Blood of Aenarion Page 13

  He imprinted the genetic rune that he remembered upon it and then summoned more magical energy. As he did so the original mote divided and replicated like an amoeba, again and again and again as more power flowed into it. Soon N’Kari was surrounded by clouds of tiny motes of light, swarming around him like fireflies. With another gesture he sent them racing away from him to seek out the ones he was looking for.

  The motes flew across Ulthuan fast as sunbeams, seeking the few remaining possessors of the marks that N’Kari sought. They flashed around them invisibly and then hurtled back across the vast distances to their master.

  As they returned, they swirled around him once more, each of them bearing an image of the being they had found. Visions of faces and places danced in his mind. He saw young women waiting to be married, wizards in their laboratories, princes in their palaces, a pair of twins little more than children riding aboard a ship. All of them bore the unmistakeable imprint of Aenarion’s blood.

  Now, N’Kari knew the locations of his prey and his tiny pets, following an invisible magical scent, would always be able to find them again.

  He smiled to himself revealing very sharp fangs. One of those he was looking for dwelled not too far from here. It would not take him long to begin his revenge. Within the passing of a moon, he swore he would have wiped all of the line of Aenarion from the face of Ulthuan. He would make this world pay for all of the long millennia of his incarceration. He roared with the ecstasy of it.

  He began work on another spell, one that would reach out to all those whose dreams he had touched and who were vulnerable to his influence. It would draw those he needed to him and it would let him sense their presence.

  He would need followers, an army of them if he was to achieve his goal and he would need other things, daemons to follow him and slay his enemies on his command. He would need worship to nourish him and souls on which to feed.

  His great bellow echoed for scores of leagues and those who heard his voice above the crack of thunder shuddered.

  chapter nine

  Lothern, 10th Year of the Reign of Finubar

  At first it was a day like any other. They followed the coastline of Ulthuan as it grew steadily more rugged. The breeze was strong, the weather warmer than Tyrion was used to. It had been getting steadily hotter as they made their way south.

  In the mountains of Cothique, winter was still present but here in the south it felt like spring. Tyrion sat on the highest cross-spar on the ship and watched the sun spring over the horizon and the day grow ever warmer. The sea and the sky were of almost matching blue. In the distance, he could see more and more ships, converging from every point on the horizon, all of them heading towards the same goal.

  There were mighty elven warships and larger, slower but still sleek cargo clippers. There were ungainly looking vessels that he guessed must belong to humans. There were small fishing boats and huge galleons and every size of sea-going craft in between. He felt as if the Eagle of Lothern was becoming part of a great crowd of pilgrims all heading towards the same holy spot. He had been keeping his eyes open for pirates but this interested him just as much. He would not have guessed there were so many ships in the world. Just the vessels he could see and count probably held as many people between them as the population of a city in Cothique.

  It was not long before he caught sight of what he was waiting for. On the horizon, rising like the masts of a ship heaving into view, he caught sight of first one huge tower and then another. They were tall and slender, tipped by elongated minarets and swirling spires. Flags fluttered on their tips. He looked over at the sailor occupying the crow’s nest. It was Karaya, the pretty one who he had seen many times before. He had not had a chance to talk to her since the storm.

  ‘Lothern?’ he asked.

  ‘Your eyes are very good,’ Karaya said, once she lowered her spyglass. ‘Yes, those are the towers of Lothern. We shall pass through the sea gate this evening – wind, weather and the favour of the gods permitting.’

  Tyrion grinned at her. ‘The last time I was here, I was a small child. I don’t remember much about the place.’

  ‘I am surprised you could forget,’ she said with a teasing smile. ‘Lothern is the greatest seaport in the world, the greatest city of the elves as well. And I am not just saying that because it’s my home. I have seen many cities here and in what the humans call the Old World and in Naggaroth too, although I went there only to burn them.’

  ‘You have seen the land of the Witch King?’ Tyrion asked, envying her all of her experiences. He got up and walked along the cross-spar until he reached the crow’s nest then dropped in beside her. Their bodies were very close. She did not object. ‘What was it like?’

  ‘Cold and bleak and harsh and full of people who did not like us very much. Their hospitality was execrable and we did not stay for long.’

  Tyrion laughed. ‘I have heard that said.’

  ‘It is nothing but the truth. We would give Malekith and his people a warmer welcome if they chose to come visiting us.’

  ‘I do not think that is very likely.’

  ‘Nor do I. Their land was empty. There were few dark elves to see. I think the druchii are dying out more quickly even than our people.’

  ‘I had heard that Lothern was a lively place.’

  ‘That it is,’ she said. There was sadness in her voice. ‘But even Lothern is not as populous as it used to be, and it is by far the most populous city in Elvendom.’

  ‘I look forward to seeing it.’

  ‘You will be made welcome there.’ She reached out and touched his arm. It was as if a sudden electric shock passed between them. ‘Whatever your business is.’

  ‘I am to be presented to the Phoenix King.’ He leaned forward, moving his head closer to hers. Their breaths seemed to mingle in the air before them.

  ‘Then you have nothing to fear. There was never a fairer nor more open-handed ruler than Finubar. He is from Lothern you know. The first Phoenix King ever to come from our city and our land. It is a sign of the times.’

  ‘How so?’ He looked directly into her eyes.

  ‘You have the strangest eyes,’ she said. ‘There are gold flecks in them, the colour of the sun.’

  ‘You have very lovely eyes,’ he said. ‘Like the sea.’

  She pulled back a little as if suddenly aware of their closeness. ‘You asked me about the times.’

  ‘I did,’ he said, knowing that delay before gratification was part of this game.

  ‘Our land grows in power and wealth and influence in proportion to the growth of our trade with the humans. I do not doubt it is the richest city in Ulthuan.’

  ‘Surely wealth isn’t everything,’ Tyrion said. It was what his father would have said and it seemed right to him.

  ‘No,’ the sailor agreed. ‘But it counts for a lot. It takes a heap of money to pay for our fleets and build our ships and equip our armies. It is not something to be despised.’

  She sounded almost defensive and Tyrion could guess why. The elves of Lothern were often looked down on by the inhabitants of the other elven lands. They were seen as money-grubbing merchants, not proud warriors or noble wizards. Now did not seem like a good time to mention this though.

  ‘It takes a mountain of gold to fight a war,’ said Tyrion. ‘Caledor the Conqueror said that, and he was one of the greatest generals who ever lived.’

  ‘And he was right. Although it takes swords and spells also.’

  ‘I am going to be a warrior,’ said Tyrion.

  ‘I do not doubt it. You have the look of one,’ she said. ‘You will be made a White Lion at least, if Master Korhien has his way. He is very proud of you.’

  Tyrion laughed. He was pleased and flattered to be told this. ‘That would be a great honour.’

  ‘It would be, but if it’s battle you want you should join the Sea Guard of Lothern. My brother is one and he has fought in many frays.’

  ‘I will be happy to join any company of warr
iors,’ said Tyrion. ‘It is what I have always wanted to do.’

  ‘Isha rewards those who follow their dreams, or so I have heard say.’

  ‘I sincerely hope so,’ said Tyrion. He stared into the distance intently. He could hardly wait to reach the city. At that moment, it felt as if he only needed to stretch out his hand and whatever he wanted would fall into it.

  He reached out for her and pulled her to him. Their lips touched. They shed their clothes swiftly. Soon their naked bodies moved in time to the motion of the ship and the gulls were not the only things who cried out.

  ‘Look at that,’ said Tyrion barely able to keep the wonder from his voice. To their left, the titanic tower of Lothern lighthouse loomed out of the sea. Its lights already blazed even as the sun started to slide below the horizon.

  Ahead of them were the vast sea gates of the city, open at this moment to let ships pass through into the harbour beyond them. They were enormous things, cut out of the huge sea walls of the city, large enough for a tall-masted ship to sail through with room to spare.

  ‘You sound happy,’ said Teclis. ‘And have sounded so since you climbed down from the crow’s nest.’

  ‘I am always happy,’ said Tyrion.

  ‘Then you sound even happier than usual.’

  Tyrion did not doubt that Teclis knew what had happened between him and the sailor girl. He could sometimes sense such things.

  ‘I am happy to see Lothern,’ said Tyrion.

  ‘Of course,’ said Teclis sourly. ‘That must be it.’

  All around them ships moved in stately order towards the gate. There were human vessels with elf pilots aboard to guide them through the correct channels and to give the signals that would prevent the mighty siege engines on the walls from opening fire.

  There were elven trading vessels returning from every part of Ulthuan and beyond. Fresh painted, gleaming clippers that traded along the coast moved alongside battered-looking vessels that had made the long haul from the Old World, Araby, Cathay and beyond. Ships from Lothern traded with every part of the planet. There was no sea into which they did not venture, no land they were afraid to visit.

  When they emerged from the maze of channels that lay beyond the gate, Tyrion could see the vast harbour. It was large enough to shelter all the fleets of every nation. Even without the sea walls it would have provided a safe haven and deep water anchorage for visiting vessels. The walls sheltered it from the worst of weather as well as all incoming marauders. In the centre of the harbour, upon a plinth as large as a small island, the gigantic statue of Aenarion glowed in the last light of the sunset.

  Tyrion looked at it, seeing it as if for the first time. It was a titanic figure, a hundred times the height of a normal elf and carved so brilliantly as to appear almost alive. It was a very disturbing thing for him to gaze upon.

  He heard Teclis gasp as he looked at it.

  Looking up at the statue of the first Phoenix King, Teclis felt only wonder. It was an astonishing work of art. It captured in full the grandeur of Aenarion and his nobility and his tragic loneliness. The huge stone warrior leaned on a great sword around which flames seemed to writhe. He gazed outward, the line of his vision passing far over the heads of the viewers as if he was looking into the distance and seeing things further and higher than any mere mortal might view.

  ‘Do you think he really looked like that?’ Tyrion asked. He sounded genuinely curious.

  ‘They say this statue was made from drawings and paintings saved from before his fall. Those who knew him say it was accurate. Even Morathi remarked it was a likeness to the life, or so the historian Aergeon claims.’

  ‘I don’t see the supposed resemblance,’ said Tyrion. He sounded piqued. It took Teclis a moment to realise what his brother was talking about. He glanced from the statue to Tyrion and then back to the statue.

  ‘You do look like him,’ Teclis said eventually. ‘A lot like him.’

  ‘I don’t see it.’ Tyrion shook his head for emphasis.

  ‘Then you are the only one.’

  ‘His chin is nothing like mine and his ears are a different shape.’

  Teclis laughed. ‘Those are very small differences.’

  ‘Not to me. They are as clear as day.’

  ‘You have the great privilege of staring at yourself in the mirror for hours every day – such being your vanity, of course – you can spot the small differences that might be invisible to the eye of lesser and less beautiful mortals like myself.’

  ‘They are not small differences,’ said Tyrion. He sounded genuinely troubled now. Teclis wondered what was really disturbing him.

  Surely it could not be something so simple as the fact that there was a physical resemblance between himself and the first Phoenix King? That was something that would please most elves; should, in fact, please him. He was the one who had always dreamed of being a legendary hero like Aenarion.

  Perhaps that was it. Perhaps he was being confronted by the reality of what that really meant carved in stone, a hundred times life size.

  Aenarion did not look like the common idea of a hero. His brow was furrowed in thought, and there was a haunted look about his eyes that the sculptors had somehow caught. He did not look merely bold or complacently self-confident or simply brave. He looked lonely and a little lost and burdened by the weight of an awesome responsibility.

  Looking on that proud handsome face brought things into focus for Teclis. Here was an elf who had carried a burden too great for any mortal to bear for longer than anyone could be expected to carry it, who had faced daemons within himself as well as outside, who had carried on when all seemed lost and who had, in the end, given his life to save the world and his people. Perhaps Tyrion was coming face to face for the first time with the reality of what it meant to be a hero, and he was finding it not quite what he had expected.

  ‘Is that the Sword of Khaine?’ Tyrion asked.

  Or perhaps Tyrion felt no such thing, Teclis thought wryly. He now seemed merely curious about a sword. A glance at his brother showed he was still in a thoughtful mood and had changed the subject to try and distract himself.

  ‘No. That blade is never represented anywhere.’ said Teclis. ‘This sword is Sunfang.’

  ‘The first blade? The one Caledor forged for him in the fires of Vaul’s Anvil? The one that blazed with fire and could shoot jets of flame like a dragon?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘Do you think it is an accurate representation?’

  ‘Again the historians say yes. The elves took care about these things in those days.’

  ‘Whatever happened to it?’

  ‘No one knows. They say Aenarion gave it to Furion, one of his favoured commanders. It remained in his family for generations. They say Malekith coveted it and schemed to get it on many occasions. They say it was carried off by Nathanis, the last of Furion’s line on his great ship, Farwind, and was never seen again, for the ship never returned. They think it was lost somewhere on the coasts of the Old World, but no trace of it was ever found.’

  ‘You think the blade still exists?’

  ‘It might.’

  ‘It was made by Caledor. Surely the spells he wove would endure for as long as the Vortex does, at very least.’

  ‘It might be at the bottom of the sea. Or in some dragon’s hoard. Or in Malekith’s treasure vaults for all we know.’

  ‘It would be something to find it though, would it not?’ Tyrion sounded excited and the grim mood that had fallen on him when he looked at the statue of Aenarion was lifting.

  ‘It would indeed. If it still exists it would be one of the few fully functioning artefacts created by Caledor in the world. It would be a thing well worth studying.’

  ‘I was thinking more of using it as a weapon.’

  ‘Naturally! Of what possible use could it be to study the handiwork of the greatest mage that ever lived? Better to bang people over the head with it instead.’

  ‘It is the purpose it
was made for.’

  ‘The sheer literal-mindedness of your response is irrefutable.’

  ‘Anyway, I was thinking more of blasting them with its flames. That would be a useful power on the battlefield.’

  ‘There might be something about it that would allow our father to complete his work. If the spells on the sword still function, they might give some clue as to how to remake the armour. They were both made by the same elf. They would both carry the same type of magic.’

  Teclis could see that idea really caught Tyrion’s imagination. With that thoughtful look on his face he resembled Aenarion more than ever, although a bright, merry Aenarion, not nearly so grim. Perhaps Teclis thought, that was what Aenarion had looked like when he was young.

  They continued to look at the statue in silence and in wonder, as they passed into the waters beyond. At some point, the sailor girl Karaya came down and joined them. She did not seem compelled to say anything either.

  Around the edges of the harbour were many more giant statues all on the same scale as that of Aenarion and all of them sharing something of his statue’s power and pride and dignity.

  On the western edge of the docks, a massive new statue was rising. Scaffolding still surrounded it. Masons laboured away unremittingly. At the moment it was faceless and somewhat shapeless, but Tyrion knew that within the next few decades it would take on the aspect of Finubar. The statue had only just begun to rise at the start of his reign, a mere ten years ago. It would be some time until it was completed. But what did that matter, Tyrion thought? If there was one thing that elves did not lack it was time.

  Vessels lying at anchor crowded the harbour. Many were tied up at the long piers belonging to the great mercantile houses. The flags of their owners flew over ship and warehouse alike. Off to the west, on a walled complex of islands shut off from the rest of the city and accessible only through a series of bridges, walls and small forts was the Foreigners’ Quarter, the only part of the city where the humans were allowed to dwell and to wander freely without special permission from the Phoenix King or his representatives.