The figure whirled and ducked under the halberd aimed for his
throat, and with an almost casual backhand swipe, the would-be killer was cut cleanly in
two by the figure’s blade. Blood fountained from the blow and washed over the
warrior, it ran in rivulets down his golden armour like water, not clinging to the
ornately inscribed metal. His name was Tyrion, prince of the realm of Ulthuan,
Protector of the Everqueen and general of the High Elf warhost that currently battled
around him. The assault had begun at daybreak; the armies of their twisted brethren,
the Dark Elves, had spilled across the once peaceful fields like a black flood, intent on
killing all that stood in it’s way. The valiant Ulthuane had met them head on
in a desperate defence of their home lands, and now it looked as though was at hand; the
High Elves had broken the lines of the Naggarothi and were punching through their ranks
like one of the lances of the fabled Dragon Princes of old.
Tyrion stepped over the bloody corpse of the Black Guardsman he had
just slain and paused to survey the carnage around him. His retinue surged forwards
in an effort to widen the breach in the lines. If they could split the Naggarothi
force, then the High Elves would find victory that day. He turned and looked to the
gentle slopes behind him where the Reaper Bolt Throwers were stationed, the piercing
shriek of the war machines had fallen silent as their crews were engaged in a bitter fight
with a flock of flying, bestial creatures, Harpies, Tyrion noted. It would be a blow
to lose the support of the artillery pieces at this stage, as the Dark Elves flanks were
proving much more resilient than expected. To the north, the blood-crazed fury of
the Witch Elves was desperately being contained by might and bravery of the Spearmen from
the city of Tor Yvresse. Even the unit of Archers that had been sent to support them
had been forced to drop their bows and engage in the melee. Closer to the southern
woods, the Seaguard of Lothern were bogged down in a grim confrontation with the
dragon-cloaked Corsairs. It was a testament to the noble courage and strength of the
High Elves that they had not folded beneath the sheer savagery and hatred that their kin
held for them, and if the day could be won…
Tyrion turned to the sound of hoof beats approaching him, a young
Reaver scout armed with a bow and bloodied spear drew up to him.
“How goes it Reaver?” Tyrion called.
“Your Highness, Mageord Elthain is dead!” replied the
horseman, “he was struck down by their dark magics, and Apprentice Forsaan sent me to
deliver this warning.”
Tyrion frowned; so far the potent mages on both sides had been
struggling against each other in a magical deadlock, neither side able to gain an
advantage. Something must have changed to tip the balance and the Ulthuane could ill
afford to have the forbidden Dark Magic run riot through their ranks.
“Can Forsaan hold their Sorceress’ at bay?”
"He says not your Highness, he does not have the pow…”
The scout’s words choked off a strangled scream as a boiling
darkness suddenly engulfed the area. Tyrion was buffeted by fierce winds in the
magical miasma; he could feel things around him, trying to clutch at him with grasping,
unseen force. He staggered at the feeling of seething malevolence emanating from the
darkness. Others, many others soon joined the scream of the Reaver, as the spell
tore into the heart of the High Elves. Tyrion fell to his knees, struggling against
the power that held him. He raised his hand and grasped the amulet he wore at his
breast; a red heart shaped stone set in finest silver. Almost immediately the winds
lessened and the spells grip slackened, forced back by the protective energy of the
amulet.
The darkness receded and Tyrion stood up, gazing in horror at the
scene that confronted him. For hundreds of yards about him lay dead High Elves,
their mangled bodies strewn around like so many broken puppets, many ripped limb from limb
by the unholy power that had been unleashed. The Naggarothi attacked with renewed
vigour, their screams of delight forming a gruesome counterpoint to the moans of dismay
that rose from the throats of Tyrion’s army.
In the midst of this destruction, a solitary figure stood. A
long, wickedly curved sword was held in his hand, but instead of steel, the blade was made
from some dull, grey mottled substance. The runes along the blade were a parody of
the sigils that adorned Tyrion’s own sword. The newcomer was clad in black
armour, inscribed with images that seemed to writhe with a life of their own.
Beneath the horned helm was a ghastly visage, horribly scorched and mutilated flesh sunk
to the bones of fine elven features. Bone white hair hung long, shifting slightly in
the breeze, almost hiding the black, almond shaped eyes. The eyes: Filled with such
loathing and malice that Tyrion thought impossible in a sentient being. There were
many names for this malignant figure, ‘Lord of Chill’, ‘Ash Phoenix of the
Drucci’, ‘The Witch King’…
“Malekith,” stated Tyrion grimly.
“Ah, the fair Prince Tyrion,” rasped the Witch King,
“or perhaps I should say nephew?”
“I’m no blood of yours, abomination!”
With that, Tyrion lashed out with his sword, Sunfang, its runes
catching alight, leaving a fiery trail in the air. Malekith countered with his own
blade and the battle began in earnest. Tyrion was without peer in terms of
swordsmanship and he drove the Witch King back, wielding the blazing Sunfang with savage
ferocity, but try as he might, he could not bring down his adversary. What Malekith
lacked in ability was more than compensated for by the awful magics he wielded and his
towering hatred and bitterness towards all of Ulthuan. Blade clashed against blade,
bright flame met by mottled grey whilst all around them the struggle continue to rage.
Eventually the Witch King seemed to tire, his sword point dipped a
little to the ground, his slashes a little wilder and easier to deflect. Tyrion saw
an opening and lunged forward. Malekith thrust forward his empty palm and blasted
the High Elf from his feet with a bolt of purple-tinged lightning. Tyrion was blown
some twenty paces backward into the blood-soaked dirt and he quickly struggled to his
feet, shaking his head to clear his swimming vision. Something suddenly felt wrong
to Tyrion, something terribly wrong. Sunfang! The sword felt lifeless in his
hand, whereas moments before it had practically hummed with the power it contained.
“What is the matter little one?” called Malekith,
“have I broken your precious toy?” He lifted his sword, christened
‘Destroyer’, and its runes flickered into life, giving the blade a green hued
fire, a sickening mockery of Sunfang.
The Witch King lowered Destroyer and circled Tyrion. Tyrion
however did not put up Sunfang and prepared to charge.
“Come nephew, it need not end this way. Surrender yourself
to me and we shall raise the Sword of Khaine together! We shall crush the animal
species of Man and Dwarf, raise the Elves back to pre-eminence! Even Chaos itself must bow
be...”
Tyrion sensed movement behind him and span. The Dark Elf
Assassin was caught in mid leap, impaled on Sunfang. Tyrion was stunned at the
appalling sight as the assassin reached over dragged himself further along the now crimson
blade and into striking distance. The High Elf Prince felt the dagger plunge home to
his heart, but his armour deflected the blade into his shoulder. The assassin smiled
a rictus grin and fell limply to the floor, dragging Sunfang from Tyrion’s
hand. Tyrion gasped as the poison on the assassin’s dagger began to take
effect. He stumbled to his knees from the pain, dimly aware that words of magic were
being uttered behind him. Tyrion reached up for the heart shaped charm at his chest
once more and, as his hand closed it, it shattered into pieces, shards cutting through the
leather of his gauntlet and into his palm. The pain of the poison receded, replaced
by the pain in his shoulder and hand. A shadow loomed over him as Malekith
materialised from his spell, Destroyer held ready to strike. A cruel smile stole
across the Witch King’s ravaged face.
“You have failed nephew, and all Ulthuan will die with
you” he snarled.
The grey sword swept down and Tyrion felt it slice through his armour
and into the heart beneath.
“Asuryan forgive… me,” he murmured as the cold waters
of darkness claimed him.
Tyrion opened his eyes to a bright, almost painful light. He
felt warm, smooth stone beneath him and he breathed in the smell of summer roses and
Aspens. A quiet sense of tranquillity bathed Tyrion. Suddenly he gasped and
sat bolt upright, his hand clutching at his robed chest in remembered pain as he recalled
Destroyer’s last flight. Tyrion’s fingers came away not with blood but
with perspiration that covered his body.
As his vision adjusted to the light, he saw that he was in a round
room made from gleaming white marble inlaid with gold. The walls swept far above
him, up to a crystal domed roof that was the source of the intense sunlight. As
vision returned, so did memory. Tyrion stood up and turned to face the robed figure
that he knew shared the chamber.
"So you still believe you can best Malekith without my aid
Tyrion?” The voice was caustic and held a tone of sneering contempt.
“I…I,” faltered Tyrion.
“Yes brother?”
“Teclis, I’m sorry. I was wrong. It was wrong
of me to try and keep you here in Saphery, away from the campaign in Anlec. But I
fear for you, you do too much, and your health…”
“Is none of your concern, brother. Our actions are all for
Ulthuan, your sword, my art. Our feelings do not matter so long as She
endures,” replied Teclis.
“There is still no guarantee that I would have to face him in
the field though,” said Tyrion.
“Fool!” stormed the Archmage, “you still do not
understand! Blood calls to blood! He will seek you out!”
Tyrion stumbled and almost fell. Teclis was immediately by his
side.
“Rest easy my brother, the illusion I created was a powerful one
and has left you weakened,” for a second, compassion filled the mage’s voice.
He guided the stricken prince through the doors of the room where
they were met by similarly robed elves.
“Take him to royal apartments and fetch the Healer,” Teclis
commanded.
Supported by the elves, Tyrion turned, “Teclis, I…”
But he spoke to empty air.
|