Sword of Caledor

Chapter SEVENTEEN





In the morning sunlight, Tyrion watched the gathering of heroes. More and more warriors arrived on the tournament grounds, great champions shorn of their retinues, single fighters who had come alone, perhaps following a dream, perhaps merely to test themselves against the best the island-continent could provide.

He stood on the field itself, where today only contestants and representatives of the Everqueen were allowed. Atharis and his retainers watched from the surrounding hillocks along with the followers of all the other champions present. He saw Arhalien of Yvresse turn and bow to his followers before he passed through the arch and onto the tournament field. His retainers cheered him but could go no further.

Tyrion saw proud armoured riders from Ellyrion mounted on their matchless, prancing steeds. He saw a lovely woman warrior from Tiranoc, staring around with fierce wary eyes. There were grim-faced soldiers from Yvresse, and tall, hard-faced elves from the Shadowlands, as harsh and craggy as the land that bore them.

They looked at him as much as he looked at them, and there was a challenge in their stare. They knew instinctively that he too was here to compete and that he would be a rival, and they could tell just from the look of him that he would be a worthy one.

In some glances there was hostility but in most of them was an odd form of comradeship. They were all here for the same reason, and by the nature of the contest, they were set apart from the mass of other elves. It was something that they shared, a kinship of spirit born of rivalry, yet forging a bond. That was the way he felt it at least, and he suspected that for those he saw it would be the same.

He looked at his potential rivals and wondered about them. What were their stories? What sights had they seen on the way here? What drove them to compete? What was it they sought?

He felt like simply going over and asking. He was endlessly curious about these things. He could not do so though, not out of shyness, but because he knew that it would be misconstrued. Perhaps they would see him as only seeking an advantage, as attempting to uncover weaknesses, and perhaps he would be.

There would be time enough to get to know a small fraction of these warriors. There would be drinking bouts and dances and all manner of merry meetings. It was something he could wait for with anticipation, part of the pleasure of being here.

He could tell by the way some of them looked at him that his reputation had preceded him. They had heard of the battles he had fought and the way he had survived an encounter with a Keeper of Secrets while still only a callow youth. They knew he had crossed blades with a monster that had fought against Aenarion himself, and that he was of Aenarion’s blood.

That thought cast a shadow over his happiness. One day the monster would be back and it would come looking for him, and it occurred to him that it would come looking for the new Everqueen as well. Like every Everqueen before her, she was descended from Aenarion’s lost daughter, Yvraine. She too would be a target when N’Kari returned to pursue his infernal vengeance quest.

Tyrion tried telling himself that he might live his entire life without ever encountering the daemon. There was over six thousand years between its last two appearances in history. He could live and die and his descendants unto the tenth generation might do the same, before the daemon reappeared.

He doubted that things would be that way. He had a feeling that he and N’Kari were destined to meet again, that their paths were due to collide during his lifetime and, if that happened, he would need to find some way to banish the daemon forever, not just for his own safety but for the safety of his children and their children beyond them. He needed to find a way if he could. He let his hand rest on Sunfang. Perhaps the great blade held the secret. He prayed that it was so.

Horns announced the coming of the Everqueen. Surrounded by her Maiden Guard, she made her way into the massive stand that had been erected overlooking the tournament field. At this distance it was hard to see anything but a tall, stately golden haired figure, graceful of movement, wealthy of dress, carrying a mystical staff in her hand. There was something about her though, a sense of power, deeply hidden, that commanded attention.

Tyrion was not the only one watching her arrival. Every eye on the field was drawn to the stand and its new occupant. It was understandable. She was after all the reason they were here. He glanced around and saw something odd. Everyone present was looking at the Everqueen with an expression that combined awe, religious reverence and love. He had not realised they all felt quite that way, and then it dawned on him that they probably could not help themselves. What he was seeing was most likely the result of a very powerful spell.

He wished Teclis were here to advise him about this. He was genuinely curious now.



Horns sounded again. This time the sequence of notes was different, a summons to battle, a challenge, a demand for attention.

The herald of the Everqueen took up his position on the great dais in front of the stand. All eyes were upon him now. He spread his arms wide with a flourish. Then he paused, dramatically, in order to focus attention before he launched into his speech.

The herald was a tall elf with silver hair. His features were very fine. He carried himself with great dignity. And yet beneath this, there was something else, a suggestion of the mountebank, of the need to please and the need to be at the centre of attention that was somewhat at odds with his majestic air.

‘Friends, fellow elves, subjects of our beloved Everqueen,’ he said, turning with a flourish to the stand. His voice carried over the murmur of the great crowd. He gave the impression of speaking in a conversational tone, but there was some magic at work that carried his voice to every corner of the field.

‘We are gathered here at the start of the reign of a new Everqueen to select her champion. Unto that champion will fall the duty of guarding our kingdom’s greatest treasure. Into his hands will be placed the life of the Everqueen. He will be called upon to defend her from all threats and all challenges and to protect her from harm, even if it costs his own life. The victor of this great tournament will be participating in a grand tradition that stretches from the earliest days of our realm.’

Tyrion thought the herald very self-satisfied and pleased with the sound of his own voice, but the words resonated anyway. He realised that up till now he had been thinking about this tournament simply from the point of view of his own needs and desires.

He had known about the responsibilities the position of champion entailed but he had never really thought about them and about the place implied in history and culture. Now he was forced to.

If he did win, he would be subordinating his own life to that of the Everqueen. He would be expected to give up his own life to save hers if need be. Was he really up to that challenge?

The answer was fairly simple given his personality. If the duties of champion fell to him, they would be performed to the best of his ability.

He had risked his life before on behalf of the kingdoms and for lesser reasons. He was certain that he was capable of doing so in the service of something much more important.

While he was thinking this, the herald spoke on, invoking the names of famous champions of the past and recounting their deeds and their sacrifices.

Tyrion was stirred, as were the people round about him. There was magic in the air again and he knew that the herald was using it. There was something about the elf’s voice indeed. It was not just a spell, although there was an element of that. It was simply that the way that the elf spoke touched something deep within the soul. It went beyond his choice of words and the beauty of his speaking voice. There was something in Tyrion and in the others present that responded to it on a level deeper than thought.

It was a talent worth possessing, Tyrion thought. To be able to address troops in this manner would be a gift indeed. One of the most important things for a leader was being able to motivate the warriors who followed you and this type of magical speaking would be invaluable for that.

The herald continued, ‘Today, friends, mighty and worthy warriors have come together from every corner of Ulthuan to compete in a contest to find a worthy heir to those mighty champions of the past. By the time this full moon has passed, a new champion will have been selected to guard the peerless treasure of our realm.’

The herald gazed upon the assembled competitors and smiled. ‘Looking out at all of your faces, I can see there only the noblest of intentions…’

That beautiful voice carried no note of irony and yet it was there. Tyrion sensed it.

‘Selflessly you seek to enter the service of our great queen. Selflessly you are putting aside personal ambition in order to take up a duty. It tells me something about the greatness and nobility of the spirit of our people and our kingdom that so many of you have come together here with no other desire than to serve.

‘I can see that all of you are worthy. It saddens me that only one of you will, at the end of the contest, be able to take up the role of champion. However, the elf to whom this great honour falls will know that he has faced and bested worthy opponents indeed. You represent the best of the people, their great spirit, their great desire for self-sacrifice, their great love for their queen. I am proud to stand here before you and tell you what you need to know to participate in this contest.’

The herald was really milking the moment here. And why not? It was the sort that only came once in most elves’ lifetimes. How often was a new Everqueen crowned? How often was a new champion chosen? This might be the only time this contest would take place in Tyrion’s lifetime or the herald’s. The winner in the next few days would be remembered for as long as there were elves in the world.

He realised that this was important to him. Glory was important to him. More than wealth, he craved renown. He wanted to prove himself worthy. The question was – was he willing to pay the price?

‘Today we begin with the tournament. The first round will decide who continues into the next rounds. Today every participant will prove his worthiness with a blade and shield. These are the most basic weapons of the warrior.’

Tyrion thought that the bow was actually the most basic weapon of the warrior, but he could see why the stress would be laid upon using sword and shield. These were the sort of weapon that a bodyguard was much more likely to be called upon to use.

The herald held up a small brooch. It was in the shape of a leaf and the bronze suggested the colours of autumn. ‘Each of you will be issued with a bronze leaf and each of you will be matched against a worthy foe. The winner of the contest will be awarded his opponent’s leaf. He should return it to the heralds and progress to the next round of combat. The winner of that contest will be awarded his foes brooch to return to our watchers and progress to the next round. This will go on until there is only one winner and only one brooch. And it will set the pattern for all of the other contests that will take place. Once the horns sound, you will go from here and collect your brooches and proceed to the fields of trial, where you will be assigned your opponents.’

Everyone seemed light-hearted now and ready to begin and he felt the same way. After all these days of waiting, he was about to step forward into the contest. He found that his heart lifted at the prospect of a fight. Whatever happened, he was determined to enjoy himself today.

Smiling, he walked off towards the trestle tables at which lesser heralds were waiting to distribute the tokens of the contest. He collected his and pinned it to his breast. All the other warriors present were doing the same.



Tyrion entered the roped off area in which the first round of the tournament was to take place. He walked across to the sergeant-at-arms and was issued with a blunted sword, armour and a shield. He swiftly donned the armour. It was heavier than the very fine mail that he was used to, but it was adequate and he did not doubt for a moment that it was capable of resisting the blunted edge of the weapon he was carrying.

Of course, that did not mean that injury was impossible. The weight of a blade swung in combat practice could still break an arm or a rib. It was not unknown for elves to be killed during such trials. He knew that he would need to be cautious, because any sort of broken bone would disbar him from the championship and immediately end all hopes of winning.

Next he tried the blade and found it reasonably well-balanced. It did not harmonise with his movements with the supernatural grace of Sunfang. It was not even as close to being as good as the sword he’d carried most of his life, which had been a gift from Korhien. But it would do. Given a few moments he could habituate himself to its use. The shield was the fairly large kind commonly used by infantry. He strapped it on to his left arm. He had worn this kind of shield many times over the course of many battles. It felt like donning an old familiar pair of boots.

Once all of these preparations were completed he began running through a few practice exercises of the kind he had performed almost every day of his life. As he did so he was aware that he was being watched by a number of the warriors around him.

A few of them made favourable comments on his technique, a few of them looked jealous, most of them simply watched as if hoping to gain some advantage from studying their rival. He considered pretending to be slower and clumsier than he was but decided against it. He knew that some of his foes would be intimidated by witnessing his performance and that would give him an advantage of a different sort.

The sun had risen quite high in the sky before the last competitor had given his name to the heralds and been announced. At last, though, everyone was armed and equipped for the first stage of the great contest. An atmosphere of excitement began to palpably form over the assembled host of warriors.

Thousands of spectators had gathered on the hillsides surrounding the competition glade; their presence as much as the presence of the Everqueen gave the tournament an excitement all of its own. It was very different from the atmosphere that he had experienced before a battle. Then the only audience consisted of your comrades and your enemies and the former were too concerned with their own survival to pay much attention, while the latter were only interested in killing you.

The onlookers gave this contest a very different tone. They made it special in a very different way. This audience was interested in every competitor and were here as much to be entertained as to witness the outcome of the tournament for the favour of the Everqueen.

Tyrion was very aware that eyes were on him. He knew that he was a striking figure and easy to pick out from the crowd of other contestants, and he had absolutely no doubt that his own name would be known among those who had come to watch.

This contest was open to all. There was no selection process other than volunteering. The role of the Everqueen’s champion was one that many legends were attached to. Commoners and freeholders had held it, at least according to song and story.

Tyrion wondered about that. In practice the sort of weapons and gear that a champion was required to be capable with required gold and lots of it, and the qualifications concerning poetry, music, dance and courtliness were ones that the wealthy would have a much greater chance of acquiring than the less well off.

Looking around, he could see that there were many dreamers here today. Some of them perhaps believed they had a chance at being the hero of a storyteller’s tale. Others were most likely only here because they wanted to take part, to have a place in a legendary elven festival. Long-lived as elves were, there would not be that many opportunities to do so for anyone.

The horns sounded again to announce the contest had begun. At this stage there would be multiple competitions at once. There were too many involved to allow the luxury of single combats taking place one at a time before the crowd. Heralds paired competitors off against each other.

Tyrion was drawn against some peasant swordsman from Chrace. He made short work of the contest, beating his first opponent in the initial swaggering of blades. After the combat was over, he bowed to his beaten foe and accepted the beautifully worked copper brooch, then walked around to watch the other competitors. The losers went out to swell the crowd.

The second round took place between those who still wore copper leaves. Tyrion found this just as easy as the first round and took his opponent’s brooch from him at the conclusion of the fight.

As the day wore on he acquired more and more brooches. By late afternoon, the contest was down to the last four. Tyrion found himself facing against Arhalien. It was something that had to occur sooner or later and he welcomed it.

The Yvressian lord was standing at the barrier chatting with his retainers. A herald came forward to introduce them and witness the fight. Arhalien looked just as interested in Tyrion as Tyrion was in him. His manner was aloof but polite and not unfriendly. He was the very model of a warrior lord.

‘Prince Tyrion. I have heard a lot about your prowess with a blade,’ he said.

‘Poets everywhere sing of your skill,’ said Tyrion determined not to be outdone in politeness.

‘I have heard you are but recently returned from Lustria, where you have added another glittering chapter to the tale of your deeds. Rumour has it that you have found the sword of Aenarion.’

‘That is the case.’

‘It is a pity that you are not allowed to use it in the tournament,’ said one of Arhalien’s retainers with a sneer. Arhalien looked at him as if appalled by his bad breeding.

‘I do not need a blade like Sunfang for a tournament like this,’ said Tyrion.

‘The very fact that Prince Tyrion is standing here is testimony to his skill,’ said Arhalien with a warning look at his follower. ‘Boriane meant no disrespect,’ he added to Tyrion.

‘I am sure of that,’ said Tyrion.

‘I must say I am looking forward to this contest,’ said Arhalien. ‘It will be fine sport to encounter so worthy an opponent.’

‘Your reputation as a duellist precedes you,’ said Boriane. The sneer was better hidden this time, but it was still there. Beyond Lothern, duelling to the death was a thing that was very much frowned upon. It was regarded as more of a tool of assassination than a contest of honour.

Tyrion could understand why. It was a formalised way of removing political enemies that resulted in the fewest comebacks against its practitioners. On Lord Emeraldsea’s instructions he had provoked fights with almost a score of political enemies. He himself had been challenged dozens of times. He enjoyed the fighting, the killing and the victories, but he did not like being a political instrument. He was not sure why. He had been a soldier often enough and had killed under orders in that context. What had made it so different when he duelled?

The answer was simple. As a soldier he was killing the enemies of the realm. As a duellist he had killed other elves who were citizens of Ulthuan and subjects of the Phoenix King and Everqueen.

‘You look thoughtful, Prince Tyrion,’ Arhalien said.

‘I was remembering the last duel I fought,’ said Tyrion.

‘Now is a time to fight, not reminisce,’ said the herald. ‘Are you both ready to begin?’

‘Yes,’ said Arhalien. Tyrion nodded. Tyrion raised his blade in salute to Arhalien. His opponent did the same then closed his eyes in a brief prayer to the gods.

The fight was not a long one. Prince Arhalien was indeed very good with a sword, but Tyrion was better. Arhalien did not seem to take his defeat badly.

‘I shall just have to do better with my lance,’ he said. Tyrion found that he rather admired the lord of Yvresse. He felt sure the Everqueen would not find a better champion.

‘I look forward to meeting you again,’ said Tyrion.

‘And I you. We will have the opportunity soon,’ said Arhalien. ‘Our position in this contest gives us both the honour of sitting at the Everqueen’s table this evening.’



It was the last fight of the opening day. The sun was low in the sky. All eyes in the huge crowd were focused on Tyrion and Prince Perian. All of them were expectant. They knew two masters of the blade were fighting here.

After the first passage of blades, Tyrion knew Prince Perian was the best swordsman he had faced since he sparred with Prince Iltharis. The elf had a natural gift for the blade and many centuries of practice. He knew how to use the heavy shield of the elven warrior. He was fast and he was very strong and he had a great deal of experience on the field of battle.

Looking at his proud face, Tyrion wondered whether he really should be fighting against this elf. Prince Perian would make a much better champion for the Everqueen. He was a believer. He was dedicated to the woman and he truly, truly wanted to be her champion.

His heart was in it in a way that Tyrion’s was not. It might be best for all concerned just to let him win. He could return home having done his duty as far as his family was concerned. No one except himself would ever know what had happened.

It would take a warrior as skilled as Iltharis, and one who knew him as well as Korhien, to know exactly what he had done and even they could never be sure. So much of combat was a matter of luck when it got to this level of skill. The slightest misjudgement, the slightest lapse of concentration could see the contest go either way.

For a moment he considered it. Then he heard the crowd chant his name and sensed the adulation of the women. Part of him wanted to win, and worse than that, part of him was not sure that he could. Prince Perian was a great swordsman. They really were in the same class when it came to the use of their weapons. Prince Perian might even be better. Perhaps his sneering look was justified.

Something in Tyrion resisted that notion with every fibre of its being. He was not prepared to let anyone beat him while there was still breath in his body. If he was going to lose this fight then he would need to be defeated fair and square. His opponent would win because he was the better warrior, not for any other reason.

The crowd roared as Tyrion went on to the offensive. He smashed aside Prince Perian’s shield with his own, stepped inside his guard and stabbed. Prince Perian parried desperately, padding backwards, obviously taken off guard by the change of pace and tactics.

Tyrion pressed home his advantage, sensing that he was never going to get a better opportunity to go in for the kill. He closed the distance, striking out at Prince Perian’s shoulder, numbing a nerve and causing the blade to drop from his hand.

It was over. Tyrion had won. He was the victor on the first day of the great tournament. The crowd chanted his name. It was more intoxicating than wine.

As he was taking the applause the herald beckoned him over. ‘Join the other contestants. The winners on today’s field are to be presented to the Everqueen.’



The Everqueen and her entourage entered the field. The face of every elf present changed immediately, taking on a glow of love and worship. They stared as if a goddess had just manifested herself in their midst.

Alarielle was beautiful, Tyrion did not deny that for a moment – she was tall, fair and possessed the most striking green eyes that he had ever seen – but he could see nothing to justify the adoration in which she basked. Powerful magic indeed was at work here. Was he the only one unaffected by it?

Even as the thought crossed his mind, their gazes met. A shock passed between them. She turned and looked away first. She seemed to have picked his face out of the entire crowd, possibly because it was the only one not wearing an expression of undying love, he thought sourly.

One by one, all of the final candidates for champion stepped forward to be introduced to her. She accepted their greetings graciously and as if it was her due. Tyrion found himself resenting this more and more as the ritual progressed. He tried to control his emotions, a thing he was normally very good at.

He struggled to make his expression bland and place a smile upon his lips but it felt unnatural and stilted. Whatever sorcery was being worked on the crowd was having the opposite effect on him.

He was not used to feeling such emotions. He was normally amiable. It was not because he was self-conscious around women that he felt this way either; there were few elf males who were less so. He greatly enjoyed female company. There was magic at work, he felt sure of that. And that in itself was unusual, for he was normally the least sensitive of elves as far as magic was concerned.

As she came ever closer, he began to get some idea of what he thought might be happening. There was an aura about Alarielle and it did seem to command love and respect. He suspected that whatever sorcery was present affected him differently. For some reason, something in him resisted it, and perhaps this anger was part of that process of resistance.

Suddenly they were face to face. Tyrion was a head taller and he bowed to her, not fully and formally as was expected but in the social manner in which one greeted an equal or near equal. He could hear gasps of outrage from the crowd and he suspected that if he was not careful he might get lynched.

The Everqueen did not seem to mind though. She seemed more intrigued than outraged, although that might simply have been good manners and self-control. Members of the Maiden Guard glared at him. They looked as if they would like to knock him to his knees with the butts of their spears. That was not something that you could do to a freeborn elf though. The Everqueen placed her hand on the arm of the captain of the guard to emphasise it, he thought.

A chamberlain leaned forward between them, stared coldly at Tyrion then made the formal introduction as politely as ritual demanded.

‘So you are the Prince Tyrion we have heard so much about,’ said the Everqueen. Her voice was low and pleasant but it irritated Tyrion, as did her condescending manner.

‘I am afraid I do not know what you have heard about me, your serenity,’ he said.

‘I confess I was expecting someone a little more polished,’ she said with a trace of acid in her voice.

‘I am sorry to disappoint,’ he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Prince Perian smirking and he realised that he was not doing his own chances of becoming champion any good here and that was giving his rivals cause for amusement.

He liked that even less. He was getting off to a bad start. Perhaps he was sabotaging his own chances of winning because he did not want the prize.

Already the Everqueen was moving along the line, and he noticed that Prince Perian was following through the ritual with polished aplomb. He noticed also that the captain of the Everqueen’s guard was staring at him coldly as if memorising his face.

He suspected that he had made an enemy there by his disrespect for her mistress. He smiled cheerfully at her in a way that he could not have managed with Alarielle and which was, as he knew, very provoking under the circumstances. The captain turned her head away quickly as if to hide her anger, but he saw that there was a red flush on her cheeks.

Very good, Tyrion thought to himself, very suave. He did not think he could have done worse in this situation if he had tried. In fact, he suspected that he would probably have done better. He told himself that he did not care, that he did not want to be part of this herd of worshippers, that he was quite happy that he was immune to whatever magic surrounded the Everqueen. He suspected however that he was not really immune, but rather it simply affected him differently.

Some of his fellow candidates looked as if they wanted to challenge him to a duel there and then. Some of them looked satisfied that a potential rival had eliminated himself from the competition so early, and some of them simply looked confused as if they could not understand his behaviour. They looked at him pityingly and that made him even angrier.

Tyrion knew that he needed to get a grip on himself. If he was going to be eliminated from this competition he wanted it to be because he was beaten by his opponents, not because he had beaten himself.

He resolved himself to do better. If he was going to lose here, he was going to lose openly and fairly after he had done his best. There were still tournaments to be entered and fights to be won and he had no intention of losing any of those, even if he could win nothing else. This was his chance to prove that he was among the best warriors in elvendom, if not the best.

Tomorrow he would find out.