Sword of Caledor

Chapter SIXTEEN





Tyrion smelled Avelorn before he saw it. Even over the salty tang of the Inner Sea, he caught the scent of pine and a hint of the fresh air of the forest that lay just over the horizon. And there was something else in the air, some kind of magic, faint yet tangible, that set his skin to tingling and made him feel more alive than he had in a very long time.

Soon, green was visible right across the horizon. Enormous trees overhung the water, packed so densely that it was difficult to see what was beneath their eaves. It was a forest, ancient and primordial, of the sort that had existed when the world was young, before the coming of Chaos changed everything. Perhaps some of those trees over there had existed during that dark time. It was possible that he was looking upon a thing that had existed when Aenarion was young.

The ship sailed on, leaving white foam in its wake. Gulls circled overhead. Atharis came up beside Tyrion and said, ‘We shall be there soon. I hope you’re prepared for your first look at the legendary Everqueen.’

‘I’m sure she will be beautiful,’ said Tyrion sardonically. ‘Everybody tells me this.’

‘Why do you sound so sour about it? Anybody would think that you did not want to be her champion.’

‘Perhaps I just want to be different. Perhaps I just want to make up my mind for myself, not believe what everybody tells me.’

‘You’re starting to sound like your brother,’ said Atharis.

‘I am sorry if that disturbs you. It’s just that everybody speaks about the Everqueen in the same tone of voice. Everyone who has ever met her sounds like they worship her except Prince Iltharis.’

‘Yes, he only ever sounds like he worships himself.’

Tyrion laughed at that. ‘You know him too well.’

‘He was one of the last people to see the old Everqueen alive,’ said Atharis. ‘She probably wasn’t very happy that one of the last faces she ever looked on was not one of her devotees.’

‘I think even he was disturbed by that event.’

‘You talked to him about it, did you?’

Tyrion nodded. ‘It was the most upset I have ever seen him.’

‘You’re probably the only person who has ever seen him upset then,’ said Atharis. ‘He is the most cold-blooded elf I have ever met.’

‘You don’t like him?’

‘I never said that,’ Atharis said. ‘He is amusing enough in his own way and I don’t suppose he’s any more self-centred than most of us. I just don’t think he liked me all that much.’

‘I don’t think he likes anybody all that much.’

‘He seems to like you well enough. Probably because you are one of the few people that he can spar with and still get a bit of exercise.’

In the distance a bay was visible, the mouth of a river merging into the sea. The forest around the estuary had been cleared a little and there was what passed for a port in this part of the world. ‘It looks like we have arrived,’ said Atharis.

Tyrion could see that there was a large number of ships in the harbour, a much greater number than there really ought to have been in a port this small. A large number of people had sailed here for the tournament, judging by the amount of ships that he could see riding at anchor.

‘We shall need to head on upriver to find the tournament grounds,’ said Atharis.

‘It looks like we won’t be the only ones,’ said Tyrion.

‘We’ll be ready to go soon,’ said Atharis.

‘Good,’ Tyrion replied. ‘We don’t have much light left.’

It had taken most of the day for his party to unload their horses and gear from the ship. They had to go as close as possible to the shore and then lower the horses into the water with winches and cranes, which was always a tricky proposition at the best of times.

While they were doing, this Tyrion waded ashore and explored his surroundings. The small village was right by the waterside. It had no walls and was built from logs with wattle and daub roofs. It looked very primitive for elven building but it somehow fitted in with the landscape. Perhaps this was how elves lived in ancient times. This was one of the few permanent settlements to be found on the coast. Most of the elves that dwelled within Avelorn were nomadic or lived deep in the woods.

‘You seem unusually thoughtful,’ said Atharis.

‘This place is making me so. It’s all very different from what I imagined.’

It all seemed stranger and older and wilder than any place he had ever been. The trees were hoary and ancient. Panthers stalked beneath the canopies of leaves. Somewhere off in the distance he heard the growl of an even larger predator, a manticore or a griffon perhaps. This would be a great land for hunting, he thought. It would be something to come here with a bow and some trusty companions and live off the land.

‘Mount up,’ said Atharis. ‘We have a long way to go.’

‘The sooner we start the better then,’ Tyrion said. At the head of a force of fifty warriors and an equal number of retainers, he took the trail into the heart of ancient Avelorn. He could tell from the tracks that they were not the first to take this route in recent times. The thought was to occur to him more than once in the days of riding ahead.



In the distance, Tyrion could just make out singing and the sounds of flutes, lutes and other traditional elven musical instruments ringing out through the forest. The sounds drifted on the wind, carrying the sad, sweet music of the elves to his ears.

Tyrion’s company rode down into a clearing crowded with musicians and archers and groups of elves that were cooking, singing and dancing. It was as if a city had suddenly sprung into being under the eaves of the trees. The ancient woods were crowded with people. There were elves everywhere, under the boughs of the great oaks.

There were hundreds of tents visible and quite possibly thousands more hidden just out of sight among the trees and dells. They ranged from mighty pavilions, large enough to house companies of bowmen, to small lean-tos set up by poor elves with nowhere else to stay during this great festival.

The sound of musical instruments filled the air. A hundred songs mingled into one vast chorus. Thousands of voices sang the praises of the woods and the sun and the most beautiful queen who had ever lived.

There was an underlying note of sadness to the song that told the listener that the singers mourned the passing of someone who had been deeply loved, even as they celebrated the ascension of her cherished daughter.

Tyrion reined in his horse and paused to listen, drinking in the sound, surprisingly touched by what he was hearing. The rest of his party paused to listen as well, moved as much as he was.

As they stood there, a group of female elves armed with bows and dressed in leather armour came towards them. These were warriors of the Maiden Guard. They inspected Tyrion’s party closely and their leader, a tall, stately beautiful elf said, ‘You are here for the tournament?’

‘Yes,’ Tyrion said. ‘I am Prince Tyrion and I have come from Lothern to take part in the competition.’

‘You’re very welcome here, Prince Tyrion,’ the elf maiden said. ‘We shall guide you to your campsite. You will want to be near the rest of the competitors.’

The Maiden Guard showed them to a place overlooking a stream. It was on a slight rise that gave them a good view of the vast open field on which the tournament would take place. Tyrion could see that there were many beautiful pavilions scattered around the area. Outside each of them stood a tall proud banner which told of the presence of a champion within.

Some of these little clusters of tents were the size of small villages. Some of those champions had a much larger retinue than he did. He wondered why they had brought small armies with them. Did they expect to be fighting a war for the favour of the Everqueen? Or was it all simply part of the great game of making a good impression, not just upon the new queen, but upon all rivals present?

He did not know and he did not really care. His own ego was not daunted by their presence, nor did he compare the size of his own retinue to those of his potential rivals and feel in the slightest intimidated.

He did however realise that the game had begun the moment he arrived, if not before. All of these things were moves on the board. He realised that his aunt had carefully calculated the size of his own retinue to be large enough to make an impression, but not so large as to seem ostentatious.

His followers went about their work under Atharis’s careful eye. They were soon erecting his pavilion. Tyrion joined in. He always enjoyed using his hands and there was something about setting up these temporary structures that appealed to him. He helped drive the central post of his great silken tent into the dirt and then he aided his fellows to throw the fabric shell into place, pull the hawsers tight and then drive in the pegs. He could see that some of the watching nobles were appalled to observe him performing manual labour and rushed off to tell their friends the gossip. He did not care.

When his own small village of tents was in place, he took the Emeraldsea banner himself and drove it into the ground outside his pavilion, like an explorer claiming a new land in the name of the Phoenix King.

He was not sure this was entirely appropriate behaviour or an entirely appropriate image to have in mind as he did it, but it suited his mood and he was pleased to see the green ship on a gold background flutter in the breeze before him.

He felt like he had staked a claim to his own place in this vast temporary city.

‘Who is that?’ Tyrion asked Atharis as they sat together on the slope outside his tent.

He pointed towards a tall, noble-looking elf, garbed in glittering armour and riding upon a most impressive steed. The warrior was accompanied by a group of knights almost as stern looking and impressive as himself. He waved in a friendly fashion as he passed.

‘I believe that is Arhalien of Yvresse, judging by the device on his shield. He is widely regarded as the most likely winner of this tournament.’

‘Why?’ Tyrion asked.

‘He is a great warrior. He has slain hundreds of dark elves. He has never lost a tournament with lances. He rides like he is from Ellyrion and fights like a Shadow Warrior. He is brave, noble, of ancient lineage, a noted poet, a fine dancer, a bold war-leader. He is everything a hero should be – sickeningly dull.’

‘You sound as if you have studied him.’

‘I have been forced to learn the life stories of all of your likely opponents. Your grandfather was a believer in thorough preparation. Your aunt is keeping that proud family tradition alive.’

‘He knew this day would come?’

‘Of course he did. The old Everqueen had to die sometime and it was a fair bet that her champion would not wish to serve her successor. Your grandfather had plans for all contingencies and your aunt is his daughter. Although I must admit that neither of them expected this to happen so soon. They would not have allowed you to go gadding around the world with your brother otherwise.’

‘Is he a better warrior than I am?’ Tyrion asked.

‘I don’t know. I doubt anyone except Prince Iltharis is better with a sword than you are, but if anyone is it will be Arhalien, or perhaps Prince Perian of Valaste. In addition, Arhalien has had far more practice with a lance than you have, and far more experience of tournament fighting. It is something of a sport where he comes from.’

‘That is not real fighting,’ said Tyrion.

‘Perhaps not,’ said Atharis, ‘but it is the sort of fighting that will be going on here. And don’t underestimate how vicious these contests can be. Competitors have died before now and not always by accident.’

‘You don’t think that is possible here? In the tournament to decide who will be the Everqueen’s champion? That would make a mockery of everything the tournament stands for.’

‘My dear Tyrion, there are times when I wonder whether you are really an elf. The forms will, of course, be observed, but there is a great deal of power and prestige at stake here, and you know how elves can be over those. This is a deadly serious matter. Deadly serious. I suggest you treat it as such.’

‘I will bear that in mind.’

‘We have found a poet to compose verses for you. You will merely need to memorise the couplets he writes and recite them.’

‘I will not do that,’ said Tyrion. ‘I am here to compete on my own merits.’

‘I have never known you to court failure. You are no poet, my friend, whatever else you might be. Many of those warriors over there are almost as adept with a pen as they are with a blade. Those who are not will have their own pet minstrels to compose verses for them. Why should you be any different?’

‘Because I am different. I will win this in my own way or not at all.’

‘It may well prove to be the latter.’

‘If that is the case, let it be so.’

‘You do not seem at all determined to win.’

‘Let us rather say that I am not determined to win at any cost.’

‘Then you start at a grave disadvantage.’

‘So be it. You mentioned Prince Perian of Valaste as being good with a sword.’

‘He is. Very good indeed. He fancies himself a bit of a wit too. A thoroughly unpleasant character if you ask me.’

‘I do ask you.’

‘He’s vain, arrogant, spoiled–’

‘A typical elven noble then…’

‘Wait until you meet him. He is a veritable paragon of elven flaws. If I wanted to pick one elf to exemplify all that is bad in our people, it would be him.’

‘I am starting to suspect you don’t like him.’

‘And to think people call you slow of mind. Such perceptiveness, Prince Tyrion…’

‘Most people assume that no one so beautiful could be so clever,’ said Tyrion.

‘I see you are ramping up your egotism to compete with Prince Perian,’ said Atharis. ‘A bold strategy.’

‘I am going to have to, aren’t I? It’s going to be like rutting deer competing to see who leads the herd, isn’t it?’

‘Not the metaphor I would have chosen, but yes. We really should get our tame poet working on your verses.’

‘Is there anyone else I should know about?’ Tyrion asked.

‘At least a dozen, if you can stand being bored with the details. And I am sure there will be those I have missed. There’s always some dark horse who enters these tournaments.’

‘You’d better get started then…’



Tyrion and Atharis sat inside his tent, lounging on pillows and sleeping mats and drinking fine old wine from filigreed silver goblets. Tyrion could smell food being cooked and hear his bodyguard sitting around gossiping outside. They had spent most of the afternoon discussing Tyrion’s potential opponents. There were no shortage of them.

‘Well, we are here,’ said Atharis, raising his goblet in a toast.

‘Yes. Our epic quest has been accomplished,’ said Tyrion. ‘After many hardships we have finally reached our goal. I wonder how we managed to survive days of riding through these deadly forests. I think I saw some particularly savage-looking sheep at one point that filled my heart with dread.’

‘There is no need to sound so satirical, my prince. We are a long way from civilisation now.’

‘How will we endure life among these rustics? Missing Lothern already, Atharis?’

‘I would not speak too loudly about the rustic charms of our present neighbourhood. Those Maiden Guard look as if they might carve you up for it. So do many of the yokels.’

Tyrion wondered whether his friend really felt that way, or whether he just felt out of his depth away from the city he knew and loved, and surrounded by the great woods and their inhabitants.

‘This is a lovely place,’ Tyrion said.

‘It might be lovelier if it were not so crowded. I swear there are more people here than in the streets of the Foreigners’ Quarter.’

‘There are certainly more elves. So this is where our people have been hiding all this time. I was wondering.’

‘This is probably the largest gathering these woods have seen in centuries. Warriors have come here from all over Ulthuan for the tournament. There are probably many still here from the coronation. They just can’t be bothered to set off home yet. The lazy bastards.’

‘I can understand that. There is something in the air here that encourages lingering.’

‘I trust you, too, are not going to go all rustic on us? I think that would be just too much.’

‘I meant it literally. I think there is some magic in the air here that clouds people’s minds. Can’t you feel it? There is a pulse of tranquillity about us.’

‘I thought that was just all the dreamsmoke in the air. I wonder where I might get some. It may make our stay here more endurable.’

‘I shall leave you in charge of that. I am going to take a look around.’

‘Don’t get lost, and try not to fall in with any of the local enchantresses. You may find that you never want to leave.’

‘I don’t think there is much danger of that,’ Tyrion said, rising to his feet and striding towards the doorway.

‘If you find any dreamsmoke vendors, bring me back some,’ said Atharis.

‘Find your own,’ said Tyrion.



Tyrion wandered through the vast city of tents, feeling very much a stranger. In some ways it reminded him of the jungles of Lustria. All around were trees, some of the gigantic ancient things thousands of years old.

It did not feel as close or threatening as the jungle had and there were no poisonous snakes or biting insects that he could detect. Instead there were lots of elves. They had come from every corner of Ulthuan to attend the court of the Everqueen.

He wondered how many of these people danced constant attendance on the Everqueen and how many of them were here for the tournament.

As always, people stared at him. He was used to that and he paid it no more mind than he would have in the streets of Lothern. He rather enjoyed it as a matter of fact, particularly when the onlookers were women. He smiled at anyone who caught his eye and did his best to look amiable.

Teclis would hate this place. His brother did not like being the centre of attention or being surrounded by crowds of people. He would doubtless have something sarcastic to say about all of these happy, thoughtless revellers. He wondered how much of what he was seeing was the product of magic. Teclis would’ve known, of course. He lacked his brother’s sensitivity to the flows of the winds of magic.

Even he suspected that some spell was at work here. The people look too happy, too energetic, too thrilled, even for elves in the mood for merrymaking. An atmosphere of almost complacent contentment hovered over this place. Every single person that he saw really wanted to be here and was really happy with the fact that they were. He could not think of any other place he had ever been in his life where that was true. Over the city of Lothern, for all its thrilling commercial energy, a certain melancholy brooded, shadowing even the happiest festival days.

This place reminded him, in an odd elliptic sort of way, of the atmosphere in the Shrine of Asuryan. There was the same sense of some ancient power touching the world. A girl danced by, flowers in her hair and a smile upon her lips. She blew him a kiss as she passed and, smiling, he answered in kind. She skipped back over to him and looked at him closely, examining him frankly and with considerable appreciation. He looked back at her in the same way, unembarrassed. He had heard tales of the way people behaved at the court of the Everqueen and he was determined to fit in as well here as he did everywhere else.

‘You’re here for the tournament?’ The girl asked.

‘I am indeed,’ Tyrion replied.

‘You hope to become her champion?’

‘I am unsure about that,’ he replied.

She laughed. The sound was like the tinkling of silver bells. ‘You’re unsure? How is that possible?’

‘It is a very long story,’ Tyrion said.

‘We are elves. If we do not have time for long stories, who does? My name is Lyla’

‘Mine is Tyrion.’

‘Like the hero of the Shrine of Asuryan?’

‘Exactly the same.’

‘I had heard he was as good looking as you.’

‘That is quite possible.’

‘You are he, are you not?’

‘I was at the Shrine when it was attacked. I do not think I was all that heroic. I was hiding in it at the time the daemon came.’

‘Do you have a twin brother who is a great sorcerer?’

‘I have a twin who is studying at Hoeth. Although I am not sure he is all that great a sorcerer. He would probably tell you he was.’

‘Let us drink wine. I am curious about you now.’

‘Lead on,’ said Tyrion. Ten minutes later they were naked in her tent. There was something to be said for the festival atmosphere of this place, he thought.



Tyrion took leave of Lyla and continued on his way.

As he walked through the cool shadows of Avelorn, Tyrion studied the people around him in a more leisurely fashion. This was a place utterly unlike Lothern. It moved to a different rhythm. Its people had a different attitude to time. They seemed more relaxed.

He watched a circle of elves gathered round a poet declaiming the ancient epic of Caledor the Conqueror. They knew the words, mouthing them silently as the poet spoke.

Tyrion watched them watching the poet. He knew the work and knew the reciter had been about his business for hours and most likely would still be speaking at sunset. These people had the time and the interest to do this, to watch the performance while other elves, selected by lot or from the family retainers, brought them food and wine. It was the sort of reading that you only saw in abbreviated form among the busy money-making elves of Lothern. It was like stepping back into the past, into the golden age of the first Everqueen, and he knew it was deliberately so.

He looked for notes of falseness and because he was looking, he found some. Here and there, some of the audience were asleep. Others paid no attention and inspected their nails, but this had probably been so during the golden age as well. Perhaps this was part of a different golden age, but a golden age nonetheless. These elves were keeping the old ways alive. They saw themselves as guardians of a certain sort of elfness, and he did not doubt that they were correct to do so.

Lothern was the future, if the elves were to have a future. It was commercial, home of an outward looking, sophisticated, mercantile Phoenix King. It was a city of trade, a hybrid cosmopolitan place where the elves mingled with other peoples and learned from them and adapted to the new and altered world.

In Avelorn, the elves were behaving as they had before the age of Aenarion. It was beautiful and moving and rather sad. Sad because all of this took an effort to maintain and it was dying away. It was an enclave frozen in amber.

No, he told himself. That was not fair. This place still lived. It was the beating heart of asur society. It was where artists and poets and dancers came, to compete, to find an appreciative audience, to seek fame and a certain kind of glory. It was not the sort of glory that he himself was interested in, but he could understand why some elves were.

He moved into another glade. Elves in green raiment practised archery, drawing and firing at targets hundreds of paces away. These were not competitors in the tournament he realised. These were just ordinary citizens of Avelorn, training with their weapons as was their right and duty. The practice made them the finest archers in the world, and the backbone of the elven citizen-armies.

He inspected them, as a general might inspect his troops. Each of them was an elf in his or her prime. All of them must have handled bows for decades, if not centuries. All of them were hale and hearty and would remain so for hundreds of years.

No other troops would or could have their skill or their discipline or their experience. Simply by virtue of still being alive for so long, they would have fought in dozens of skirmishes and battles. They would have survived encounters with numerous foes.

Like the poets he had just witnessed, they too were part of an older Ulthuan, one that dated from the age of Morvael, of the first great citizen-soldier levies. They were part of the culture. They too moved to a different beat than the elves of Lothern.

It came to Tyrion that elves like these could be found all over the island-continent. In aggregate, they must far outnumber the elves of Lothern although they had no single town or city that was even a fraction of the size of the city-state. Probably they were much more representative of the people as a whole. And they looked at least as much to the Everqueen as to the Phoenix King for leadership.

Perhaps for the first time in his life, in this place, he started to get a sense of what his own people were like, all of the folk beyond the city in which he lived and the mountains he had called home from his earliest youth.

For these people here, the folk of Lothern were something new and strange. The people here were the ones who represented the mainstream of life. Looking at them, he saw the majority of the elves as they wanted to see themselves and he realised that he was not at all like them.

He passed on, entering a vast clearing in the forest filled with silk pavilions and corrals for proud elven steeds. The symbol of the Everqueen was on everything and he realised that this must be the place in which she currently dwelled. Maiden Guards strolled everywhere, but no one looked at him suspiciously. It was inconceivable that anyone would want to harm the ruler of Avelorn.

Magic shimmered in the air, the sort of powerful conspicuous magic his brother could work. Beneath it he sensed the presence of another type of magic. The air was thick with it, a constant stream of something living, beneficial, potent. He remembered again the atmosphere of the Shrine of Asuryan, and the feeling here was of the same kind, although not produced by the same being.

In Asuryan’s Shrine the being had been of fire, powerful, destructive, mercurial, somewhat akin to Chaos. Here, whatever was present was slower, more placid, enduring, fertile. It was a spirit of earth and forest, and its locus of power was in this place. Or perhaps in the person of the Everqueen.

A thought struck him. Perhaps Lothern was a place of water. If the old magical schemata of the elemental universe was to be believed, then there must be a place of air as well. He wondered where that could be, and it struck him that perhaps the place was in the north, a place of cold and storm winds, perhaps where Malekith was.

He amused himself with such idle fantasies as he passed through the shadow of pavilions and onto the grounds where scores of elven artisans were at work creating the tournament fields.

A pulse of excitement started to beat in him. There was going to be a great contest here and he was going to take part in it. It was a ritual that had been enacted only a dozen times during the course of history, and it was one that had a significance that was embedded deeply in the nature of his people.

He understood that perhaps he was seeing things at an unusual time, during a change in reigns. The old queen was dead. The new queen was just that – new. The tone of her reign had yet to be set. Her likes and dislikes were as yet unknown. There were those who had known her as a child, and who thought they knew her as a woman, but they could not know what she was going to be like as the Everqueen. She was a butterfly newly emerged from that particular chrysalis and she might be changed as utterly as her relationships with those around her were going to be.

If he won the tournament he really would have a chance to influence the tone of this new age. He would have his chance to be part of her court, to sway her choices. It was not the sort of power he wanted, or the sort of role he craved. He was a warrior, not a courtier.

And yet, he had to admit to himself, despite his reluctance to do so, there was something here that appealed to him. This felt like the setting of one of those tales of heroism and chivalry he had so loved as a child. It was glamorous and full of intrigue. It was beautiful. There was pageantry and magic. He could picture himself as a knight at the court of the fairest of elf queens. It was the sort of role he had delighted in imagining as a boy. It still had its appeal even now, although he could see the folly of it.

In spite of all his reservations, like all those others, he was happy to be here.