He had lost a beloved sister to their slavers and was taking a lifelong revenge. Tyrion had made his first real gold shipping out with him and raiding the coasts of Naggaroth. Although he was very far from squeamish about these things himself, Tyrion found Kargan’s bloodlust somewhat disturbing.

Here was Drielle, a she-elf who prided herself on being every bit as ruthless and tough as her male companions, who wielded a sword in battle with the same skill as they did, and who never refused a bet or a challenge. She was also reputed to be the best navigator in Ulthuan. Tyrion had funded several of her voyages and turned a huge profit on all of them.

There were others cut from the same cloth, spending freely, gambling unwisely, drinking all they could. They were all part of the same social group, all useful to each other. Tyrion had made small fortunes on the back of bits of gossip picked up from one or the other, and made sure to return the favours whenever he could.

These elves were not the powers in their Houses now, but they would be one day, and it did no harm to cultivate them. They could all be useful to him for as long as he was useful to them. In the future they would provide the spine of a very strong power base. One day these people would rule Lothern, and through Lothern the rest of the world.

Of course, they were not without rivals. There were other cliques and factions in the city, many of whom hated his friends or found it necessary to pose as if they did. In some cases, as with young Paladine Stormcastle over there, it was because they belonged to families who were hereditary enemies of the Emeraldsea. Tyrion suspected that under most circumstances he could have liked Paladine, but it looked as if they were doomed to be at each other’s throats by an accident of history or birth. They were rivals in business, for the favours of courtesans and the notice of the Phoenix King. It could be no other way, and there was no sense in regretting it.

Paladine rose from his table and walked over to Tyrion’s accompanied by a couple of his swaggering hangers-on. He had a new pet, Tyrion noticed, a small monkey dressed in the britches, tunic and exaggerated codpiece that the humans liked to wear. It even had a broad-brimmed feathered hat. It was a joke at the expense of the humans, an expression of contempt that Tyrion was not sure was at all wise in this new era. The monkey waddled over and bowed to Tyrion, as it had obviously been trained to do, then it began to scratch its private parts. All of the elves laughed except Tyrion.

‘Prince Tyrion. I had heard you were back.’

‘And if you had not heard, you could see it with your own eyes.’

‘I hear you found the blade Sunfang,’ said Paladine. Tyrion nodded and waited for the inevitable sneer. He did not have long to wait.

‘Your crippled brother has a gift for sorcery and forgery, I have heard. It would not surprise me in the least to learn that the blade you bore was some sort of fake.’

A gang of other young elven blades was closing in. Tyrion did a swift head count. His own group would be outnumbered unless some of the others here came to his aid. Most of them were looking on, waiting to see what happened. There was an atmosphere of tension, of barely controlled violence about to explode. Tyrion shrugged and forgot about his good intentions from earlier. It looked like a brawl was inevitable. That being the case, he thought, he might as well enjoy it.

Tyrion yawned. ‘I have been having some difficulty sleeping of late. I am glad you have come over to bore me. It is very relaxing. And what have you been up to while I was in the jungles of Lustria? Bravely keeping your father’s account books, wielding that razor-sharp pen of yours to good effect, terrorising the clerks in the counting house with the prospect of listening to your jokes.’

Paladine flushed and stepped forward. His monkey shrieked and capered, obviously disturbed by the anger in the voices around him. Out of somewhere a flagon of ale came flying, tumbling towards his head, soaking his clothes. Within seconds a brawl had erupted. Tables were smashed, punches were thrown.

‘No blades, lords and ladies, no blades,’ Garion shouted. Tyrion wondered if anyone would pay the slightest attention.



Standing on top of the moving mountain that was the Black Ark as it ploughed through the waves, Malekith studied the horizon. The sea was dark with ships. Every one of those ships contained troops loyal to him, or as loyal as elves and fickle Chaos worshippers were ever capable of being. It did not matter. They would serve his purposes in the end. He was not going to let anything spoil the mood of triumph this day.

He was returning home after all these years. That was what it felt like. He had dwelled in the cold northern lands for a much greater portion of his millennia-long life than he had spent in Ulthuan, but still it was so. He had brooded over the fate of the island-continent far more than he had over the lands he had seized so long ago.

His first memories were of the blue skies of Naggarythe. He still had vivid recollections of his first horse ride, the sight of dragons moving across an empty sky, the cloud-girt mountains, the emerald seas. He could remember talking with his father in their few quiet moments together when he was young.

Much had changed since then and he had been the one who changed it. By his actions he had sunk part of the ancient land. He now believed his mother had tricked him into that as part of her own secret plans. It was difficult to truly remember. It had all been so long ago.

This enormous sea-going vessel had once been part of a mountain citadel. Mighty magics kept it afloat. Without the power of the ancient sorcery that pulsed all around him, even now it would be on its way to the monster-haunted ocean bottom. It was not a ship. It was an enormous berg of hollowed-out stone, filled with warriors.

The sea seethed with the crude vessels, carrying the army of savages his mother had recruited in the Northern Wastes and bent to her will. Their guttural chanting and bestial bellowing drifted across the waves as they tried to placate their crude daemon gods. Sharks and smaller sea monsters swam in their wakes, devouring the offerings the barbarians made, still living members of their own tribes sent on as messengers to the afterlife they thought they were going to.

The joke was on them. Long ago, when he had been little more than a child, his mother had told him the truth. There was no paradise, no afterlife such as the priests spoke of. There was only the black horror of the realms of Chaos in which daemons devoured the souls of the dead, feasting on them, as they feasted on the strong emotions of the living. His father had hinted confirmation of this, and his father had seen more of the workings of the universe than any living being before or since when he passed unshielded through the Flame.

Malekith himself had caught no glimpses in the hazy, agonising time when he had attempted that feat himself. He had caught sight of the presence of Asuryan and the god had rejected him…That fact still burned as much as the pain of his wounds.

Behind him, emerging from the bowels of the Black Ark, he sensed the chained malevolence of the daemon he had bound to his will. N’Kari still wore the form of an astonishingly beautiful elf maiden, naked, but now forged from steel, tattooed with runes that parodied those on Malekith’s own armour. Normally Malekith would have brooked no mockery, but there was little more he could do to punish the daemon than what he was already doing. Let it have its little joke. In the end, it too would do his will. That was what was important.

Sometimes he let it shift to the form it was most at home in, that of a monstrous four-armed denizen of the deepest hells. At all times, the chains of cold iron and truesilver glittered on its limbs, the jewels on each of the alien bracelets pulsing with the power of the spells that bound the daemon to his service.

It was temporary, Malekith knew that. Not even his spells and that ancient alien artefact could hold the daemon enchained forever. He could feel its evil and its hatred where he stood. It was a palpable force, radiating outwards like heat, curdling the erotic, narcotic clouds of vapours that billowed always around N’Kari’s form.

‘Brooding, Malekith?’ the daemon asked. Its voice was innocent and beautiful and completely at odds with its appearance, but then it could look and sound like anything it wanted. Malekith envied it that. There were times when he thought he would give anything to wear the body he had once possessed, to feel cool air on his skin, not to be entombed in iron. He pushed that weakness aside.

‘Dwelling on the past?’ the daemon asked.

Malekith did not ask how the daemon knew. In some ways it was preternaturally sensitive to the thoughts of others, in other ways completely blind. Also, it would never do to lose sight of the fact that the daemon was not of this world. It had gifts, in some ways like his mother’s.

‘That is my business, daemon.’

‘For the moment, your business is my business,’ said N’Kari. It brandished its chains. ‘You have made this very clear to me.’

‘This does not mean I have to discuss it with you. Do not make me sorry I granted you permission to speak once more.’

‘Who else are you going to discuss it with, Witch King – those idiots out there on their pathetic ships?’

‘I do not require to talk about it with anyone, least of all you, lackey.’

‘Then you are most unusual among your kind. Always they need to talk, to boast, to vaunt their pride. They are worse than humans in their way.’

Malekith was inclined to agree, but he was not about to admit it to this creature. ‘You were thinking about life and death and the gods,’ said N’Kari.

Malekith wondered if the daemon had been reading his mind. He did not think that was possible. His helmet was inscribed with very potent runes to prevent exactly that sort of thing from happening and he had shielded his thoughts for millennia using magic.

No, he thought, the daemon was simply making an obvious insinuation and attempting to unsettle him, and that was not something he was going to allow.

‘That shows no great gift of understanding,’ said Malekith. ‘It is what most elves would do, standing on these heights, and looking at this view.’

‘While engaged in an exercise on this vast scale…’ said N’Kari. ‘It is what you mortals are like.’

‘I am no mortal,’ said Malekith.

‘That remains to be proven,’ said the daemon, allowing some of its malice to creep back into its voice.

‘By you?’ Malekith allowed his contempt to show in his voice. An elf or a human would have quailed.

The daemon merely smiled. ‘My time will come.’

‘If ever it does you will find me ready.’

‘I did this once,’ said N’Kari. The daemon sounded thoughtful. ‘Invaded Ulthuan. In the time before ever your father arose to oppose me.’

Malekith laughed. The sound was iron, cold and biting as a blade. ‘It seems mortals are not the only ones compelled to talk, to boast, to reminisce.’

‘It is a weakness of being bound in this form in this world,’ said N’Kari. ‘Every day I become more like you. I live. I breathe. The realm of my birth becomes an ever fainter memory. But then you understand that too, don’t you? We have some things in common you and I.’

‘I very much doubt that.’

‘You are attempting what I once did. I suspect your results will be much the same.’

‘I will prevail. I do not seek to destroy the world and enslave my people. I am merely reclaiming what is mine by right of birth.’

‘Are you certain of that?’

‘Of what?’

‘That you are Aenarion’s son? Your mother was, to say the least, promiscuous. I lay with her myself many times in many different forms. More than even she is aware of.’

Malekith knew the daemon was merely trying to goad him. He would not let it.

‘The Flame rejected you. It did not reject Aenarion.’

There was nothing Malekith could say to that, so he let it pass. He knew it was pointless debating these things with daemons.

‘Why do you think that was?’

Malekith exercised his will. The bracelets that bound the daemon pulsed with energy. It stood frozen in place, unable to move or speak until he willed it. He returned to contemplating his fleet.

Soon, he thought, he would be home and there would be a reckoning: with this daemon, with the elves of Ulthuan and with their gods.